That morning, everything was as usual. I was the first to arrive at the office, turned on the computers, brewed coffee for my colleagues—just as I had done for the last ten years. An office manager is almost like the mother of a big corporate family. At least, that’s always what I believed.
The monitor was predictably glowing with open spreadsheets. The quarterly report, the vacation schedule, the office supply order—everything demanded my attention. I took a lunch container out of my bag: I’d have to eat lunch at my computer again, there was just too much work.
“Elena, come into my office,”—the boss’s voice came through the intercom sounding strange. Usually, Sergey Petrovich always added “please,” but not today. In his office, the scent of coffee mingled with something else—perhaps tension? Seated at his desk was an unfamiliar woman in a strict suit. “From HR,” I realized, and something inside me clenched.
“Have a seat,” Sergey Petrovich said, avoiding eye contact. “Elena, you are an excellent employee, but… the company is forced to downsize. I’m sorry, but you are being laid off.” I looked at his graying temples, the folder of documents on his desk, the perfectly neat stack of papers—probably my “severance package.” Ten years of service shrunk down to a few sheets of A4.
“But how… I have a project… and the quarterly report…” words spilled out on their own, meaningless, unnecessary.
“We’ll transfer everything to another employee,” the woman from HR was saying something about compensation, recommendation letters, and the termination procedure. I nodded, not hearing a single word.
Marina from accounting peeked into the office:
“Len, there’s a courier out there…”
“I’ll take care of it,” Sergey Petrovich looked at me for the first time. “Elena, you can pack your things. Security will see you out.”
Pack my things. As if ten years of life could simply be packed away in a cardboard box. The photograph of Marina’s children on the monitor—I had been at their christenings. The cactus that the girls and I had bought for March 8th. The mug that read “Best Manager”—a gift from my colleagues on my last birthday.
“Lena…” Marina stood in the doorway, flustered. “Maybe some tea?”
I shook my head. Inside, I felt empty and cold, as if someone had turned off the light in a room I knew so well.
Security guard Vitya— with whom I had shared countless morning coffees—awkwardly shifted from foot to foot:
“Let me help you with the box.”
Outside, it was drizzling. The gray sky, the gray faces of passersby, the gray emptiness inside. I stood on the office steps, clutching the box containing ten years of my life, not knowing where to go.
The phone vibrated—Andrey, my husband.
“Yes?”
“Where are you? Don’t forget to buy coffee—the house is out.”
“Andrey, I’ve been fired.”
A pause. Only the sound of rain and honking cars.
“What do you mean, fired?”
“Downsizing…” I tried to speak calmly, but my voice trembled.
“Come home,” he sighed. “We’ll talk.”
At home, Andrey sat on the sofa, buried in his phone. He didn’t even look up as I entered.
“So, what are you going to do now?” His voice sounded irritated, as if I had deliberately arranged this layoff just to ruin his evening.
“I don’t know… Maybe I’ll look for something similar…”
“Well, are you just going to stand there? Maybe it’s time to look for a new job? Do you think I’m supposed to carry you on my back?”
I stared at my husband, not recognizing the man with whom I had spent twelve years. Where was the Andrey who promised he would always support me? Who vowed to be by my side in good times and bad?
“I’m tired,” I said quietly. “Can we talk tomorrow?”
He shrugged without taking his eyes off his phone:
“Tomorrow is tomorrow. Just don’t forget, the apartment mortgage won’t pay itself.”
I lay awake, listening to his steady breathing beside me. My mind swirled with fragments of thoughts: a resume, interviews, bills, the mortgage… And above all—how had I not noticed that I was now alone? Not only without a job—without support, without understanding, without love.
Morning greeted me with a new reality: now I was unemployed. At thirty-five. With a mortgage and a husband who considered me a burden.
I turned on my computer and opened a job website. “Office Manager, experience of at least 3 years, age up to 30…” The lines blurred before my eyes.
The phone chimed with a message from Andrey: “Don’t forget to pay the internet bill.”
And then I cried— for the first time that day. Not because of work, not because of money. But because I realized: I had lost not only my position. I had lost myself.
Two weeks passed. Every morning I woke at seven—a habit I couldn’t shake. But now, instead of preparing for work, I spent hours at my computer sending out resumes. “Experience – 10 years,” I typed, and then paused: had this advantage suddenly become a disadvantage?
A call from yet another employer found me with a cup of cold coffee.
“Elena, thank you for applying. Your experience is impressive, but… we are looking for a younger employee. You understand, we have a dynamic team…”
I understood. At thirty-five, I was suddenly too old for my former job and not qualified enough for a new one. What irony.
