There are moments in modern corporate life so bizarre that your brain does not immediately know where to file them. It tries professionalism first. Then comedy. Then sadness. Then it just opens a new folder called “I hate it here” and drags the entire situation inside.
The other day, I read a post from someone who got laid off by Meta, and the part that made my coffee file for emotional damages was not even the layoff itself. At this point, layoffs have become so common that LinkedIn practically needs a weather report for them.
“Good morning, everyone. Today we are seeing scattered restructurings across tech, with a strong chance of executives saying this was not an easy decision by noon. Expect heavy visibility from senior leaders in the comments, followed by light empathy and zero role transfers.”
No, the part that sent me spiritually into a folding chair was the thank you section.
Because apparently we have reached the stage of corporate America where a person can be removed from payroll, lose access to their laptop, wonder how long severance will stretch, stare at their budget like it just betrayed them in court, and still feel socially obligated to thank the executives who made the “tough decision.”
A tough decision.
Please.
I am sure it was devastating.
Somewhere in a conference room, a group of executives probably stared at a dashboard, watched a number become slightly less luxurious, and sighed with the emotional burden of people who still had calendar invites after the meeting. Someone said, “This is not easy.” Someone else nodded like they were attending a funeral for headcount. Then they approved the reduction, updated the deck, and went directly into another meeting titled “Q3 Strategic Alignment” where the snacks probably had brand names.
Meanwhile, the person who actually lost the job is online writing, “I am so grateful for leadership,” like they got voted off a game show and still had to shake the host’s hand before walking into unemployment with a tote bag full of company swag.
And then the executives appear in the comments.
That is the part that launches me into orbit.
They show up with polished condolences that sound like they were assembled by a grief intern with access to corporate Mad Libs.
“You are an incredible talent.”
“Any team would be lucky to have you.”
“Thank you for everything you contributed.”
“Your impact was meaningful.”
Wonderful.
If any team would be lucky to have them, perhaps we could begin with the team that had them yesterday.
Maybe before writing “onward” under someone’s layoff post, we could check whether there is a role somewhere inside the empire with the same badge scanner, same benefits portal, same Slack workspace, and the same leaders currently collecting applause for being emotionally available in the comment section.
Because nothing says modern employment like getting cut by a company, thanking the people who cut you, and then watching those same people comment with the range of a sympathy card purchased at an airport kiosk.
“Your impact was meaningful.”
Apparently not meaningful enough to survive the spreadsheet séance, but meaningful enough for engagement.
And that, right there, is the strange theater we are all being forced to watch.
Layoffs have become performance art. The employee has to be gracious. The executives have to be visible. The company has to say people are its greatest asset while treating those same people like an expired software license. The only person without a script is the one trying to figure out rent, groceries, health insurance, and why their laptop suddenly feels like evidence.
The Corporate Ritual of Thanking the Guillotine
There is something deeply strange about the emotional etiquette of modern layoffs. It is not enough to lose your job. You must lose it with brand alignment. You must be disappointed, but not bitter. Honest, but not too honest. Vulnerable, but not legally interesting. Professional, but not robotic. Hopeful, but not delusional. Grateful, but somehow not ridiculous.
You must say you are “excited for what is next,” even though what is next may be refreshing your email with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. You must say you are “taking time to reflect,” when in reality you are calculating whether the severance package can survive rent, groceries, gas, student loans, car insurance, and that one medical bill that arrives every month like it owns property in your life.
You must thank your team, which makes sense. Coworkers are often the real reason people survive jobs. Coworkers are the ones who answer panicked messages, cover calls, explain weird systems, decode leadership announcements, and whisper, “No, you are not crazy, that meeting was absolutely insane.” Thanking coworkers is normal. Thanking mentors is normal. Thanking the people who helped you grow is normal.
But thanking the executive class for “making the tough decision” is where the whole thing starts sounding like a hostage video filmed in business casual.
Because the phrase “tough decision” has been carrying corporate nonsense on its back for too long.
Every layoff announcement says it.
“This was a tough decision.”
“This was not easy.”
“We do not take this lightly.”
“We deeply value our people.”
Wonderful. Beautiful. Emotional. Someone call the orchestra.
But here is the problem: the tough decision is not the same as the tough consequence.
One group has the tough decision. The other group has the tough Tuesday when health insurance becomes a math problem. One group has the difficult meeting. The other group has to tell their spouse, their kids, their landlord, their lender, and their nervous system that the income has exited the building. One group says, “We had to make hard choices.” The other group gets a calendar invite called “Quick Sync” and emerges twenty minutes later with a personal brand crisis and a PDF about benefits continuation.
Executives love saying layoffs are hard because it gives the decision an emotional costume. It dresses the spreadsheet in a little velvet jacket and asks us to respect its feelings. But for the people losing their jobs, this is not a leadership exercise. It is not a strategic pivot. It is not a workforce optimization initiative. It is a life interruption with a login expiration date.
