This July, 23,000 people across the United States were laid off. And I was one of them. An aged‑out codger, kicked to the curb after more than 20 years in the same job.
Losing a job at 56 doesn’t hit like it does at 26. At 26, a layoff feels like a plot twist. At 56, it feels like someone kicked out a load‑bearing wall in the house you spent decades building.
Still, I knew it was coming. I felt it in my gut for months. No panic. No sleepless nights. No dramatic countdown. The truth was simpler: the business was sick of me, and I was sick of the business. We ran our course. Made a few good memories. But in the end, this marriage needed to end.
Sometimes you don’t need a throwdown fight to know the relationship is over. You just feel the quiet, unmistakable click of the screen door closing behind you.
And then came that Monday morning. Already into my workday, when I got the message: “Jump on a quick TEAMS call please.” That’s when I knew my time had come. I was driving down Loudon Road, so I pulled into the Walmart parking lot, put the car in park and waited.
Six minutes later … my career was over.
No tears. No shame. No fear. I took my work shirt off, tossed it in a trash barrel — I would never wear it again — and went to the gym and had one of my better workouts. I knew exactly what I would miss about the job, and exactly what I wouldn’t.
I wasn’t conflicted. I wasn’t elated. But I was free. Free to steer my ship where I wanted — not out of desperation this time, not out of responsibility — but toward a fuller, more passionate last dance of my work life.
The first two weeks were a breeze. I celebrated the Fourth of July early. I recovered. I cooled my nerves. I peeked at my new reality.
But by the third week … something deeper began to chew at me. I can slide into dark places. Think dark things. My 26‑year‑old self came back to haunt me. Dragging old doubts out of storage. Sneering: “Back again. You got lucky those years, bub. Welcome home. You suck. Never forget it.”
And then came the hardest part. My young adult children had never seen me not working. Now they come home from their full‑time jobs and see Daddy‑O already there. In shorts. With a slamming tan. And very little to report on his day.
That’s been the hardest thing to swallow. Not feeling like “the man.” But someone meandering from one errand to another … until it’s time to open the bar.
And here’s the kicker: I didn’t have a résumé. Not a cover letter. Not even an active LinkedIn account. I’m not a networking guy. Some are, some aren’t. And asking people for favors has never been my thing.
Recently, I fell into a conversation with a friend, around my age, who’d gone through the same deal a year earlier. He told me how he made a full‑time job out of clawing his way back into the game he’d been booted from. He networked. Reached out to every connection. Sat through countless lashings in interviews.
Finally, he landed the job he once had.
“So, how are you liking the new job?” I asked.
He said: “I hate it.”
Hearing those three words inspired me more than he will ever know. You can’t repeat the past. And I’m done begging for my coin.
There are decisions to be made. Bold moves to make. Tricky emotions to navigate. But I say, “Let’s dance.”
I’m ready.
Rob Azevedo can be reached at onemanmanch@gmail.com.