“Maybe you should try something else?” Andrey stood in the doorway, watching me close yet another job listing tab. “I don’t understand—are you just standing there? Maybe it’s time to look for a new job? Do you think I should carry you around?”
He was right—money doesn’t smell. Yet his words always left me feeling broken inside.
The next day, I took a job at a call center. Temporary, I told myself. Just so I wouldn’t sit at home, so I could contribute to the mortgage, so I wouldn’t feel that condemning look from my husband.
“Hello, my name is Elena, how can I help you?” I repeated that phrase hundreds of times during my shift. Clients screamed, demanded a manager, hung up abruptly. And I smiled into the microphone—we were taught that a smile can be heard in one’s voice.
“How was your first day?” Andrey asked in the evening, not taking his eyes off the TV.
“Fine,” I lied as I took off my shoes. My head buzzed with endless responses.
“See, it’s not that terrible,” he said, switching channels. “The main thing is to be busy.”
Busy. As if work were just a way to pass the time. As if it didn’t matter that inside I was crumbling from humiliation every time a client called me “a girl” and demanded to be connected to a manager.
One evening, I stayed late at the store—buying groceries for the week. When I got home, I heard Andrey’s voice from the kitchen. He was on the phone, apparently talking to a friend:
“Yes, my dear, she’s still looking for herself. She should at least look in the mirror. She only managed to get a job at a call center, can you imagine? After working in an office for ten years, she thought she was indispensable. And now—real life…” I froze in the hall; the groceries slipped from my hands. A milk carton shattered, and a white puddle spread across the floor. Andrey looked out at the noise:
“What are you rummaging around for? And what’s this mess? I have to clean up after you…”
“Sorry for disappointing you,” my voice sounded uncharacteristically calm. “Maybe you should look for someone more successful?”
He looked surprised:
“What? Were you eavesdropping on my conversation with Dimka?”
“No, I just came home. To my home. Where, it turns out, I live with someone who is ashamed of me.”
“Stop with the drama, Lena,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Better get cleaning.”
I stared at the white puddle on the floor and thought: that’s the metaphor for my life. Everything had spilled, soaked in, and now needed to be wiped away. Or maybe, I just needed to get up and leave.
At the call center, I began to notice other “temporary” employees. The woman at the next desk, Vera, turned out to be a former accountant. “I couldn’t find a job in my field for three months,” she explained during a break. “My husband left, my kids are in college, and there’s no real choice. We’re already considered old by employers.” I looked at her and saw my possible future. Another year here, then two. Getting used to the shouting in the headphones, to the fact that temporary becomes permanent.
That evening, I stood for a long time in front of the bathroom mirror. “At least look at yourself,” Andrey’s words rang in my ears. I looked. I saw tired eyes, new wrinkles at the corners of my lips, a gray hair at my temple. When did I stop smiling? When did I start slumping? When did I allow myself to become a shadow?
The phone rang with a message from a former colleague: “Hi! How are you? Maybe we can meet up?”
I didn’t answer. What could I possibly say? How do I explain that I wake up in a cold sweat at the thought of tomorrow’s shift? That I count every penny until my next paycheck? That my husband tells his friends I’m “looking for myself,” as if it were some mere whim?
That night, I dreamed of our first apartment with Andrey—a rented one-room on the outskirts. We were young, poor, and happy. I worked as an administrator in a beauty salon, he as a manager in a car dealership. We dreamed of something bigger, made plans. When did it all change? When did success become more important than support? When did we stop being a team?
The next morning, I overslept. For the first time in two weeks at the call center. The shift supervisor greeted me with a disapproving look:
“Elena, this is unacceptable. We have a strict schedule.”
“Sorry,” I tried to smile. “It won’t happen again.”
“I hope not. And one more thing—the clients have complained. You’re processing calls too slowly.”
I put on my headset. “Hello, my name is Elena…” My voice faltered. The smile in my voice just wasn’t coming through. The clients could sense it—the calls were becoming increasingly difficult.
By lunchtime, I realized: I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t. I took off the headset, packed my things. The shift supervisor shouted something after me, but I couldn’t hear him anymore.
Outside, it was raining—just like the day I was fired. I trudged through puddles, not paying attention to the road. In my pocket, the phone vibrated—it was Andrey.
“Yes?”
“Where are you? At work? What’s all that noise?”
“I’m not going back there.”
“What do you mean, not going back? And the money? The mortgage?”
“I don’t know, Andrey. I just don’t know.”
He was silent. Then he said tiredly:
“Come home. We’ll talk.”
