For two decades, my life was a carefully constructed fortress built on the bedrock of a corporate title. In the high-stakes tech world of San Francisco, my job was not merely a source of income; it was my “badge of honor” and the primary justification for every choice I made. I used my position to validate my existence, from the exorbitant rent on my apartment to the years of therapy and countless sleepless nights I endured to keep climbing the ladder. I was a creature of structure, finding safety in the “constant hum of work responsibilities” that acted as a protective layer, keeping deeper heartaches at bay through sheer busyness.
Then, the “thunderbolt” hit. A corporate layoff—delivered via a sterile email beginning with the dreaded “We regret to inform you”—shattered my foundation. Suddenly, I was standing at the edge of an “existential abyss,” an ominous void of uncertainty and doubt. I was forced to confront a terrifying question: who was I outside of “KPIs and quarterly goals”?. Without the “life rafts” of meetings, emails, and presentations, I felt unmoored and adrift, a mere visitor in my own life.
The process of looking for a new anchor only deepened the crisis. I entered a “soul-crushing ritual” where I felt reduced to a “keyword-optimized resume” or a series of checkboxes on an online form. I was fighting against “endless algorithms” that chose my fate before I could ever have a human conversation, making me feel like a disposable “cog in a vast, impersonal machine”. Even when I returned to my roots in India, the “absurdity of resumes” followed me; interviewers viewed my international success with suspicion, treating my return as a “red flag” rather than an asset.
My sense of professional legitimacy was further hollowed out by the “Real Engineer” debate with my father. A mechanical engineer by trade, he dismissed my entire career as “digital nonsense” and an “imaginary profession” because it lacked a physical manifestation like a bridge or a dam. In his eyes, I wasn’t an engineer; I was just someone doing a “programmer’s job,” and despite my years in Silicon Valley, I felt like a failure.
I am now navigating what I call the “messy middle” of reinvention. It is a liminal space where I am simultaneously mourning the person I was while trying to figure out who I might become. I have had to learn that rebuilding a life happens one “small, inconsequential act at a time”—setting up a new workspace, learning the layout of a new neighborhood, or finding the perfect cup of chai.
I’ve realized that the “potholes” of job loss and identity crisis weren’t just obstacles; they were “unanticipated mentors” guiding me toward a deeper understanding of my own resilience. I am slowly unlearning the idea that my worth is tied to a zip code or a corporate title. Instead, I am doing the quiet, patient work of belonging to myself. Success, I’ve found, is not a final destination on a freshly paved highway, but the steady decision to keep showing up for yourself on the scenic, pothole-ridden route.
Watch the full episode on the Diary of Cliches Podcast!
