Unpacking People

I finally unpacked those boxes.

The ones that have been sitting in my living room since my former company reduced its staff.

The ones that I’ve avoided opening for the past 72 days.

It doesn’t matter whether I was emotionally ready or desperately needed the Tums I knew were tucked away inside.

Those boxes have been sitting there holding more than office supplies.

They held the physical remains of a working life I didn’t choose to leave.

My desk. My routines. My coworkers. The little familiar things that made up an ordinary workday.

And somebody else packed them.

That’s the part that gets me.

I didn’t get to close that chapter on my own terms. Someone else made the decision, packed up my belongings, and sent them home to me via FedEx.

Now I’m standing in my apartment, unpacking pieces of a life I was living 72 days ago.

I’m angry.

I recognize the person who packed my belongings probably had nothing to do with the decision. I can understand that intellectually and still resent the entire situation.

I didn’t ask for this.

I didn’t ask to be looking for work again at this stage of my life.

And I certainly didn’t ask to lose the daily companionship of people I enjoyed working with.

I think that last part deserves particular attention.

I miss my work friends.

Losing a job isn’t just losing a paycheck. It’s losing a community, a rhythm, and a place where I belonged.

Even when those friendships continue outside work, the everyday connection changes.

And that’s a real loss.

I’m not in the mood to turn it into an opportunity for personal growth this afternoon.

Sometimes something just sucks.

And this sucks.

Unpacking those boxes was a bigger moment than it might appear.

Not because it means I’ve accepted what happened.

Not because I’m ready to move on.

And certainly not because I’m supposed to feel grateful for some exciting new chapter.

I did something I’ve been putting off because it hurt.

And it still hurt.

I can be proud of having done it and furious that I had to.

Both can be true.

As I set things on my dining room table, I realized something:

It wasn’t a box of office supplies. It was a box of people.

That’s why unpacking it made me angry all over again.

The little Christmas trinkets. The souvenirs my underwriters brought back because they thought of me while they were away. The seasonal magnets I changed throughout the year. A ridiculous bell from a coworker meant to celebrate department success.

That ridiculous bell. 😭💜

That’s the kind of wonderfully stupid workplace tradition that makes a group of coworkers feel like your people.

And then there’s the sympathy card everyone signed when my dad died.

That one stopped me.

Because those people weren’t just around for the everyday nonsense. They were there during something painful, too.

All those little objects tell stories about relationships that mattered to me.

And none of those relationships stopped mattering because a company decided my employment should end.

I think there’s a particular cruelty to the way layoffs can turn an ordinary collection of belongings into something resembling a time capsule.

One day, those magnets were on my whiteboard, the bell was waiting for its next opportunity to ring, and the Tums were exactly where I expected them to be.

Then suddenly everything was in boxes in my apartment.

The objects are the same. My relationship to them has changed.

And I didn’t get a say in that.

The Halloween magnets made it onto my refrigerator, though. There’s something comforting about those familiar little decorations finding a place in my home.

Not because they replace what I lost.

Because they’re still mine.

And I hope, when the initial anger settles a little, that bell eventually makes me laugh more than it hurts.

Because some things deserve to remain funny memories.

I don’t have to surrender the good memories just because the ending was lousy.

I wish I could have another ordinary afternoon with those people. One where successes are celebrated, a coworker says something ridiculous, and everybody goes about their business without knowing how precious that ordinary day really is.

Because I think that’s what I am missing.

Not just the job. The ordinary days with people I loved working alongside.

And that is worth grieving. 💜

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