From Office Politics to Glitter Lobsters: A Survival Story

Six months on, I’m still here - and still figuring it out.

It’s been six months since my career quietly died in the corner, holding a Post-it that said, “It’s not you, it’s corporate restructuring.” The call I’d spent my whole life dreading finally came: I was jobless. My monster under the bed wasn’t spiders or clowns; it was this. And sure, job loss is a very normal fear. If you confess it at a party, people nod and think you’re well-adjusted, unlike if you confess to fears like…

• Accidentally replying “Love you” to your boss on Slack.

• Getting trapped in soft play tunnels forever.

• Or the very real terror of finding glitter where no glitter has ever been before.

But for me, this fear wasn’t just a nagging worry; it was an all-consuming shadow that dictated my entire working life. It shaped everything: how I acted, the lengths I’d go to make myself indispensable, and my complete inability to stand up to that one boss who not only ate my lunch but ate it in front of me while asking if I was hiding new clients from her.

Let’s blame the 90s. My dad, whom we lovingly called “Del Boy,” lived a life of fearless ambition. He was a man of South London who dreamed big and always had an idea brewing. We were “house poor.” Fabulous house, freezing bedrooms, a pool cold enough to film Titanic. The lesson was clear: job security meant warmth, food, and petrol. Without it? You’re one step away from living on dry Weetabix.

So, I grew up equating “being liked” with being safe. If your boss liked you, you wouldn’t get sacked. If you worked hard enough and never rocked the boat, you’d be untouchable. Spoiler: this is not true. Fear of losing my job made me a terrible employee. I never questioned anything, never pushed back, and instead spent my career trying to “exceed expectations” while juggling spreadsheets, meetings, and maternity leaves.

And then it happened. I lost my job. I cried. Dramatically. Ugly cried, to be precise. It felt like losing a limb. I’d spent years tying my identity to a title, a company, and a salary. Without it, who was I? I’ll tell you who I wasn’t: someone who enjoyed endless time with her kids. (Please don’t tell me losing my job is a blessing in disguise so I can be more present for them. You try spending 12 hours negotiating over Magnatiles.)

Here’s the surprising bit: six months later, I’m still here. I’m still figuring it out, but I’ve learned a few things about myself:

1. I like creating! Videos, words, and glittery lobsters.

2. I’m no longer afraid to challenge opinions, even if they’re above my pay grade (which, currently, is zero).

3. Helping people ~especially women~ feels like something I’m supposed to be doing.

Would I tell my six-months-ago self it’ll be okay? No, because she wouldn’t believe me. I’m not even sure current me fully believes it yet. I don’t have a corporate job or a consistent salary. I’m running a business while also navigating social media, and I still don’t know what “algorithm” really means.

But here’s what I know: losing my job didn’t kill me. It didn’t even break me the way I thought it would. It rearranged me, sure, but now I’m here, writing to you, sipping wine, and daring to think that maybe… just maybe - it wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen.

I’ll let you know in another six months!