There is a heavy silence that falls over the office on the layoff day. As if the air itself knows something is off and wants to increase the tension around the office. It’s much more than the usual quiet of the engineers deep in their code; it’s almost scary.
As the receptionist, I usually greet people with a smile and a “Good morning!” But not today. Today, I’m watching coworkers’ friends pack up desks, hand over badges, and try to look okay while stuffing five years of memories into a cardboard box.
Sometimes I know that it’s coming: a calendar invite with no context, a last-minute visit from HR. The founder was suddenly pacing more than usual. This is how the pattern starts. But even when you see it coming, it doesn’t hit until someone walks past my desk with a backpack that’s a little too full, trying not to make eye contact.
The hardest part for me is that I’ve gotten to know these people. I’ve seen their coffee orders evolve, overheard their weekend plans, birthday stories and their 2 am support fire drills. I’ve printed their visitor badges, found their missing packages, covered for them when they ran late, and handed them tissues after a bad demo. And now I’m watching them disappear quietly, quickly, and without much ceremony.
Everyone handles it differently. Some leave stoic, hugging only the closest teammates. Others stop by my desk, force a smile, and whisper, “Well, it’s been real.” A few cry in the bathroom. And some vanish, their laptops turned in, Slack accounts deactivated, with no goodbye.
For the rest of us left behind, there’s survivor’s guilt. We whisper in corners, send awkward heart emoji reactions in farewell threads, and wonder if we’ll be next. I refill the snack drawer like usual, but somehow it feels like setting out juice boxes at a funeral.
And yet, there’s some beauty in this grief. People stepping up to carry someone’s laptop to their cars, teams signing cards, and jokes about startup alumni groups. The silent reassurances that youre going to land somewhere amazing and better than here.
But we all know the game. Startups are fast, brutal, yet beautiful machines. One month, you could be hiring three PMs, and the very next month, you could say goodbye to people who were the culture.
So, if you were left off and nobody said this correctly, you mattered a lot. You were part of a wild, chaotic environment where we should all be thriving together. Your absence is felt and known; it’s not that we never noticed. And if you’re still here, grab a kombucha, take a breath, and check in on the people sitting nearest to you.
And trust me, we are all trying to hold it together, just as you are—one badge swipe at a time.