But I didn’t go home. I got on the first bus I saw and just rode along, staring out the window at the city blurred by rain. Inside, there was an emptiness—the same emptiness that is scarier than any shout, any humiliation. The emptiness of a person who has lost not only their job, but also themselves.
The phone rang again. This time—it was Anya, a friend from college. We hadn’t seen each other in several months—since that birthday where I boasted about my stable job and successful life.
“Hello?”
“Lena, hi! I just heard… Anyway, how about we meet?”
I looked out the bus window. The rain had stopped.
“Okay,” I said. “Right now.”
We met at a small café near the center. I hadn’t been here before—it was too expensive for an unemployed person, but Anya insisted: “My treat.”
She hadn’t changed at all—still with bright lipstick, a ringing laugh, a confident gaze. Only now, at the corners of her eyes, were the wrinkles that age reveals, no matter how much you hide it.
“Tell me everything,” she said, moving a cup of cappuccino with the perfect latte art closer to me.
And I told her everything. About being fired, the endless interviews, the call center. About Andrey and his conversations with friends. About the emptiness inside.
“You know,” Anya said thoughtfully while stirring her sugar, “I went through that too. Two years ago.”
I looked up in surprise. Anya—the successful event manager, who owned her own agency, always seemed so self-assured.
“Remember when I worked in a bank? Head of department, stable salary, benefits—the whole nine yards. And then—a downsizing. At forty. I thought life was over.”
She smiled and took a glossy brochure out of her bag:
“And then I got into this.”
“A personal growth masterclass?”
I looked skeptically at the bright cover. My God, what nonsense. I never imagined she’d be into that kind of thing:
“Anya, you know. I don’t believe in that! It’s just motivational rubbish.”
“I didn’t believe it either,” she shrugged. “But I had nothing to lose. Come with me? This evening. It’s on me.”
The hall was full—about fifty people, at least. I sat there, cradling a glass of water in my hands, feeling out of place. Around me were people just as lost as I was. Well, except for my friend.
Then the speaker took the stage. A tall woman, about fifty years old, in a simple black dress.
“My name is Marina,” she said, looking at us. Her voice was deep. Calm.
“And I know why you are here,” Marina continued. “Each of you has lost something important. Isn’t that right? A job. Confidence. Purpose. But I want to ask you: What if this isn’t a loss? What if it’s a gift?”
I snorted. A gift? Seriously?
“Ten years ago I was a successful financial director,” Marina continued. “And then I was fired. And do you know what I realized? I had never lived my own life. I lived by others’ expectations. I did what I had to, not what I wanted.”
Something inside me trembled. It was as if someone had voiced a thought I was afraid to admit.
“Losses aren’t the end,” Marina swept her gaze across the hall. “They are a chance to start anew. If you have been fired—ask yourself: Have you been living as you wanted? Have you been doing what you dreamed of?”
I remembered my first course at the university. How my eyes sparkled when I organized student parties. How I dreamed of opening my own agency. When did I stop dreaming?
After the masterclass, Anya and I sat in the same café. It was late, but I didn’t want to leave.
“You know,” Anya said, gazing out the window at the twinkling lights of the night city, “when I started my agency, everyone shook their heads. My husband left—couldn’t handle my ‘adventures.’ My parents said I was crazy. And yet, for the first time in my life, I was doing what I wanted.”
“And you don’t regret it?”
“What? Regret pretending? Regret finally living my own life?”
At home I returned after midnight. Andrey was waiting in the kitchen:
“Where have you been? Your phone was off—I was worried!”
“Really worried?” I looked him in the eyes. “Or afraid that your failure-prone wife would do something stupid?”
“Lena, stop…”
“No, you stop,” a surge rose within me—not anger, but determination. “You know what I realized today? I’m not a failure. I’m just a person who lost herself. But I’m going to find myself.”
“And how do you plan to do that?” His tone carried its usual irony.
I smiled:
“You’ll see.”
That night, for the first time in a long while, I slept peacefully. And in the morning, I opened my laptop and typed into the search engine: “Event management courses.”
It was time to return to my dream.
“What is that?” Andrey looked at my laptop screen, which had the payment page for the courses open.
“I signed up for an event management course,” I tried to speak calmly, even though my heart was pounding. “A three-month course with practical training.”
“Courses? Seriously? That’s nonsense. How much did you pay?” He scrutinized the numbers and whistled. “Have you lost your mind? That’s equivalent to two months’ salary from the call center! Money, you never earned it!”
“I took part of the money from my savings.”
“From which savings? The ones we were setting aside for renovations?”
I took a deep breath:
“No, from the money I saved from my salary. It’s my money, Andrey.”
