Pause, Breath, Think
I’m a positive person. Ask anyone. Read the recommendations from my colleagues on LinkedIn. Everyone looks like the best version of themselves in those snapshots. You’ve probably seen the same. Can you relate?
But when I write, responding to life during times of stress or anxiety, my default voice is often a cynic. I analyze. I dissect. It’s simple to sound like a critic. Can you relate?
Some suggest I frame things with a brighter lens. Others say my constant critiques sound like complaints. But I believe people react from emotion first, then think. Don’t forget to think, Ben.
This story is about learned helplessness and rediscovery. It revisits the first time I got fired without explanation. Years later, I was laid off again except this time the company folded. Twenty people, including me, lost their roles. It wasn’t about performance. The company ran out of money. We were all like deer caught in headlights.
If one gets to thinking, learned helplessness doesn’t linger. It creeps in, for a moment, before experience pushes it aside. Still, I catch myself feeling overtaken, like I’ve lost control. That’s what helplessness feels like — power stripped away. Let me tell you very first true experience with helplessness. You’ll learn where my aversion and rebellion to this position comes from.
Freshman year in high school, I joined show choir. I auditioned playing guitar while in the eighth grade. Freshman year felt like the launch of a rockstar life. We had real talent — six singers, a full band. The density of skill felt surreal. I had a Guild acoustic. It was a thin bodied guitar to mimic Dave Matthews as closely as possible. I had a white Stratocaster, a Laney amp to pretend Eric Clapton played through me. Our room filled with drums, violins, keyboards, mics, mixers, speakers, and rat’s nests worth of cables.
In 1997, our school hosted the state choir festival. Students from across the state came to rehearse. One evening, someone left the back door propped open enough for no one to noticed. After rehearsal, strangers broke in and stole everything — tens of thousands in gear and personal instruments. Our lead guitarist had saved for years to buy his Les Paul. None of it came back.
I remember crying in my sister’s arms. I didn’t feel sad — I felt powerless. There was no action to take, only anger and imagined revenge. My parents could replace my guitar, but that didn’t matter. That instrument had a story. So did Lee’s Les Paul.
That feeling returned when I lost my job. Even with thoughtful managers and kind farewells, the moment hits like a punch. And you can’t cry or complain and expect to keep working. No one at this company failed. Still, job loss triggers doubt: Can I do this again?
Of course I can. I’ve done it for 20 years. If I couldn’t then I wouldn’t have 20 years experience now would I? But rejection emails say the opposite.
That’s where my inner cynic takes over.
The job hunt strips away humanity. You apply to machines. Networking still works, but it’s slow and only benefits those with large ones. Yet to feel responsible, we flood applications. In truth, all I’ve ever needed was one real conversation. That’s how I’ve always gotten hired — through people. Not arrogance. Just fact.
The process dehumanizes just as being laid off does. You get a rejection like this:
“While we were impressed with your background and qualifications, we have decided to move forward with other candidates at this time. We encourage you to check our Careers Page…” — every rejection email ever
Ummm, as the hiring team wouldn’t you know a role I’d be perfect for, already? Of course not. A human didn’t assess my application.
Don’t say you’re impressed if you won’t talk to me. Don’t pretend a person made the decision if no one gave real feedback. What was impressive? What wasn’t? Feedback matters. If Customer Support can respond to every complaint, recruiting teams can offer more than silence.
So that’s my rant. Cynic, sure — but honest. Now, let’s go deeper.
Rejection stings fast. If you’ve ever designed something, then had a boss or customer shoot it down, the first instinct is to snap back. Sometimes a nice, “F*#k off,” would feel nice. That reaction? Raw emotion. It’s the same instinct that powers social media outrage.
Learned helplessness works like that. It shuts down the next move. You doubt your future in the space of a sentence. Success suddenly feels out of reach. “If I couldn’t succeed today, how can I tomorrow?”
But here’s the part I believe now.
Losing a job doesn’t mean you lost your value. Learning from failure makes you better. But the job hunt gives no space for failure, growth, or recovery. It demands perfection. Then it vanishes.
That’s not your fault.
Your experience will fit somewhere. Don’t water down your language to match keywords. Make us laugh. Make us think. Don’t turn yourself into a robot. Be human. Wait. And if waiting hurts, do something that feels alive. Read. Walk. Cook. Play a game. Write. Pet a dog. Complain in a notebook. Burn it. People-watch. Make something. Spend money on your favorite coffee. Meet someone new. Build a story worth living.
Anything but job hunting.
We will work again. Of course we will. Look at us — we’re damn good at what we do.