What Getting Laid Off Taught Me About Identity
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A few weeks ago, I got laid off.
I was working as an Engineering Program Manager at CrowdStrike, a company I genuinely admired. It wasn’t just a job — it was a role that brought together my passion for technical problem-solving, cross-functional leadership, and building things that mattered. I worked with brilliant people. I led critical, high-impact programs that expanded our cloud infrastructure, streamlined operations, and integrated cutting-edge AI into our development pipelines. I won awards. I felt seen. And then, one morning, I opened my calendar and saw a 15-minute meeting with HR.
Just like that, I was no longer “Jonathan at CrowdStrike.” I was just… Jonathan.
And that was disorienting in a way I hadn’t expected.
When Work Becomes Identity
It’s easy — especially in tech — to tether your identity to your job. We’re encouraged to do it, really. LinkedIn headlines, performance reviews, even casual introductions: “What do you do?” is code for “Who are you?” And I had a good answer to that question. I was a high-performing technical program manager at a top-tier cybersecurity company. I got results. I made things happen. I helped my teams win.
So when the job went away, a part of me felt like I had gone away. Like someone had yanked the scaffolding that held up my sense of worth.
I kept refreshing Slack out of habit. I checked email reflexively, even though access had already been revoked. I thought through old docs I’d written, reminisced about initiatives I’d shepherded across the finish line. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I think I just wanted proof that I had existed there.
The Stillness After the Noise
In the silence that followed — no standups, no escalations, no fires to put out — I began to confront something deeper: the uncomfortable truth that I had confused what I do with who I am.
This realization didn’t arrive all at once. It crept in, slowly, like light through blinds. And it met me where I already had a foothold: my longtime interest in secular Buddhism.
Four years ago, I went through a painful divorce. It cracked open a lot of assumptions I had about life, love, and who I thought I was. That period was disorienting, humbling, and often lonely — but it was also when I first turned to secular Buddhism not as an abstract philosophy, but as a practical framework to navigate suffering. The teachings of impermanence, mindfulness, and non-attachment helped me survive that personal storm. So when I found myself facing a new kind of identity loss, I returned to those same practices — not as a last resort, but as a trusted guide.
You Are Not Your Job
One of the central teachings of Buddhism is the concept of anattā, or “not-self.” It’s the idea that the self is not a fixed, permanent thing — it’s a constantly shifting process. This doesn’t mean that you don’t exist. It means that who you are is not reducible to any single role, title, or thought pattern.
I had read about this before. I thought I understood it. But now, I was living it again, as a professional losing a career.
What I discovered was painful and liberating all at once: I had built so much of my sense of self on being productive, being valuable, being needed. I chased validation through performance. I felt alive when I was contributing, especially when others noticed. None of that is inherently wrong — it’s human. But when your worth hinges on external achievements, it’s a fragile foundation.
This brought to mind a variation of the Parable of the Raft that has always stuck with me. A man is stranded on an island. There is nothing but ocean to the horizon in every direction. So he spends months gathering supplies and building a strong, seaworthy raft - preparing himself for what he assumes will be a long and perilous journey. When he finally sets sail, he soon discovers that just over the horizon was land, civilization, safety, and everything he had been longing for.
He’s frustrated at first. Upset at the time and energy “wasted” on building a raft he didn’t really need. But with time, he comes to see that the effort wasn’t wasted at all. The process of building that raft — the planning, the patience, the grit — prepared him. It gave him skills, self-awareness, and resilience that would shape his life moving forward.
That story reminds me of how I’ve clung to identity, to a raft I built for survival. The raft mattered. The job mattered. But I don’t need to carry it with me forever to honor its value. I can move forward lighter, with gratitude, not regret.
Coming Home to What’s Left
Sitting with these questions didn’t provide tidy answers, but it created space for something quieter and more sustainable. I started meditating more regularly, just 10 minutes a day. I practiced being present with uncomfortable emotions (grief, shame, fear) without needing to fix or escape them. I revisited the same teachers and writings that helped ground me during my divorce: Stephen Batchelor, Joseph Goldstein, Martine Batchelor, Noah Rasheta. They all emphasize that life’s meaning isn’t found in grand narratives, but in the moment-to-moment clarity of being awake to our experience.
And slowly, I began to reclaim a self not built on productivity, but on presence. A self not defined by outcomes, but by awareness.
I’m still ambitious. I still want to contribute meaningfully, and I’ll work again, hopefully soon. But I no longer feel like I disappear when I’m not achieving. The role may have ended, but the part of me that listened, led, collaborated, and cared remains.
Moving Forward
Losing a job you love is a form of grief. It deserves to be honored as such. But it can also be a leap forward, a chance to shed what no longer serves you and to ask better questions about what does.
What I’ve learned, origrinally through heartbreak and again through unemployment, is that identity built only on roles will always be brittle. You can love your work and still not be your work. You can invest deeply in relationships and still not be entirley defined by them.
I am not just Jonathan the Program Manager. I am simply Jonathan, a human existing, and happy to be here.