Why I’m Glad I Lost That Job (And What I Found Instead)
Or: How Getting Fired Over a Rubber Chicken Led Me to My Actual Purpose
Let me set the scene: I was sobbing into a burrito bowl in my car while rain lashed the windshield, mascara streaking my face like a sad raccoon warrior. I’d just been fired from my “dream job” as a junior marketing exec for a company that sold… wait for it… industrial-grade rubber floor mats. My crime? Allegedly “disrupting workplace harmony” after I replaced my tyrannical boss’s fancy ergonomic chair with an identical one… except mine squeaked like a tortured rubber chicken every time he sat down. For three glorious days.
The Great Squeak Heard ‘Round the Office
Look, Gary (not his real name, but he looked like a Gary) was the human equivalent of unsalted oatmeal. He micromanaged font sizes on internal memos, scheduled 7:30 AM meetings to discuss other meetings, and once emailed me a 17-point critique because I used “kind regards” instead of “warm regards” in a vendor email. My spirit was slowly dying beneath florescent lights and beige cubicle walls.
The chair prank wasn’t premeditated brilliance—it was sleep-deprived desperation. Gary had just rejected my fourth consecutive campaign idea with: “It lacks synergistic viscosity, Jessica.” (I still don’t know what that means. Neither does Google.) That night, while doom-scrolling TikTok at 2 AM, I saw a video of a guy fixing a squeaky door with WD-40. The universe whispered: Do the opposite.
One covert Amazon order, a YouTube tutorial titled “Chair Surgery for the Desperate,” and 45 panic-sweat minutes later… Gary’s throne was weaponized. The first squeak—a sharp, high-pitched HONK—echoed through the open-plan hellscape like a duck giving birth. Gary froze. The entire sales team snapped their heads up like meerkats. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

Day 2: Gary shifted his weight. HONK-WHEEZE-HONK. Someone snorted. Gary’s neck turned burgundy.
Day 3: He tried sitting slowly. Looooong, drawn-out CREAK. A stifled giggle erupted from Accounting. Gary stormed to HR.
HR Linda’s face was pure “I did not get my master’s degree for this.” “Jessica,” she sighed, sliding a severance package across her desk, “we value innovation… but perhaps channel it toward floor mat slogans next time?” My final walk of shame featured Gary’s victorious smirk and the distant, mocking squeak-squeak-squeak of his chair as he sat back down.
Rock Bottom Tastes Like Discount Guacamole
For weeks, I was a pajama-clad goblin. My resume felt like a lie. My bank account whimpered. My mom texted: “Sweetie, maybe try temping? Or… exorcism?” I applied for jobs with the enthusiasm of a cat at bath time. Rejection emails piled up:
- “While your creativity is notable, we seek a more… conventional approach.”
- “We’ve moved forward with candidates whose experience better aligns with our culture of quiet desperation.”
- “Please never contact us again.” (Okay, I made that last one up. But it felt true.)
The lowest point? I took a gig handing out flyers for Gary’s new company (irony, thy name is Linoleum) dressed as “Matilda the Floor Mat Mascot”—a giant, suffocating, beige rectangle. Mid-shift, a toddler kicked my shin, screamed “MONSTER!,” and hid behind his dad. I sat down on the curb (sweating liquid shame inside my costume) and thought: Is this my life? A sweating rectangle feared by children?
The Twist: When the Universe Sends a Sign (Painted on a Dumpster)
Enter Mrs. Petrov. On Day 47 of Unemployment Goblin Mode, I was dragging my recycling bin out when I spotted her struggling with a massive canvas. “Need help?” I croaked (first human words in 48 hours). She blinked at my Cookie Monster pajamas. “Da. Is for art class. Too heavy for old bones.”
I helped her haul it inside her garage-turned-studio—and froze. The space was alive. Canvases burst with wildflowers, half-sculpted dragons erupted from clay, and the air hummed with turpentine and jazz. Mrs. Petrov (call me Anya) was 82, a retired aerospace engineer who’d started painting after her husband died. “Brain needs new wires after 60 years of numbers, yes?” she grinned.
I mentioned my marketing skills were “currently repelling employers like garlic repels vampires.” She gestured at her cluttered desk. “You see this mess? I need… system. But systems bore me. Like Gary?”
“GARY?!”
“Oh, honey,” she waved a paint-splattered hand. “Linda plays bingo with me. We know everything. That chair prank?” She cackled. “Iconic!”
