I Got Fired

And it might be the best thing that's ever happened to me

5 years ago, Doechii was fired. Last month, she won a Grammy.

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The barista on E 20th knows my name. 

They know my order, too, for that matter, and they make it quickly. It takes only mere moments from when I tap my phone to when my cappuccino is in hand. Which isn’t preferable, really, as I’d come there to pass time. As if a few extra minutes away might make me care more about the work waiting back at my desk.

A few weeks ago, I followed this typical in-office-day routine: stepping out for coffee and a lap around the block around 11 AM, after morning meetings but before lunch, unaware that it would be for the last time.

The whole thing was very curt. Sometime in the afternoon, I got a Slack message summoning me to the HR office. I knew immediately what was happening and yet I didn’t feel an ounce of panic. Mostly what I felt was indifference.

“I was surprised you hadn’t resigned yet,” my boss said as she was firing me.

She was kind of right. I had wanted to resign. I didn’t love the job, they knew I didn’t love the job. When asked if there was anything about the role I was struggling with during a performance review, I had been upfront, saying luxury real estate just didn’t light me up.

“I’m more of a pre-war Brooklyn brownstone kind of girl,” I joked. “But I’m trying to come up with story ideas that even I—someone who isn’t naturally interested in the world of real estate—might want to read.” I quickly tried to spin the narrative as they looked at me helplessly.

Twice, too, I had advocated to transfer to a different branch of the agency (Lifestyle, Social), where I knew I’d be a better fit. Apparently, I would have had to take a significant pay cut and a demotion to make that happen.

This was essentially the “reason” they gave for letting me go. It wasn’t working out. I wasn’t a fit.

You might be wondering: How did I end up here? Why did I take a job that I didn’t like? What’s next? Pull up a chair, dear reader. I’ll tell you everything.

A Brief History of My Job Journey

I was disillusioned with the corporate 9-5 world immediately upon entering it. In fact, my first ever Substack post in 2022 was about this disconnect, which is why I was starting a newsletter. Since then, I’ve had three different full-time jobs. Each one with a sense of hope at the beginning that quickly gave way to a sense of frustration. I felt I’d been punked.

I had studied writing and media in college and did everything I was told I should: extracurriculars, internships, graduated with honors. I had played by the rules. Yet when it came to finding a job I still felt so lost (and the pandemic definitely didn’t help).

When I left my first full-time job—which was without a doubt the most terrible—I took a part-time remote job with a small company that I actually really enjoyed. But after moving out of my parent’s house and into a place in New York, it very quickly became apparent I’d need another solid source of income. I applied to some waitressing and barista gigs but nothing panned out. I was running out of money.

Finally, just before my 25th birthday, I conceded and decided to seek another full-time job. The plan was simple: a job to cover the bills while I continued to work on my creative stuff. Work a 9-5, then force yourself to re-open the laptop before and after hours. Plenty of people make it work, why couldn’t I?

So that’s what I did. I took the first job I could get which happened to be at a public relations agency specializing in luxury real estate. I never saw myself becoming a publicist nor was I interested in real estate. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure what the job fully entailed—but what the hell? It was entry-level and I needed to make rent.

For a while, this was fine. My supervisor was this super chill, hilarious guy and we became good friends. The pay was shit, but I had enough money to live fairly comfortably and even afford a 10-week writing workshop. On slow days, I’d write from a small empty office overlooking 7th Avenue. No one seemed to care. It was far from perfect, I wasn’t living my dream, but I felt understood there. That, at least, was something.

Everything changed this past May when I was recruited by another agency.

To be clear, I was not recruited because I had done anything remarkable at Agency #1. I simply possessed the position title the headhunter was looking for on LinkedIn. Everything happened quickly. Like, within 48 hours quick. Agency #2 offered a title promotion, a higher salary, and one less required day in the office. That was about all I needed to hear to jump ship. 

It was summer when I started the new position, a naturally slow time in the PR world. My first week on the job was also the first week of summer Fridays. A few weeks after that, my new supervisor relocated, so I was sort of on my own for a while. Which I relished.

At the same time, I was starting to take myself more seriously as an aspiring creative. I was growing my online presence, landing paid brand deals and freelance work. I had joined a writer’s group and was meeting more likeminded people in the city. I even started a series on TikTok chronicling my life as a publicist by day, writer/creative by night.

OOTD to get laid off

Things started to unravel this past Fall when I developed an underlying sadness towards my life. I had turned 26, still very young, but old enough to feel like time was slipping by. It felt almost silly to blame it on my job, which, in all honesty, wasn’t that demanding. But still I felt like I was drowning in the monotony of it all. I went through the motions. I abandoned my writing projects. I dreaded waking up on the weekdays. I resigned myself to staying in on the weekends.

At work, this manifested as careless mistakes. Errors I wouldn’t have made if I’d been fully present. Or if I had felt even the slightest interest in Manhattan’s newest fancy skyscraper and the rich white men who developed it. No, my mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with the growing realization that the life I was living wasn’t the one I had imagined for myself. My confidence was eroding. I questioned my skills as a professional. I felt lazy, inadequate, lost.

I believe my former colleagues truly enjoy their work, and as someone who wears my heart on my sleeve in bright, bold red, it became harder and harder for me to hide that I didn’t share the same enthusiasm.

In the new year, there was a sense that I was falling—and failing—faster now. The only way I could prevent myself from hitting the ground was to drink the Kool-Aid. Accept that this is what I do to pay the bills, stop complaining, and just get the work done.

Something in me just couldn’t meet the work expectations and my life expectations simultaneously. I’m an idealist. I have this strong, stubborn drive to pursue my ideals, no matter how impractical they may seem. I’m not one to settle for mediocrity. I want my work and my life to align with my values and what feels true to me. Why does this feel like too much to ask?

I kept fighting against this feeling but deep down, I knew I would never be happy if I continued down this path I never wanted to go down in the first place. I kept coming back to the same simple truth: this is not what I want to be doing, and therefore I don’t want to do it anymore.

Once I had mentally made this decision, I constantly daydreamed about leaving. I wanted to go out on my terms and was actively plotting my exit, but in the end, they beat me to it.

“I understand this decision,” I said during those final minutes, “In my heart, I am a creative, not a real estate publicist.”

“If I’d known this was just going to be a job to pay the bills for you, I wouldn’t have wasted my time,” my boss said bluntly.

And in that moment, I knew I was finally free.

The Aftermath of Getting Fired

If I could go back and redo things, maybe I wouldn’t have taken the first job I was offered in New York. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so quick to leave the agency where I had been comfortable. Maybe I would have left this job when I had the chance. But I’m also the kind of person who believes that things play out exactly how they’re supposed to.

And it wasn’t all bad. The structure and socialization was good. The steady paycheck was good. These are reasons why getting another full-time job is not off the table for me. I’ll admit sometimes it was even fun. Mostly when I was romanticizing my commute or heading out on one of my little coffee runs. I’m glad I got to experience that side of New York which millions of people live in every day: the grey desks, the fluorescent lights, the corporate speak. But it wasn’t for me. I knew it wasn’t for me. For the past two years, I was an agenda setter, note taker, first drafter, and all I wanted was to feel like me again.

I’ve certainly been grappling with waves of feeling like a failure. The overachiever in me is horrified that I didn’t perform well enough. The people-pleaser in me is devastated that I didn’t live up to their expectations. And the conventional path, it still haunts me. Stability, benefits, savings, it says. It’s the voice that tells me I should have prioritized security over ambition.

But there is another voice in my head that is much louder, and it says life is too short. Don’t spend it doing something that doesn’t light you the fuck up.

Sincerely,

Salena