Lost my job at 35: what Rico did in the first week

The meeting took eleven minutes. The logistics company Rico had worked for in Cavite for nine years was cutting costs, and his warehouse team was being merged with another site. His supervisor post was gone. Someone from HR slid a folder across the table and said, "We're really sorry, Rico." He said thank you, because he didn't know what else to say.

He said thank you, because he didn't know what else to say.

He drove out of the gate at two in the afternoon and didn't go home. He parked at a fast-food place near the highway, ordered a coffee and sat there until six, the time he usually left work. Then he drove home, ate dinner with his wife, Joanne, and their two kids, and said work was fine.

He did the same thing the next day, and the day after. Each afternoon he opened job sites on his phone, scrolled, closed them and stared at the parking lot. He was 35, with a car loan and a son about to start Grade 1. One question kept circling: "Paano ko sasabihin?"

On the third night, Joanne asked why his uniform never seemed to need washing anymore. He tried to laugh it off. Then he put his head in his hands at the dinner table, and the kids were sent to watch TV.

For Rico, the job was more than a paycheck. It was how he provided, how he answered "Ano'ng trabaho mo?" at family gatherings, and how he measured whether he was a good husband and father. When it ended, it felt like all of those went with it.

Shame made him hide. He was afraid Joanne would be disappointed, afraid his parents would worry, afraid his brother-in-law would bring it up at the next birthday. Hiding took energy, and the energy came out of his sleep. He was awake at three most nights, doing math in his head.

The fear ran ahead of the facts. In his mind, one layoff became months without work, then missed payments, then the kids changing schools. None of it had happened. All of it felt certain at three in the morning.

He also felt lost. For nine years his days had a clear shape: alarm, commute, warehouse, home. Now the days had no edges, and he had no idea where to start.

Telling Joanne was the turning point. She cried a little, then went to get a notebook. "Okay," she said. "Ano'ng meron tayo?" Nothing was solved that night. Rico still slept through until morning for the first time in three days.

The notebook helped too. Together they wrote down what they had: his final pay, a little savings, Joanne's salary as a teacher. Then what they owed each month, and what could wait. Seeing the real numbers was scary, and it was smaller than the version in his head. If they were careful, they had about four months.

Seeing the real numbers was scary, and it was smaller than the version in his head.

Next, Rico gave his days a shape again. He woke at the usual time, had coffee outside, and treated the job hunt like a shift. Mornings were for applications and messages to old contacts. Afternoons were for something useful at home, like fixing the gate he had ignored for a year. He stopped at five.

He told people, which was the hardest part. He messaged a former boss, two batchmates and the men's group at church: "Na-lay off ako. If you hear of anything in logistics or warehouse ops, I'm looking." Two people replied the same day. One sent a lead. Another just wrote, "Kape tayo," and listened for an hour.

He prayed honestly, which for Rico meant admitting he was scared. His pastor reminded him of Lamentations 3:22-23, that God's mercies are new every morning. Rico wrote the reference on the first page of the notebook, above the numbers.

It took eleven weeks. Rico was hired as an operations lead at a smaller company in Laguna, for slightly less pay and a longer drive. Some days he still misses his old team. He also knows now that his worth was never in the job title.

If this happened to you this week, the shock you feel makes sense. Losing a job can shake your sense of who you are, especially when a family depends on you. Give yourself a day to feel it.

Then take one step. Tell the person closest to you. Write down the real numbers. Give tomorrow a simple shape: a wake-up time, a few applications, one message to someone who might know of work, and a time to stop.

If you can't sleep for weeks, you feel hopeless most days, or the worry starts to crowd out everything else, talk to a doctor or counselor. That is a normal next step, and it can make the search easier to carry.

If you want somewhere to start right now, HopeBegins is free. Pick how you feel and you get one small thing to try today, calming tools for the 3 a.m. math, someone to pray for you, and an e-coach you can message on Messenger. If you're unsure where to go from here, I feel lost is a good next page.