I woke up to the email at 3 a.m. on a Wednesday. We’ll let you know if you’re being let go within the next hour.
I opened Slack. I wasn’t kicked out. I started going through my DMs, checking who I’d messaged recently — one, two, three, four, five people who weren’t responding. The first person I checked was them. My heart sunk.
Because that was what they feared. It did happen.
A week earlier
When I start a one-on-one, I ask how it’s going. With this person, how they answer tells me a lot. If they say “good,” or launch into something they’re working on — even frustrated — things are probably fine. When they say “it’s going okay,” that’s trouble.
When we first started working together, “okay” was the baseline. Over time, we worked on finding meaning in the work, things to be excited about, things they wanted to improve. “Okay” stopped appearing.
That week, they said it’s going okay.
“What do you think about all these layoffs? It’s all the office is talking about. Normally in the spring the vibes are good, but this week they’ve been really down. I’ve been having a hard time wanting to do the things I have to do. Last time there were layoffs, I came back and there were empty seats where there were friends, colleagues, people you chat with, have lunch with. That was hard. And now we have the prospect of it happening again.”
They asked what I thought. How I was feeling.
What I told them
I said: “Even if we knew with 100% certainty there would be a layoff on Thursday, how would that change what you do today?”
They said they might not work as hard on getting the feature done.
“Even if layoffs happen, we don’t know which group we’re in. If our group gets laid off, then yeah, it may not matter. But if we’re in the group that stays, we still have to do these things. And it’s going to be hard to want to work while we’re sorting through the wreckage.”
It sounded wise when I said it. The truth is I learned it by being the scared one.
Where I learned it
When I left my first software engineering job, the CEO came over to my desk. We had these little bays, three desks side by side facing another three. Sit-stand desks, which were the hot thing at the time. Mine was in sit mode. My colleagues had headphones on, working.
He said something like: “I heard you put in your two weeks. I think of everyone who’s left as an alumni. We have this network. But for the last two weeks, I want you to go out strong. Come in every day and do your best. Go out on a high note.”
In my head I thought: you don’t know me at all if you think you need to say this to me.
It’s not in my DNA to phone it in. When I was on film sets before I became a software engineer, I was the same way. The atmosphere was often jovial, people talking and hanging out, especially on student sets. But when I’m at work, I’m at work.
The CEO thought he was motivating me. What he actually did was crystallize something I hadn’t said out loud: I do my best work for me, not for the company. Not because anyone is watching. Not because it’ll save my job. Because I’d know.
[RIFF NEEDED: the small invisible thing. The Ruff formatter story fits here — adding the auto-formatter to CI after hours so nobody would have to argue about style in a PR. “I never want to have a conversation about style in a PR. It should be codified.” Something nobody would notice. I cared.]
What fear looks like on me
Right after I joined Snap, there were layoffs. Maybe a month or two after I started. I was pretty sure I was going to get let go. First in, first out sometimes. I was the newest. I hadn’t proven what I could do.
So I checked Blind. It had been a survival skill at my previous company — managers weren’t always permitted to tell you things, so understanding how the company really worked meant going there.
I carried the habit. Over time it became something else. The sentiment on the internal channel got worse and worse. I built skin for it, but when I was feeling anxious I’d gravitate toward it, and it would reinforce whatever I was already afraid of. It’s like the meme from Community where they come back with the pizza and the room is on fire. That was me on Blind while the rumors swirled.
There’s a saying, at least on our company’s Blind: Blind has correctly predicted 11 of the past 2 layoffs. Every week someone posts that layoffs are coming, because it gets attention. Sometimes they’re right.
I had to stop going there. I got my own account banned. Asked them to delete it. I still sometimes want to check. Because I can’t, I can’t.
The harder part was what was happening in my head at night. I’d sit in bed trying to read a staff engineering book — maybe 30 or 40 pages in, a chapter about building an organizational trigger map. Mapping the teams yours works with, where the friction is, what might be done. Having an opinion about how the org should be building.
As I read, it sounded enormous. Beyond what I could do. Is this really what’s expected of me at this level? People are going to look to me for answers. I don’t have answers. I don’t have answers even for myself.
I’d be reading, and halfway down the page I’d realize I’d been in my head the whole time. My eyes had skimmed the lines while the voices kept going. You’re not good enough. It was a mistake they hired you. You’ll never figure this out. I’d take a breath, try again. The voices would start back up. Getting through a page or two was a win. I’d close the book and play a game. Anything to escape.
There’s a line from David Foster Wallace’s This Is Water, something like: the mind is a wonderful servant but a terrible master. When I’m operating from fear, it’s the master. It gets in the way of the work. I get scared the voices are right. I get scared I’ll manifest the mistake that proves I shouldn’t be in the role. I don’t do my best work. I put things off. I find any excuse to procrastinate.
What carries
I have periods in my life where not much happened. I played a lot of World of Warcraft as a kid. When I think back to my fifty- and sixty-long-day 24-hour periods of WoW, I don’t really have that many memories from that time.
But when I’ve been showing up, when I’ve been working at something, when I’m trying hard — I start to form actual memories. Stories. Sometimes trying and failing. Always learning something.
If I got let go, I’d want to know I did the best I could. I’d want to know I made as many stories as I could. As much impact as I could. And if I was progressing, avoiding my feelings, running from the voices — I’m not at my best. I’m not the person I’d want to be.
What carries is the satisfaction of having done what I can. And connecting with others doing the same. The memories, the relationships, stick more than the individual projects. I’d rather take a risk and not succeed than do things that are easy.
Did the advice hold
After the 3 a.m. email, after I found their name in the “can’t reach” column, I spent a long time thinking about that one-on-one.
Did what I said send the wrong message? Did I give them the wrong advice? Was I acting like the CEO at Wiredrive, telling them to go out strong?
I sat with that for a while. What I landed on was: no. Not because the advice worked — it didn’t. They got laid off anyway. But because the alternative — phoning it in, weak code, running from the voices for the last week they were there — that wouldn’t have softened the layoff. It would have made the last week worse. They would have carried the memory of that week into wherever they go next.
Finishing strong isn’t protection. It’s not a deal you strike with the company where if you work hard enough they keep you. The CEO at Wiredrive was maybe selling me that deal, and it’s why my first reaction was you don’t know me.
The version I actually believe is smaller and more honest: the work you do at the end is yours. The layoffs don’t change that. Nothing changes that.
[close — needs work]
[RIFF NEEDED: The close should return to 3 a.m. What am I doing today? The riff says “my heart goes out to them, I want to help however I can.” But for the close I need the image, not the sentiment. Am I at my desk? What’s on the screen? What’s the small thing I’m doing that is the answer to the question? The close can be quiet. It should land on the same ground the opening opened on — but from the other side of it.]