Redundant. Not Reduced.

Recently made redundant. (That’s the polite British phrase, isn’t it? Sounds more like being turned into paperwork than being fired. Still, I digress.)

Anyway, I was let go. Along with two others. Which, I suppose, makes us a trilogy. A trilogy of “cost-cutting measures.” The mood was—how shall I put it—flat-pack funereal.

The funniest part? They kept thanking me for my positive attitude during the process. I was tempted to reply,

“Oh this? This is just shock.”

And now, as the dust settles, I find myself doing the usual things: updating my CV, haunting the LinkedIn feed like a ghost of bookkeeping past, and making very serious to-do lists with very unserious snack breaks in between. (Did you know stress biscuits don’t count if you eat them standing up?)

But something strange is happening.

I’m not panicking.

I’m… building. Slowly, quietly, possibly with tea.

And maybe—just maybe—this isn’t the end of the story.

It’s the bit where the character realises she was never just a cog. She was the whole toolbox.

If you’re reading this and also staring down uncertainty: I see you.

Let’s rebuild. Bring biscuits.