I now work in a health care–adjacent role in Florida, but two years ago, I was a remote sales manager who was let go after 20 months. I had been under-trained and had no prior experience, yet I brought in $1.2 million in my first year. Despite that level of performance, company execs called sacking me a “business decision,” cut my access within minutes—and a boss I had trusted said nothing. I power-walked for hours, realizing I had done everything “right” and it still wasn’t enough. That’s when I first truly understood how quickly we can be made disposable, regardless of what we’ve produced.
In the weeks that followed, anger gave way to a silence I couldn’t fill. In that silence, a grief I’d buried for years arose—I missed my grandmothers. They had been gone for some time, so their absence wasn’t new. However, being unemployed stripped away my defenses and revealed a deep need for ancestral guidance in a season when my world felt unstable. There I was, at 35, longing for their advice on how to steady myself in disappointment, endure transitions and not fall apart when blindsided by life.
According to Patrice Lindo, CEO of Career Nomad and career pivoting expert, “Job loss for Black women isn’t just a career event, it’s a gut punch to identity. When a position is ripped away, it feels like death: death of status, self-worth, years of proving yourself in a system that’s quick to erase you.” Her words helped me name the pain I was feeling—it wasn’t just about personal failure; it was systemic grief.
Some days I couldn’t rise from the sofa. When my child was at school, I lay there for hours, sobbing hopelessly. Job loss had stolen my livelihood, but grief made me feel like I was losing myself, too. The feeling of being judged and replaceable seeped in, and it gravely affected my self-worth.
In a conversation with Joy Harden Bradford, Ph.D., founder of Therapy for Black Girls, Dr. Ella F. Washington, Ph.D., offered this perspective on coping: acknowledging the shock and grief is the first step. “Give yourself time to process… Once you move past the initial shock or anger, think about it as a moment to reflect and realign your goals. Consider what parts of your job you loved and what didn’t serve you. This can guide what you pursue next.” Her words reminded me that processing loss is valid and necessary, and that grief can coexist with intentional reflection and recalibration.
I tried to keep busy in the kitchen, as if calling my grandmothers back. I baked and cooked, canned and preserved, and even sold breakfast plates when money ran low. My hands seemed guided by something greater, as if they knew the answers my heart sought. The work brought small comfort, yet it also deepened the ache of not having the matriarchs here in flesh and voice. Coupled with the unexpected loss of abundant income, this grief reminded me of what I’d truly missed and still longed for. This was a reality made even harder by the fact that, per the American Psychological Association, studies show unemployment takes a heavier mental-health toll on Black workers, with barriers to care making recovery even more difficult. It’s no wonder expert guidance emphasizes the importance of community. Lindo frames it this way: “Individual excellence won’t save you in this economy—community will. Support systems aren’t just nice to have; they’re survival infrastructure. I’ve seen women nearly drown in isolation, and I’ve seen them soar when surrounded by voices that say, ‘Sis, you are not crazy, you are not alone, and you are not disposable.’”
In the middle of that long unemployment stretch, I took a job at a local bagel shop. It was minimum wage, working with teenagers, but I didn’t care. I just needed to work. Within three weeks, they told me not to return because a cousin would replace me for free. I went from never losing a job to losing two jobs within a year. It taught me what my grandmothers once knew: in a system like this, our best is never enough, and our labor is always seen as replaceable. That disposability is its own kind of grief.
Author and lifestyle expert Jhéanell Westonberry, 38, faced similar rejection after closing her business. “After months of interviews that went nowhere, I started to wonder if something was wrong with me, because this was nothing like what I’d experienced before,” she remarked. “On the inside, it feels like insanity. You keep doing the same thing over and over, hoping this time will be different, and the weight of that can be exhausting.” Her words mirrored my own experience of feeling invisible in a system that refuses to recognize Black women’s labor.
While my stint with unemployment ended after 16 months, for others, the crisis continues. Analysts estimate roughly 300,000 Black women left or were pushed out of the workforce between spring and summer 2025, and the unemployment rate for Black women climbed to 6.3% in July—nearly double the rate for White women, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. Federal workforce reductions and rollbacks of diversity, equity and inclusion initiatives have only intensified these trends, highlighting systemic barriers that disproportionately affect Black women in the labor market. Many Black mothers are primary breadwinners; when their income disappears, households wobble. Communities lose not only financial stability, but also the mental and emotional grounding that comes from having our labor recognized as valuable.
Westonberry also highlights how coping strategies can emerge in response to these challenges. Writing her debut novel, Promise, became a lifeline. “Since the job market wasn’t giving me a happily ever after, I decided to write one myself. The parallel with my character gave me space to channel my frustrations. Even when life feels like it is falling apart, joy is still possible.”
My grandmothers never had six-figure jobs, but they knew how to respond when work was lost: they leaned on other women, shared what they had and kept households standing together. That kind of survival was collective. Reflecting on their wisdom now, I realize that no one should have to shoulder the weight of loss in silence. The guidance my forebears left me is a map. If we keep mapping our way through together, perhaps the losses won’t undo us. Perhaps they’ll be the thread that keeps us bound to one another, even when everything else feels like it’s unraveling.