Still Standing: What I’ve Learned About Worth, Work, and Waiting It Out

By the time you hit 50, you assume a few things have settled. Your signature, your favorite coffee order, your emotional reactions to certain movies genres. You also figure your career has more or less found its groove. Mine had. Or so I thought.

For nearly three decades, I built a life with meaning. I worked my way up through companies, mentored dozens of people, launched initiatives I’m still proud of, and held leadership roles that made me feel, on my best days, like I was doing what I was put here to do. I had the trust of my teams, the respect of my peers, and, not incidentally, a regular paycheck.

Then, in a season of economic volatility, I was laid off.

Not downsized. Not transitioned. Laid. Off.

It felt sudden, but the truth is, the tremors had been there for months—quiet murmurs of restructuring, new leadership with new loyalties, financial projections that never added up. Still, I thought I’d weather it. I always had.

At first, I treated the news like a professional problem to solve. I brushed off my resume, sent some emails, polished my elevator pitch. I told myself and my family I’d take a few weeks to reset and be back at it by spring.

That was eighteen months ago.

In those months, I've done more than just job hunt. I’ve also paced hallways. I’ve picked up the phone and put it down. I’ve watched former colleagues get hired for roles I thought I was perfect for. I’ve celebrated their wins, then cried in the shower. I’ve told myself I’m okay. I’ve told myself I’m a failure. I’ve told myself to get over it. I’ve told myself to be patient. And I’ve believed all of it, depending on the hour.

I have not, in case you're wondering, arrived at some enlightened conclusion. I have not “transcended” my ego, or figured out the magic formula to getting back in the game. But I am learning how to be here, in this place between identities...with honesty. That might be the best I can do.

Here’s what no one tells you: losing your job as a grown man, especially one who’s been called a leader, a mentor, a “rock” for others, feels like disappearing. You stop being the guy people ask for advice and become the guy they send job postings to, cautiously, like slipping a note under a locked door.

You smile and say thank you. You always say thank you. But after a while, the air inside the room thins out. You start whispering to yourself things you’d never say aloud: Maybe I peaked. Maybe I’m not who I thought I was. Maybe I’ve been replaced.

I don’t say this to elicit pity. I say it because it’s real. And because I suspect I’m not the only one feeling it.

I have a wife who still laughs at my jokes, even the ones I recycle. I have a son who couldn’t care less about job titles, but lights up when I show up at his games. I have friends who call, not just to ask how the search is going, but to talk about movies, fishing, football. To remind me I’m still me.

Sometimes that’s the hardest part. Accepting that even if the world sees you differently, you haven’t actually changed. Your skills, your heart, your story...they’re still intact. It’s the platform that’s missing. The megaphone.

I’ve had to ask myself: if no one’s watching, am I still worth the performance?

What I’ve realized in these quiet months is that so much of my self-worth had fused itself to professional achievement. I wasn’t just proud of what I’d built. I was what I’d built. So when that structure fell, I felt like I went with it.

But brick by brick, I’m rebuilding. Or trying to, at least. Not the same tower, not with the same blueprints. Something simpler. Something truer, hopefully.

I’m reading again. Writing a little bit. Teaching at a local acting studio, which I love. Holding space for people who, like me, aren’t sure what comes next. I’m trying to listen to my life without constantly trying to edit it.

There’s a term I've become interested in that my wife uses: liminal space. It means the place between no longer and not yet. It’s the hallway between rooms. The threshold.

I’m in it.

And while I don’t have the ending to this story yet, I’m learning to respect the middle. The ache. The questions. The uncomfortable grace of not knowing.

I’m still standing. Maybe not where I thought I’d be. Maybe not in the light I once imagined. But still here. Still showing up. Still becoming.

If you’re here too - if you’re waiting, wondering, holding your breath - you’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re not done.

You’re just in the hallway.

And sometimes, that’s where the real becoming begins.