When it comes to being retrenched, what looks like a clean ending on paper can disguise a deeper sense of loss beneath the surface. (Photo: iStock/PrathanChorruangsak)

I had 10 months to prepare for my retrenchment – and I still wasn’t ready

This writer thought a long notice period would make retrenchment easier. Instead, she found herself grieving not just the loss of a job she took pride in, but the identity it gave her – and forced her to confront the question: Who am I without my work?

26 Apr 2026, 23:26 by Simone Wu · CNA · Join

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The retrenchment announcement didn’t come with a sudden HR invite or a security escort. In fact, I got something rare: 10 months’ notice, and then some.

Our operations were relocating to another country and I was given 10 months to hire and train a new team remotely.

Productivity became my armour. I told myself I wasn’t sad. I rationalised the grief away. As it turns out, you can’t outrun a loss even when you see it coming a mile away.

Those final months felt like an in-between space – still part of the company, but already halfway gone.

I guided new teammates through complex systems and regional relationships. Those of us left behind in Singapore tried to finish well, encouraging one another even as the desks around us emptied at different speeds. Watching colleagues leave one by one made the finality feel even more real.

I stayed on a few more months to cover my replacement’s maternity leave. Partly for the severance, sure, but also because after nearly five years working solo, I wanted to prove to myself I could lead.

The opportunity to manage a remote team of three across borders turned out to be a gift. Yet, as the months passed, the team in Singapore grew smaller, and the work felt lonelier.

By my final day, I was the second-last person left of what had once been an 18-strong regional team.

THE LAST DAY AT WORK

On my last day at work, I woke up with a dry mouth and a tightness in my chest. I thought I was falling ill.

There were no meetings or big farewell speeches. I had already handed over every password and process; there was no actual work left for me to do, which only made the silence louder.

Even though she knew the day was coming, the writer could not control her tears when she returned to the office to return her laptop and access card. (Photo: iStock/baona)

All that remained was a digital farewell card from my manager. Reading the messages from former teammates, I felt an unexpected wave of gratitude.

As my cab turned into the office drop-off point, my composure started to slip. A quiet emptiness crept in.

In the lift, my stomach felt somewhere between acid reflux and butterflies. I told myself I wouldn’t cry. After a year of being the “composed professional”, I wasn’t going to let that facade crack. My plan was simple: in and out in five minutes.

This wasn’t even my “real” office. My workplace had closed months ago, so I was returning my laptop and access card to the sales office that I didn’t have official access to. As I approached the sliding glass doors, a colleague appeared beside me and tapped her card to let us both in.

As we walked through the lobby, she asked if I was meeting anyone.

“I’m Simone, the content editor,” I said. We’d never met in person. “It’s my last day.”

Recognition flickered across her face. Everyone knew most of our backend office colleagues had been retrenched. She gave me a sympathetic look, squeezed my hand, and said something kind.

My throat tightened. I was already choking up against my will.

Then I ran into one of my favourite stakeholders – someone who always spoke to me with kindness and candour. Our eyes met, and my stomach sank. I didn’t have any more words left in me. He asked how I was feeling.

“Bittersweet,” I managed.

“That means you’re relieved,” he replied gently, perhaps trying to comfort me.

My throat closed up. I couldn’t say another word. I just nodded, feeling the tears rise.

On her last day at work, there were no big farewells, only emptiness and silence. (Photo: iStock/whitebalance.space)

I returned my items and fled to the office toilet, where the tears came – heaving, unstoppable, unspooling from deep inside. Each time someone entered, I tried to stifle my crying.

After 15 minutes, I knew I couldn’t stay much longer. I was crying hard enough to draw attention to myself, even as I tried to stifle it. The thought of being discovered felt unbearable. But when I finally walked out, I wasn’t ready to head home.

GRIEVING A JOB LOSS

I needed somewhere to cry freely, so I chose the cinema. It was a weekday afternoon, and a nearly empty theatre was showing an emotional drama about a father and his disabled child. When the lights dimmed, I let go – grief, relief and release.