The Unexpected Detour (That Became My Highway)
Anya hired me that afternoon. Not for marketing—but as her “creativity bodyguard.” My job? Help her wrangle the business side of art without killing her joy. No corporate jargon. No synergy. Just: “Make spreadsheets less soul-crushing than Gary’s memos.”
I approached it like a rebellion:
- Turned her commission invoices into illustrated storybooks (“Once upon a time, a lovely lady in Ohio wanted a portrait of her pug… $400 please!”).
- Made her social media actually social—TikToks of her mixing paint with a power drill, Reels debating “Is Cerulean Blue a Snob?”
- Rebranded her Etsy shop as “Anya’s Happy Accidents” with the tagline: Art So Joyful, It Offends Beige People.
It worked. Orders tripled. A viral TikTok of her painting mountains with a spatula (#GrandmaGetsGritty) landed her a collab with an art supply brand. Then, a local gallery featured her as “The 82-Year-Old Rebel Redefining ‘Retirement’.”
The Takeaway: Why Getting Fired Was the Best Career Advice I Never Wanted
Losing that soul-sucking job felt like the apocalypse. Turns out, it was the controlled demolition I needed. Here’s the rubble I rebuilt from:
- Your “Dream Job” Might Be a Nightmare in Disguise: We cling to titles, salaries, and perceived prestige like life rafts. But if you dread Sundays, cry in bathroom stalls, or fantasize about sabotaging office chairs? It’s not a “dream”—it’s a warning. “A paycheck that costs your joy is a bargain with the devil,” Anya says while gluing rhinestones to a canvas.
- Skills Are Transferable. Passion Isn’t: I used marketing to sell boring mats. Now I use it to amplify Anya’s brilliance. Same skills—wildly different purpose. Losing the job forced me to ask: What do I want my skills to DO in the world? Spoiler: Making an 82-year-old artist cackle > making Gary feel powerful.
- Failure Fertilizes Weird, Wonderful Opportunities: Handing out flyers as a sentient floor mat led me to Anya. Getting fired freed me to say “yes” to a bizarre, non-traditional gig. “The universe doesn’t give you a map after it burns your old one,” Anya shrugs. “It gives you paint. And maybe a slightly unhinged mentor.”
- Authenticity is Magnetic (Even When It Squeaks): My chair prank was petty, yes. But it was also human—a scream against soul-crushing conformity. Anya hired me because of my “disruption,” not despite it. People connect with realness, not perfectly polished LinkedIn jargon. Our biggest clients? Businesses run by people who also hate Gary-esque cultures.
- Purpose Doesn’t Wear a Suit (It Might Wear Paint-Splattered Overalls): My “career” now involves sculpting clay dragons, writing invoice fairy tales, and driving Anya to flea markets for “textural inspiration” (old doorknobs, broken clocks, you name it). I earn less than Gary paid me. I’ve never been happier. Purpose isn’t a corner office—it’s knowing your weirdness makes someone else’s life brighter.
So Here I Am: Your Friendly Neighborhood Failure Alchemist
Do I miss corporate healthcare? Sometimes. Do I miss Gary’s weekly lectures on email signature protocol? Not even a little.
Losing that job didn’t just change my career—it changed my definition of success. Success isn’t climbing a ladder toward someone else’s idea of “up.” It’s building your own damn treehouse, decorating it with inside jokes and glitter, and inviting other joyful misfits inside.
Anya just yelled from her studio: “Jessica! The cat knocked over the magenta! It looks like a crime scene… but a happy one! Bring paper towels!” This is my life now. And I wouldn’t trade it—or the ghost of Gary’s squeaky chair—for anything.
Your Turn, Fellow Corporate Escapees & Dream Job Skeptics!
Alright, I’ve shared my shame-to-joy pipeline. Now it’s YOUR turn. What door slammed in your face… only for you to find a wild, wonderful window wide open? Did getting laid off lead you to llama farming? Did a terrible review push you to start that Etsy shop? Spill your “thank god that ended” stories below! Let’s toast to the Garys of the world—without them, we might still be trapped, beige, and silent.
Go on. Share your liberation story. Bonus points if office supplies were weaponized.

Signed,
Anya’s Chaos Coordinator & Recovering Synergy Victim
(Still keeps a tiny rubber chicken on my desk. For inspiration.)