“Re-orged, Ghosted, and Iron-Deficient: A Midlife Job Hunt Odyssey”

Room with a view

Ah, the sweet scent of corporate loyalty being set on fire. That was the perfume I wore in October 2023 when, after only a decade of bleeding Sonos-blue, I was ceremoniously shown the door. Ten years of jamming with the band, leading through chaos, shielding my team from layoffs like a human flak jacket — and poof, just like that, I was part of a new playlist: “Laid Off Legends Volume 12.”

But don’t worry — like any good overachieving GEN-Xer-in-a-boomer-body, I did the responsible thing and immediately jumped into a new job at Netflix. Because clearly, what I needed after a traumatic breakup was to leap straight into another long-term commitment. Emotional recovery? Ha! Who has time for healing when you’ve got KPIs to deliver and imposter syndrome to suppress?

I’m GenX. Raised on Nirvana and nihilism. We don’t process our feelings — we bury them under dry humor and keep going. Because nothing says “healthy life choice” like rebounding with another global tech giant before you've even had a chance to delete your old Zoom backgrounds.

Flash forward to January 2024: I’m on business travel to the US (because, yes, another meeting that could’ve been an email, hooray!) — and surprise! I caught the highly sought-after variant of COVID. Full fever, locked in a hotel room, room service, and chills — the Netflix version of “Survivor: Brain Fog Edition.” Honestly, I think the minibar won.

Spoiler alert: I never fully recovered. Welcome to my new superpowers — chronic fatigue, a concentration span rivaling a goldfish on Adderall, and the memory of a mashed potato. I have all the mental clarity of a toaster oven. Fatigue that hits like a rogue wave. Focus? I’m doing great if I can get through a 20-minute meeting without forgetting why I’m there. Not exactly ideal for someone whose job is literally analyzing performance data.

But no worries — I’ve been reassured by several doctors, all of whom are clearly playing a rousing game of “Pin the Diagnosis on the Exhausted Lady.”

“Maybe it’s iron deficiency!”

“No, wait — menopause!”

“Could be long COVID.”

“Let’s not forget about that pesky Hashimoto’s!”

Cue medical darts thrown at a wall of symptoms.

At this point, I’m pretty sure my treatment plan is being determined by spinning a Wheel of Misfortune.

Wheel of Misfortune.

Here, have some iron pills! Let’s jam an IUD in there too, just for fun! Bleed less, think more — that’s how it works, yes? Want a referral? No, let’s try another blood test. Or maybe some yoga. That should fix your mitochondria and your career, right?

Meanwhile, I’ve become a one-woman HR department, rewriting my CV every other day like a stressed-out intern with access to ChatGPT. I’ve applied to over 100 jobs in the past couple of months. Results? Either dead silence or a cheerful auto-rejection that reads like a breakup text written by a committee.

And the ghost jobs? Oh yeah. Let’s talk about those. You know the ones — reposted every week, never updated, never filled. Are they real? Are they traps? Is someone in Talent Acquisition just lonely?

As for Netflix, well… we’re technically still “together,” but it’s like one of those awkward late-’90s marriages where both people know it’s over, but no one wants to say it out loud. So yeah. I can’t travel every month for a meeting that could have been a GIF. And I definitely can’t do the job in my current state, unless the role of “barely functioning meat robot with Excel access” is officially open.  

A break-up looms on the horizon, and I’m bracing for round two.

So what’s next?

Hell if I know. But if you’re looking to hiring a seasoned GenX pro who’s smart, snarky, and available in 20-minute bursts between naps, hit me up.

Fully updated CV (version 74), dry sense of humor included.

Until then, I’ll just be here, clutching my IUD like a talisman and whispering affirmations to the LinkedIn algorithm.