I hadn’t taken a real vacation in three years.
Sixty-hour workweeks. Missed birthdays. Lunches eaten over spreadsheets. This trip to the Oregon coast was supposed to be my reset—my reward for surviving corporate life without burning out completely.
Instead, I got fired at an airport.
I was sitting in a plastic chair at O’Hare, staring at an overpriced turkey sandwich I probably shouldn’t have bought, when my phone rang. HR. Bad sign.
The woman on the line—Linda, someone I barely knew—spoke in that calm, rehearsed tone companies use when they’re about to change your life. My “position was being eliminated.” Not performance-related. Just “restructuring.”
Translation: my job had been replaced by software and an intern.
Then came the part that really stung. My benefits would end at the end of the month. My final paycheck would be mailed. And the three weeks of vacation time I’d earned?
“Those hours don’t qualify for payout,” she said.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice. I just opened my laptop.
Three years in middle management had taught me one thing: the rules matter—especially when companies hope you don’t read them.
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