On Job Loss, Dreams, and Not Giving Up (Even When You Want To)
No one really prepares you for the silence that comes after losing a job.
There’s the chaos first—calls, exit interviews, polite HR language, maybe a hurried goodbye. And then? Stillness. The kind that settles in your bones. The kind that makes the future go quiet. You blink into a fog where your purpose used to be and wonder: Now what?
I didn’t think losing my job would shake me like it did. It wasn’t just about income. It was about identity. Routine. Confidence. I didn’t just lose a job—I lost the scaffolding that held up my sense of forward momentum.
And what followed was a heavy, hollow ache I didn’t know how to describe.
The Comparison Game is Brutal
It’s hard not to look sideways.
You see people landing on their feet, making confident pivots, living their highlight reels.
And then there’s you—sitting in the ruins, rewriting your resume again, wondering if you missed some secret shortcut everyone else got handed.
I want to be happy for people—I am happy for people. But sometimes their success feels like proof of my failure. That part’s hard to say out loud, but it’s true. You start to wonder if you’re just fundamentally flawed in some invisible way. And then you hate yourself for thinking that.
It’s not pretty. It’s not empowering.
But it’s real.
When the Dream Turns on You
After losing my tech job, I thought maybe this was my chance to chase the other dream—the horse world. I’ve spent my life riding, training, learning, working from the ground up. I thought this could be the door finally opening.
So I took a working student position with an FEI trainer. And it turned out to be an abusive situation. For me and for the horses she worked with.
Instead of stepping into purpose, I ended up doubting everything: my instincts, my talent, my strength. I’d left tech burned out and uncertain. Now I was bruised in a whole new way—tired, raw, disoriented.
And when I tried to go back to tech? The industry had gone cold. Openings disappeared. Rejections piled up. I was either overqualified, under-specialized, or just… not the right fit. Again.
Grief Looks Like This
Now, I’m looking at a question I never thought I’d have to answer:
What if I have to give up horses?
Not scale back. Not take a break.
Actually give them up.
When the money runs out, your world gets very, very small. And horses—no matter how deep in your soul they live—are expensive. The lessons, the shows, the vet bills, the feed, the time. Even just showing up to ride someone else’s horse takes energy and gas and freedom I don’t always have.
There is a specific kind of grief that comes with that. It’s not just sadness—it’s identity loss. It’s like watching your own heartbeat walk away from you.
I see others making it. Building training businesses. Winning shows. Buying horses. I celebrate them. And I also grieve beside them.
Because their joy reminds me of what I’m scared to lose.
What Comes Next (and the Honest, Ugly Truth)
I want to be a barn manager. A trainer.
I want to wake up early, scribble lesson notes on a whiteboard, sip lukewarm tea while the horses eat, teach someone how to navigate a barn. Figure out scheduling and deliveries. That’s the dream.
But right now, it feels so far away I could scream.
I don’t have land. I don’t have capital. I don’t have the connections that make those things magically appear. I have drive. I have skill. I have vision. But I also have fear. And I’m broke. And I’m tired.
And yet…
I’m Sad. I’m Scared. And I’m Still Trying.
I’m not going to end this with a Pinterest quote.
There’s no pretty bow. I’m not feeling particularly wise or resilient or grateful right now.
But I’m still here.
Still writing the emails. Still dreaming the dream. Still brushing horses and refreshing job boards and wondering how the hell I’m going to climb out of this.
I don’t feel strong—but I am stubborn.
And maybe that’s enough for now.
I don’t know where I’m going. But I know I’m not giving up.
Trying is what I do. Even when it’s terrifying.
Even when it hurts.
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