What Being Made Redundant Twice Actually Taught Me

Shanshan and I were on a bus heading to an exhibition in Tokyo when the Slack message came through: mandatory town hall in 15 minutes. We shared headphones and listened as they announced the second round of redundancies. The email confirming we were both out arrived before we got off the bus. We were still processing it when we joined the queue outside. Both of us. Made redundant. Overseas.

Shanshan had something lined up before we'd even left, which helped. I didn't. During the day I was trying to be present - actually be there - while quietly sitting with how fragile everything had just revealed itself to be. At night I was lying there scrolling job boards, that uncomfortable itch of uncertainty making it hard to fully switch off from what was awaiting back home. We even half-joked about extending the trip since there was no rush to get back anymore. We took our company farewell call near Mt Fuji.

The choice in front of us felt simple but wasn't: spiral, or stay present when presence was the only thing we actually controlled. We chose presence. What came next tested whether we actually meant it.

Why I Took The First Offer (And Why That Was The Mistake)

I couldn't sit with the uncertainty. When we got home, I already had interviews lined up. They were keen. I was eager to lock something down immediately.

That urgency was the mistake.

I had a new offer accepted before we'd even fully unpacked. LinkedIn, quick interviews, letter of offer signed, done. Felt like winning. It wasn't.

The decision was pure fear. We didn't have our daughter yet, but the idea of both of us unemployed at the same time felt unbearable. The company looked solid on paper. What I didn't see coming - or more accurately, what I chose to ignore during those initial interviews - were the red flags. The toxicity. Not everyone, but enough of the key people I'd be working closest with to make it genuinely brutal.

Here's what nobody tells you about fear-based decisions: they look like solutions right up until you're living inside them.

What made it worse was a psychological trap I didn't even recognise at the time. I felt like I owed them something for hiring me so quickly after my redundancy. So even as the environment ground me down daily, I stayed. Leaving felt ungrateful - like I'd be seen as someone who took the opportunity and bailed the moment it got hard. I knew I was capable of more. I knew I was being suppressed. But I'd convinced myself that staying was the honourable thing to do.

It wasn't. It was just fear wearing a different costume. And the role itself reflected that. I'd taken a step backwards just to have something to step into. The title, the scope, the impact - all smaller than where I'd been before. When you're deciding from fear, you're not asking "is this the right move?" You're asking "will this make the fear stop?"

The Second Redundancy Was Pure Relief

The second redundancy came from that same company. I'd moved to a 12-month secondment coordinating their new data warehouse migration - different team, better work, people who genuinely wanted my help. It was the perfect escape from toxic digital leadership. When the data area confirmed they couldn't absorb me permanently, digital leadership moved to make my original role redundant.

Honestly? Pure relief. What pissed me off was how unfair and targeted the process felt. But the redundancy itself - getting out - I wasn't upset about that at all.

What was different this time wasn't the circumstance. It was the preparation.

After the first redundancy, Shanshan and I had deliberately built a financial buffer. Not huge - but enough. And that changed everything. Because when we were both out of work with a mortgage to cover, the fear was real. Friends asking "oh my god, how are you going to pay the mortgage?" wasn't dramatic - it was a fair question. We had to sit inside that discomfort for a while.

But because we'd built something to fall back on, the second time felt completely different. I wasn't scrambling. I went into interviews as my actual self, because if they didn't want the real me, the job wouldn't be worth having anyway. We also had our daughter by then, which raised the stakes - but the buffer meant I could be selective instead of desperate. This time I wasn't looking for an escape hatch. I was looking for the right leadership opportunity - somewhere I could actually drive meaningful change and have real impact. The difference in what I was willing to consider, and what I was willing to walk away from, was night and day compared to the first time.

That's the thing about having a financial cushion: it doesn't remove the risk. It changes how you respond to it.

What Two Redundancies In Three Years Actually Taught Me

These aren't theories. They're lessons I paid for:

The business is not your family. It can feel that way, and sometimes leaders will actively try to make it feel that way. But when the board needs to cut costs or the market shifts, loyalty doesn't offset economics. Understanding this isn't cynicism - it's just accurate.

Your job is not your identity. Losing a job exposes how much of yourself you've tied to a title or a role. I felt it the first time. Most people do. But you are not your job, and the sooner you stop acting like you are, the less power redundancy has over you.

We are all expendable. Not in a pessimistic way - in a clarifying way. Knowing this means you stop outsourcing your security to an employer and start building it yourself.

Financial breathing room allows freedom. Always have enough buffer that your next decision is based on what's right, not what's urgent. That's the whole game.

I tell my teams now: always do what's best for you. Because although I will fight tooth and nail for you, I can't promise you security - nobody can. Business is business. So much is genuinely out of our control.

What You Actually Control

You don't control whether you keep your job. That's always been true. Most people just prefer not to think about it.

What you do control: how much buffer you've built. Whether you show up as yourself or perform a version of yourself to keep others comfortable. Whether you take the first offer out of fear or wait for the right one.

And whether you see redundancy as something that happened to you - or as information about what wasn't working anyway.

My second redundancy wasn't a setback. It was confirmation I was already on the wrong path. The real mistake would've been staying.

If you lost your job tomorrow, would you take the first offer that came through - or could you actually afford to wait for the right one? What would need to change today to give yourself that choice?