“What do you mean, your money? Maybe you should start earning properly already! What courses? You’re thirty-five!”
“Exactly,” I closed my laptop. What’s the point of arguing? “I’m thirty-five! Do you think I forgot that? I no longer want to live someone else’s life.”
He cursed and left the room with a slammed door. And I reopened my laptop and paid for the courses. Five minutes later, the student’s dashboard on GetCourse opened. I opened the learning materials and immersed myself in reading.
The courses proved to be intensive. Every evening—lectures; every weekend—practical work. I learned to prepare estimates, to work with contractors, to create event concepts. Everything that once seemed a distant dream was becoming reality.
“Look,” I showed Andrey my first project—a boho-style wedding concept. “What do you think?”
“Beautiful,” he shrugged. “But who will order that? You have no experience.”
His words no longer hurt. I had learned to perceive them as fear—his fear of change, of risk, of something new.
And then something unexpected happened. Anya offered me a chance to help organize small events at her agency.
“This will be your practice,” she said. “Unpaid,” she warned, “but with invaluable experience.”
I agreed without hesitation. Now, after the online lectures, I rushed off to meetings with clients, prepared technical assignments, coordinated the work of decorators and photographers.
One evening I returned home late—we were preparing for a wedding exhibition. Andrey was sitting in the kitchen:
“Maybe stop playing the businesswoman? You can’t even cook dinner! You could, at least, if you weren’t not contributing financially…”
“I’m not playing,” I said, taking a container of salad from the fridge. “I’m learning something new.”
“And what about the family? Or is that not important anymore?”
I looked at him intently—as if for the first time:
“You know what matters? Being happy. I want to wake up every morning thinking that I’m doing what I love. I want to be proud of myself. I want to grow.”
“And what about me? Don’t my desires matter?”
“What do you want, Andrey? For me to go back to the call center? To continue feeling like a failure?”
He fell silent. And suddenly I realized: we hadn’t truly talked in such a long time. Not about everyday trivialities. Not about bills. But about life. About what truly matters.
The exhibition was a hit. I met industry professionals. I collected contacts. I received my first offers.
“You have talent,” Anya said as we dismantled the decorations. “You notice the details, feel the style. And most importantly—you burn for it.”
At home I told Andrey about my successes. He listened silently, then asked:
“And how much did you earn from it?”
“Nothing yet,” I smiled. “But it’s only the beginning.”
“The beginning of what? A new life? You’re almost forty, and you’re talking about a beginning?” His voice was bitter.
“Maybe,” I looked him in the eyes. “I’m changing, Andrey. And that’s perfectly fine.”
That evening, for the first time in a long while, we spoke openly. About our fears. About our dreams. About how we had changed over the years. He admitted that he was afraid of change. He was used to stability. And he didn’t know how to live differently.
And I realized: sometimes you need to let go of the old to start a new chapter. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s scary. Even if someone doesn’t believe in you.
Because the most important thing is to believe in yourself.
“Lena, it’s perfect!” Masha, Anya’s friend, hugged me after the children’s party I organized for her daughter. “The kids loved it, the parents were happy, everything went like clockwork!”
I looked at the joyful faces of the children, at the photo booth with balloons, at the costumed entertainers—everything that existed only in my mind a month ago had become real.
“How much do I owe you?” Masha asked, pulling out her wallet.
“No, no—it’s my gift,” I shook my head. “Consider it my trial project.”
“Not a chance!” she resolutely extended an envelope to me. “These are honestly earned dollars. I’ve already recommended you to my colleague—she has a corporate event coming up soon.”
I flew home as if on wings. In my bag lay an envelope with my first fee, on my phone—three new contacts of potential clients, and in my soul—a feeling that was indescribable: I can do it. I’m succeeding.
Andrey sat in the living room, as usual, absorbed in his phone.
“Can you believe it? I did it!” I began recounting the party, the guests’ reactions, the new orders.
“Yeah,” he barely looked up, “is that how you’re going to support the family? With children’s parties?”
His words hit harder than I expected. Not because I doubted my choice, but because I suddenly realized with crystal clarity: he will never change. He will never support me. He will never be happy about my successes.
“You know, Andrey,” I sat down across from him, “I’ve long wondered: when did you stop loving me?”
He finally looked up from his phone:
“What nonsense is that? What does that have to do with anything?”
“With the fact that a loving person rejoices in the other’s success. Supports. Believes. And you… you’re just waiting for me to fail.”
“You’re being unfair,” his voice hardened. “I’ve always cared about us, about our stability…”
“Stability,” I bitterly smiled. “You know what I’ve realized over these months? Stability is not a dead point where you must remain frozen. It’s an opportunity to grow, to change, to try something new…”
“And now you think you’re an expert on life?” he stood up, towering over me. “You spent three months playing event organizer and think you’ve got it all figured out?”
