Woof. I recognize that’s a hell of a headline.
But I think it’s true.
When I was laid off two years ago this week, I would have not-so-politely told you where you could put my foot.
But two years ago I wasn’t living in an iconic, historic and major city in the midst of an unprecedented comeback.
Two years ago my marriage wasn’t nearly as healthy.
Two years ago I wasn’t a father.
Two years ago I wasn’t the senior copywriter for an exciting brand. I wasn’t even writing. In fact, two years ago, just before I was laid off, I was told that my writing was disappointing. That it needed work. That I wasn’t a good writer.
All of that’s to say that two years ago I wasn’t nearly as happy as I am today, and losing that job is a big part of it all.
At the time it felt like the end of the world. It wasn’t.
At the time it felt like I was a failure. I wasn’t.
Now, when I write its with a sense of purpose. Now, I work knowing that I shouldn’t leave anything for tomorrow. Now, I’m not waiting for someone else to tell me whether I’m doing a good job—I’m holding myself to the higher standard.