Most of us find out the same way.
A message that says “we need to talk.” A restructure announced on a Tuesday like it’s just another update. A diagnosis. A relationship ending. Something you thought was solid... turning out not to be.
In that moment you realise the safety you were counting on wasn’t actually yours. It was on loan. It’s that wall-staring pause. That okay — now what? Then the questions begin: How bad is this? What do I say? How do I get back up?
I’ve been here more than once — redundancy, changing careers, moving on from places I thought were permanent. What I remember most isn’t the moment itself — it’s the time before it: that low-level anxiety of feeling something shift without a clear backup; the pressure to already have an alternative before I’ve even processed what happened.
I keep talking to people in the middle of this right now. And underneath it all is the same sentence: “I did everything right. I followed the plan. And it still wasn’t enough.”
That’s the part nobody warned us about. Because the plan — get qualified, get good, keep delivering — was supposed to keep us safe. And for a while, it did. But maybe it was always a bit of an illusion. COVID, economic pressure, and the rise of AI have just made the cracks impossible to ignore. We aren’t navigating one big disruption. We’re navigating years of them stacked on top of each other with barely any recovery time between.
So when things feel unstable, it’s not you being fragile — the ground really has been shifting.
Recently I read Jason Averbook’s “The Death of Safe Choices.” He argues that the things we were taught were safety — degrees, linear career paths, predictable credentials — have an expiration date printed in invisible ink, while your curiosity never expires. That line stayed with me. Not because it’s a clever phrase — but because it’s uncomfortable. And also a little freeing.
It means the thing worth building isn’t just a better version of the old plan. It’s something different — and it’s something within your control.
Real safety — the kind that actually holds — comes from your own capacity: To learn when things shift. To try something even when you don’t feel ready. To adjust when the plan stops working. To stay curious when you’re scared.
And as Averbook notes, curiosity isn’t just a personality trait — it’s a habit you practice. Follow a thread that interests you before you know where it leads. Learn something adjacent to what you already do because it’s interesting. Explore without needing a plan first. Often, new chapters start that way — with small curiosity-led moves.
There’s a concept called effectuation: start with what you already have — your skills, relationships, knowledge — and ask: What can I do from here? It’s simple, but useful when you feel stuck. You usually have more than you think — you just can’t see it when you’re focused on what’s missing.
Another idea that’s helped me is creative confidence — not creativity as art, but the belief you can try something new, see what happens, and try again. It’s a muscle many of us have let weaken because so many systems reward perfect answers over useful attempts. That muscle doesn’t come back from theory. It comes back through action — small, imperfect, slightly uncomfortable action.
Try something — a conversation, a project, a new way of thinking. It doesn’t have to go well. It just has to happen. Because doing is what restores the belief that you can do. Try. Learn. Adjust. Again.
Here’s something you can do tomorrow: - Write down what you actually have, not what you lack. - Pick one thing you’re curious about — just to explore. - Talk to someone doing something different. - Keep one non-work skill warm. - Ship something small — just to remind yourself you still make things.
Not a master plan. Just motion. Just a loop.
Because the people who land well in change aren’t usually the ones with the best CV or the most certain roadmap. They’re the ones who stayed curious when things felt uncomfortable. Who tried before they felt ready. Who trusted that clarity comes through movement, not before it.
I’m still figuring this out. But I’m less afraid of uncertain moments than I used to be — not because things are safer, but because I stopped waiting for safety outside myself. And because I remembered: trying something new — even small and uncertain — feels better than standing still waiting for the ground to stop moving.