And then comes the social pressure.
You cannot simply say, “I got laid off and this sucks.” No, no, no. That would be too human. You have to dress the pain up for LinkedIn like it is attending a networking gala.
“I am grateful for my time at the company.”
“I learned so much.”
“I will miss the incredible people.”
“I am excited for my next chapter.”
And listen, some people mean that. Some people genuinely are grateful. Some people had good experiences and want to leave with kindness. That is valid. That is their story.
But there is a difference between genuine gratitude and corporate survival language. There is a difference between choosing grace and feeling forced to perform gratitude because every recruiter, hiring manager, former coworker, executive, and LinkedIn lurker may be watching how well you bleed in public.
That is what bothers me.
Not the professionalism. Professionalism has its place. Not the kindness. Kindness matters. Not the gratitude toward good people. That is real.
What bothers me is the invisible pressure that says even after a company lets you go, you must protect its feelings more carefully than it protected your livelihood.
You have to be careful not to sound angry. Careful not to sound resentful. Careful not to sound like a “bad culture fit.” Careful not to say anything that might scare the next employer, because apparently the job market wants authenticity only when it is inspirational, sanitized, and ends with “onward.”
So people write thank you notes to the guillotine.
They thank the blade for its leadership.
They thank the platform for the opportunity to be professionally decapitated.
They thank the decision makers for teaching them resilience, which is corporate language for “you now need to develop new survival skills because someone else protected a margin.”
And somehow, the whole internet claps politely.
The Executives in the Comments Wearing Empathy Like a Rented Tuxedo
The executive comment section under a layoff post deserves its own museum exhibit.
It should be behind glass.
There should be a plaque that reads: “Here we observe senior leadership attempting humanity after payroll separation.”
Because the comments are always just polished enough to sound heartfelt and just vague enough to avoid responsibility.
“You are a rockstar.”
Then why is the rockstar unemployed?
“You made such an impact here.”
Then why did the impact lose building access?
“Any company would be lucky to have you.”
Great. Could someone please alert the company that literally had them?
“You will land somewhere amazing.”
That is nice, but rent does not accept vibes, and grocery stores have not yet installed a payment option called “executive confidence.”
These comments are treated like compassion, but often they are really visibility management. They are tiny public empathy receipts. A leader can appear supportive without actually changing anything. They can give the impression of advocacy without making a referral, opening a door, connecting the person to an internal role, extending benefits, pushing back on the decision, or using even one ounce of their influence in a way that costs them something.
It is empathy without inconvenience.
And corporate America loves empathy when it does not require action.
That is why “onward” has become one of the most suspicious words in the professional language. It sounds inspiring until you realize it often means, “Please move forward quickly so the rest of us can stop feeling awkward.”
Onward.
What a tidy little word.
It puts a bow on chaos. It sweeps grief into a motivational poster. It turns a layoff into a hiking trail. It says, “Yes, your financial stability just caught fire, but have you considered personal growth?”
Onward is what people say when they want your pain to become visually pleasing.
Meanwhile, the person being encouraged onward is updating a resume that will immediately be uploaded into an applicant tracking system and then retyped into forty seven separate fields because apparently technology has advanced enough to eliminate jobs but not enough to read a PDF.
They are writing cover letters to companies that will ghost them with the emotional range of a printer error. They are answering questions like, “Why are you interested in this role?” when the honest answer is, “Because I enjoy electricity and shelter.” They are doing recorded video interviews where they smile into a webcam at nobody, like a hostage trying to impress a ring light.
And above all of this, the executive comment remains.
“You are an incredible talent.”
That comment does not pay COBRA.
That comment does not replace the paycheck.
That comment does not explain why the same company posting about innovation, community, belonging, and human centered leadership could not find a single place for a person they publicly claim is remarkable.
There is a special kind of corporate absurdity in watching leaders praise the people their companies just eliminated. It is like watching someone knock over your house and then compliment your furniture arrangement.
“Beautiful home. Any neighborhood would be lucky to have this architecture.”
Sir, you are holding the bulldozer keys.
And no, I am not saying every executive is evil. I am not saying every layoff is avoidable. Businesses change. Markets shift. Budgets tighten. Strategies fail. Companies overhire. Investors panic. Forecasts collapse. Sometimes reductions happen because the math really does not work.
Fine.
But can we please stop pretending executives are wounded poets?
Can we stop treating the decision makers as if they are the primary emotional victims of the decision?
Can we stop applauding comments that say someone is talented while doing nothing to help that talent land somewhere safe?
Because it is not enough to be sad publicly. It is not enough to comment warmly. It is not enough to say, “Please let me know how I can help,” when the person has already been forced into the professional wilderness.
Help has verbs.
Refer. Recommend. Introduce. Advocate. Hire. Extend. Sponsor. Share. Connect. Endorse. Open a role. Make a call. Write the message. Push the resume. Use the influence.
