After the rupture

I OFTEN HEAR from people right after a layoff, and more than once I’ve yearned for a word in the English language that means both “condolences” and ”congratulations.” Not to diminish the harm that can come from layoffs—they can absolutely be traumatic and devastating, and we desperately need better safety nets. But I also want to name the sense of relief and opportunity that often emerges after a big rupture, the generative combination of fuck it and what’s possible now? energy that leads people in directions they had long considered impractical but which now seem ripe for exploration. I see this experience a bit like what happens after an intense fire burns a stretch of forest down to ash: seeds that were dormant and waiting for just that moment suddenly germinate and stretch up to the clear, bright sun.

Among the stories I’ve collected about layoffs are tales of burnout and misery; loss of faith in the field or the work; grief for lost comrades and kinship; and, of course, fear—of precarity, of poverty, of lassitude and shame. But there are also a great many stories of another kind: stories of rest and healing, of a return to long-neglected practices, of old habits shed and new ones formed, of exploration and experimentation. Of practicing new and different futures.

A rupture, whatever the cause, is also an opportunity. But fear makes us speed through the break, as if by running really fast through a dark tunnel we could escape the monsters hot on our heels. Paradoxically, what we need to do in these moments is slow down, take stock, let the monsters have their say. You can choose to use their counsel or discard it, but only by listening to them will they stop gnashing their teeth. You’ll realize, then, that the tunnel is really a crossroads, with many paths you can take. Some of those paths seem clear while others are draped in fog; some of them are protected by guardians or gates, by steep mountains or rushing rivers. All of them are challenging in their own way.

One of the things I hear most often when people arrive at these moments is an outline of the risks involved with heading down one path or another. That’s the fear talking, of course. It will say, if you veer off the current trail, if you venture into the fog or over that hill, you’ll come to harm. This is where I think we ought to not only listen to the fear, but inquire into it. Because, yes, of course, we might come to harm if we venture into the unknown—but so might we come to harm if we stay put. There is no certainty or perfect safety in any direction; that’s the price of being mortal, I’m afraid. But we’re wont to magnify the risks of going in a new direction as much as we minimize the ones of our current route. Familiarity wears a cloak of security.

It’s helpful to enumerate the risks we know of, so that we can gather up charms and tools against them. Ropes, flint, and the wisdom of experienced travelers all make good friends on new journeys. But it’s also possible to imagine this crossroads as a staging place, as the ground from which you don’t so much as make a choice as plan out a series of exploratory surveys. You can venture into the fog until the ground gives way to river; you can climb a ways up the cliff face and discover what comes into view; you can knock at the gate and chat with the friendly crone who answers. Little by little, each potential path will be lit up, you’ll know more of what you need to venture onward, you’ll have collected friends and comrades who are headed in the same direction. One day, perhaps, you’ll realize you’ve gone too far to make it back to that crossroads—and, more importantly, that you no longer care to.

A secret I share about these transitions is that big changes only make sense in hindsight. Some day, years from now most likely, you’ll look back and tell a beautiful story of getting laid off or fired or whathaveyou, and how from that dark and terrible moment came a new beginning. But when you are in the thick of it, when you don’t yet have the gift of a rearview mirror, it won’t feel anything like providence. You’ll feel like you’re flailing about and you’ll want to scream or cry or both at the same time. Your boots will stick in the mud and your ropes will fray and you’ll lose your flint on the coldest night. It will be chaos. But it was chaos that birthed the universe. It is from chaos that many great stories begin. You’ll tell yours in time. First, you have to live it.