The first time I was laid off, I told myself it was bad luck.
The second time, I couldn't say that anymore.
Ten years. Two redundancies. Almost exactly five years apart — as if the universe had set a timer, just to make sure I was paying attention.
The second time hit differently.
Not because it was more painful. But because I was older. Because I had rebuilt once already, and I knew exactly how long that took, how much it cost, how exhausting it was to start over. And here I was — starting over again.
I did the right things. Even from the road.
I booked a flight — I needed to move, I couldn't just sit still — but I told myself it was temporary. A reset. I'd be back soon, ready to start again.
So I applied from departure gates. From hotel rooms in cities I'd never been to before. From café tables with bad wifi and half-finished coffee.
The first few weeks, there were interviews. Not many, but enough to feel like something was still moving.
Then the replies slowed. Then they stopped.
Another city. Another round of applications. Another week of checking my inbox every morning, hoping today would be different.
It wasn't.
That silence has a weight to it. It's not just rejection — it's invisibility. The feeling that you're sending pieces of yourself out into the world and no one is even turning around to look.
So I kept moving.
Not because I had a plan. But because staying still felt worse.
Six months passed like that — country to country, no fixed schedule, no destination I had to reach. Just the next place, and the one after that.
I didn't know it yet, but something was quietly changing.