This is the part people don’t see about layoffs. From the outside, it looks clean: you get your severance, you move on.

But what’s lost isn’t only about employment – it’s identity. I wasn’t just crying over a job. I was mourning the rhythm, the belonging, and the quiet pride that anchored my days.

Even with ample notice, the ending still cut deep.

The invisible part about retrenchment is the loss of one’s identity. (Photo: iStock/Tzido)

When I eventually got home, I was too exhausted to explain. I held it together in front of my son and in-laws, but I broke down again the moment I was alone with my husband.

WHEN GRIEF BECAME CLARITY

In the days that followed, the tears stopped, but they revealed a harder truth: I had built my identity around being a writer and editor – efficient, dependable, always producing.

It wasn’t just what I did; it was who I was. For 20 years, my value was tied to my output. Without my title, the silence was deafening.

My first instinct? Outrun it. I updated my resume, polished my LinkedIn, and filled my calendar (just kidding, I’m an introvert).

But busyness is just another form of denial. My son’s school holidays began the following day, and the week filled with activities. On the surface, I looked fine.

I wasn’t.

A week later, the loss still felt fresh. Friends who’d been through this warned me that job grief comes in waves. One friend told me she still carries a lingering anxiety about stability even now, in a new role.

There were days I wanted to do everything – write, learn, explore – and days I just wanted to lie in bed and do nothing.

Having a child meant life couldn’t fully pause, but even within responsibility, I looked for time alone to think. In those quiet moments, I finally confronted the uncomfortable questions.

At 44, was I chasing a senior title because I wanted the work, or because I wanted the validation? Was I okay with earning less if it meant being truly present for my son before he hit his teens?

In the weeks following her last day at work, the writer realised she had built her identity around her job. (Photo: iStock/Organic Media)

My husband’s support meant we were stable, but my ego certainly wasn’t. I realised I’d been climbing a ladder without checking if it was leaning against the right wall.

So, I decided to give myself four months to find out – not to job hunt, but to breathe, be spontaneous, and see what surfaced when the “Senior APAC Content Editor” mask was off.

WHAT THE LOSS TAUGHT ME

Growth arrived quietly in the mundane. It showed up in finishing a piece of writing for myself, not a stakeholder. In cooking without checking emails. In learning to rest without feeling like I had to earn it.

I finally built my own website and sent out a children’s book manuscript. When that led to a book deal, it shifted something in me. It showed me that different didn’t mean less.

Before my retrenchment, I would have reflexively chased a Head of Content role just to prove I was still valuable. Now, I ask different questions: Does this role allow me to breathe? Does it honour the person I’ve found in the stillness?

Without a job title to prove my worth, I finally felt free to choose what was meaningful to me – contribute to society, bring joy or clarity, help someone – not what looked good on a social media profile.

After her retrenchment, the writer secured a book deal for a children’s book she wrote. (Photo: iStock/Ivan Pantic)

I thought a long lead time would make getting retrenched easier, but it didn’t. It just made the grief different.

Instead of losing my job all at once, I faced a long goodbye. I joined meetings to plan campaigns I’d never get to see and strategies I wouldn’t carry out. Everyone knew I’d be leaving in a few months, but we kept moving forward.

I couldn’t let myself grieve because I still had to do my job and act professionally. So, I pushed those feelings aside.

That final day cracked me open. By the time it arrived, I had carried unprocessed loss for a whole year. That’s why it hit me so hard.

Whether a layoff is sudden or you see it coming, the grief is real. If you don’t deal with it, it can show up later as anxiety, burnout, or lost confidence. I learned this the hard way. Taking even a little time to recognise what you’ve lost and really sit with those feelings can make a big difference.

It’s been eight months. The grief is quieter now, but it’s still there, surfacing when I’m caught off guard. Whatever comes next, whether it’s a new job, freelance work or something else, I feel more grounded.

I no longer need a company or a title to define my worth. I am a writer at heart. But I’m also many other things that make up a full life: a mother, a wife, a daughter, a friend. For the first time in 20 years, work doesn’t overshadow everything else. That feels enough.