“No,” I too stood up. “I learned one thing: I no longer want to be convenient. I don’t want to live up to someone else’s expectations. I don’t want to ask for permission to live my own life.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means I’m leaving.”
Silence rang in my ears. Andrey looked at me as if seeing me for the first time:
“You won’t do that. Where will you go? How will you live?”
“I’ll rent a place. I have some savings and a few initial orders. I’ll manage.”
“You’re crazy,” he shook his head. “It’s all because of your courses, your friend Anya with her ideas…”
“No, Andrey. It’s me. The real me—the one you stopped noticing many years ago.”
I went to the bedroom and began packing my clothes. My hands trembled, but inside there was a surprising clarity. As if I had been walking in the dark for a long time and finally seen the light.
Andrey stood in the doorway, watching me pack my clothes into a suitcase:
“You’ll regret this.”
“Maybe,” I zipped up my suitcase. “But you know what I’ll definitely regret? Spending one more day afraid to be myself.”
In the morning, I moved into a small rented apartment not far from the center. Sitting on the floor amidst the boxes, I felt… free for the first time in ages.
The phone buzzed with a message—a new client, a serious order for a corporate event.
I smiled: sometimes you have to lose everything to find yourself. And that really becomes the best gift fate can give.
A year later, I was sitting in my small office—a bright studio in the city center where I met with clients. On the walls hung photographs from the events I organized, on the desk fresh flowers and a laptop with a calendar scheduled months ahead.
“Elena, your clients are here,” Katya, my assistant, peeked into the office. A twenty-two-year-old graduate, she had come to intern with me three months ago and stayed on. She said she had never seen anyone so passionate about their work.
That evening, after meetings and calls, I stayed late at the office. I took out an old photograph—the one from the corporate event when I was still an office manager. How long ago that was. It seemed like a different life.
The phone vibrated—a message from Andrey. The first in half a year:
“You were right. I’m sorry.”
I stared at the screen, remembering our last conversation, his words that I would regret it. I didn’t regret it. Every day was filled with new challenges, yet for the first time I felt alive.
“Thank you for not supporting me back then,” I wrote in response. “It turned out to be the best gift fate could give.”
The next day, we organized a charity event at an orphanage. It became a tradition—to organize an event once a month for those who can’t afford it.
“Look, here they come!” a little girl named Tonya showed me a drawing: a bright sun, flowers, and smiling faces. “This is the best birthday ever!”
I hugged the girl, feeling tears well up in my eyes. That was real happiness. Not in stability, not in someone else’s approval, but in the ability to do what you love and see it change others’ lives.
That evening, Anya and I sat in that same café where, a year ago, she had invited me to the masterclass.
“Remember how scared you were?” she smiled, stirring her coffee.
“I remember. Every day was like a leap into the void.”
At a nearby table, a young woman was quietly crying, absorbed in her phone. I recognized that look—lost, frightened. It was the same look I had a year ago.
“Excuse me,” I approached her. “Are you okay?”
She looked up through tearful eyes:
“I got fired today. Ten years of service, and that’s it…”
I handed her my business card:
“You know, a year ago I was in your place. And it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Come by my office tomorrow. Let’s talk.”
At home, I opened the diary I had started after being fired. The first entries were filled with despair and fear. The later ones—plans and dreams. And somewhere in between was the moment I realized: there is no wrong age for change, no wrong time to dream.
The phone rang—a major client, an order for a series of corporate events. My hands used to shake at such calls. Now, I simply opened my laptop and began jotting down the details.
Outside, darkness fell. In the small, cozy apartment I now called home, a warm light burned. On the wall hung a painting gifted by grateful clients: a dandelion with seeds blowing in the wind. Symbolic.
I approached the window. The city shone with lights, full of opportunities and stories. Somewhere out there was my former life—the office with the cactus on the monitor, the despised job, the husband who never believed in me. And here, now—I was real. Alive. Happy.
The phone buzzed again—this time, a message from an unknown number:
“Hello! You come highly recommended as an event organizer. We have a wedding in three months…”
I smiled. A year ago, those words would have frightened me. Now, they sounded like music—the music of a new life I had built myself. Without fear, without regrets, without worrying about others’ expectations.
Because sometimes you have to lose everything to find yourself. And that truly becomes the best gift of fate.
Life doesn’t begin at twenty or thirty. It begins at the moment you decide to be yourself. Even if that happens at thirty-five. Or forty.
