I didn’t expect losing my job to hit me the way it did. At the same time, in hindsight, maybe I should have.

For years, I felt useless at work. Like my contributions didn’t matter. No one seemed to value what I brought to the table, and the harder I tried, the more invisible I became. It was like being in a toxic relationship—knowing it was bad for me, but feeling trapped. I told myself I couldn’t leave because who would hire me at my age? So I stayed, slowly shrinking.

Then I was laid off. Four years of work erased in an instant. I had to sign an NDA just to receive a severance package, which was essential for me to survive the next few months while I planned to move back to the USA because they sponsored my visa. I had to move back to a country that was descending into fascism.

When the announcement went out, only one person in the entire company reached out to me. Just one. People on my own team didn’t even say goodbye. That silence cut deep. After everything I had given, it felt like I had never mattered at all.

The loss left me hollow. The days grew heavier and darker. I felt worthless, like everything I’d built had slipped away, and with it, my self esteem and any semblance of confidence that I could even be a technical writer anymore—that I’ve never been good at it or anything at all. I applied for over 60 jobs in the following months, resulting in a solitary interview—which I absolutely blew.

I was not okay.

So much more was going on during those last few months in London, too. In December, I fell off a horse and broke my arm on a long weekend in Wales. It was supposed to be self-care, to soothe myself after the terrifying election results, my hijacked play, and losing my job. Christmas, alone and in pain. Then surgery on New Year’s Day to get a metal plate in my arm. An impromptu, very expensive, week-long trip to Texas to visit my ailing mother (she’s doing much better). Lingering pain for months. Having no reason to get out of bed every day. I gained weight and couldn’t stand the sight of myself. Engulfing loneliness and debilitating depression. I was in crisis.

London, the city I love with all my heart, suddenly felt like a prison. I was stuck inside, struggling to heal, far from my partner in Portland, far from family. I felt broken in every way: body, mind, spirit.

Distraught leaving the City of My Soul behind, afraid I’d alway regret leaving (but I didn’t have a choice without a visa or any job prospects), I moved back to Portland. Back to my partner. Back to a safe home together here. My cottage garden. The cats, along with my adopted sweetie, Smudge, who my partner generously brought over from England.

And then something unexpected happened: I didn’t miss London at all. I missed my friends, but any thoughts of London and my time there over the past two years was just a pleasant memory. I was so grateful to be home.

I started taking Terzepatide and lost 30 pounds, and I feel comfortable in my body for the first time in as long as I can remember. Now I love the sight of myself in the mirror! Plus, it eased my anxiety, helped my digestion, improved my self-esteem, and erased my heat intolerance. After over 15 years of getting nauseous in the sun and heat, I enjoyed the summer! Even the Texas heat when spending another 6 weeks with my mother and reconnecting with family there.

Then I discovered welding. Sparks, fire, steel. The first time I picked up a torch, it felt instinctive, almost like I’d always known how. I began collecting scraps of metal, bending, shaping, and giving them new life. Each sculpture carried a piece of me—grief, resilience, hope.

In just the first three months of my membership at Past Lives Makerspace, I created 15 sculptures. Fifteen! Each one a reminder that even when I thought I had nothing left to give, creativity was waiting beneath the surface, ready to burst out.

Alongside welding, I started working with stained glass. The light, color, and fragility of glass balanced the heaviness of steel. Together they became a reflection of me—broken and strong, sharp and soft, heavy and light.

I had someplace to go. I had a reason to get out of bed. I felt useful and fulfilled and even joyful!

I never imagined that losing so much could lead me here. But I’ve rebuilt my life before—after my husband left, after the sexual assaults, after all the times I thought I would never rise again. And every time, I did. I fucking rose.

My value doesn’t depend on whether a company recognizes it. My worth isn’t measured by who bothers to say goodbye. It’s measured by the fire I carry, the beauty I create, the love I give and receive.

I’ve risen from the ashes before. And once again, like a phoenix, I’ve stepped out of the fire—scarred, but alive, burning brighter than ever.