A comment is not support if it ends where your visibility ends.
People Are Not Greatest Assets When You Treat Them Like Expired Subscriptions
Companies love saying people are their greatest asset.
They say it on career pages. They say it in town halls. They say it in onboarding videos where everyone is smiling near glass walls. They say it in values statements. They say it in leadership retreats. They say it right before someone gets a meeting invite with no agenda and a human resources representative they have never met before.
People are our greatest asset.
That sentence has done more unpaid labor than most employees.
Because if people are truly the greatest asset, why are they so often the first line item sacrificed when the spreadsheet gets moody? Why are employees described as family until the family budget meeting, when suddenly everyone becomes a cost center with a badge photo? Why are companies so eager to call employees owners of the mission but so quick to remind them they own nothing when the headcount list arrives?
There is a language problem in corporate America, and it is not accidental.
Layoffs are rarely called layoffs anymore. They are restructurings, realignments, workforce adjustments, organizational changes, strategic reductions, efficiency initiatives, transformations, operating model updates, simplification efforts, and occasionally some phrase so sanitized it sounds like a wellness retreat for accountants.
Nobody says, “We cut people.”
They say, “We optimized the organization.”
Nobody says, “We eliminated jobs.”
They say, “We made difficult decisions to align with future priorities.”
Nobody says, “We protected leadership bonuses, investor confidence, or margin expectations.”
They say, “We are positioning the company for long term success.”
And the employee is supposed to translate all of this while packing up their emotional furniture.
This is why the thank you post feels so strange. It exists inside a system where the company controls the language, the process, the timing, the severance terms, the internal announcement, the external optics, the access shutdown, the legal boundaries, the reference policy, and sometimes even the emotional temperature of the departing employee.
The person who lost the job gets one thing.
The post.
And even that post is monitored by invisible expectations.
Say enough to be human, but not enough to be risky. Sound grateful, but not naive. Sound strong, but not cold. Sound open to work, but not desperate. Mention your accomplishments, but do not brag. Mention your layoff, but do not seem bitter. Thank people, but do not expose the machine. Smile with your keyboard. Bleed politely.
That is an exhausting amount of theater for someone who just got professionally ejected.
And we have normalized it so deeply that when someone refuses to perform gratitude, people act uncomfortable.
If someone says, “I am devastated,” everyone becomes a brand consultant.
If someone says, “This hurt me,” someone appears with, “Careful, future employers might see this.”
If someone says, “Leadership failed,” someone whispers, “You do not want to burn bridges.”
Burn bridges?
Some people are standing in the ashes of a bridge that was burned from the other side, and they are still being told to send a thank you card to the arsonist because networking matters.
At some point, honesty has to be allowed back into the room.
Not cruelty. Not chaos. Not public meltdowns for sport. But honesty.
People should be allowed to say layoffs hurt.
People should be allowed to say they are scared.
People should be allowed to say the process felt cold.
People should be allowed to appreciate coworkers without applauding executives.
People should be allowed to be professional without becoming a public relations department for their own job loss.
Because the real issue is not that laid off employees show grace. Grace can be powerful. The real issue is that grace has become an expectation placed on the person with the least power in the situation.
The employee must be gracious. The company must be strategic. The executives must be saddened. The recruiters must be vague. The algorithm must be fed. The comments must be inspirational. And somewhere in the middle of this circus, a human being is trying to remember who they are outside a job title.
That is the part we keep skipping.
A layoff is not just an employment event. It can become an identity event. A financial event. A family event. A mental health event. A confidence event. A “why did I give so much to a place that removed me in fifteen minutes” event.
You do not just update your resume.
You update your budget.
You update your routines.
You update your sense of safety.
You update the way you answer, “So what do you do?”
You update your entire relationship with loyalty.
And that deserves more than a comment saying, “Cheering you on.”
Final Thoughts: You Can Be Grateful Without Polishing the Knife
So to everyone who has been laid off and still found the grace to be professional, I respect you.
Truly.
Because that kind of restraint takes strength. It takes discipline to choose your words carefully when your life has been rearranged by people who will still have inbox access tomorrow. It takes emotional maturity to thank coworkers, honor good memories, and avoid burning the entire corporate village down even when someone handed you a metaphorical torch and a very reasonable motive.
But please remember this.
You do not have to write a thank you note to the guillotine.
You can be grateful for your coworkers without applauding the spreadsheet.
You can appreciate the experience without pretending the ending was noble.
You can say goodbye without polishing the knife.
You can thank the people who supported you without praising the people who removed you.
You can be professional without being performative.
You can be kind without making your pain more comfortable for the audience.
And you can absolutely move forward without calling the people who pushed the button brave.
Because bravery is not sitting in a conference room saying, “This is hard,” while someone else has to go home and explain that the paycheck stopped.
Bravery is getting up the next morning when your confidence is limping. Bravery is applying again after being rejected by systems that cannot even spell your name correctly. Bravery is showing up to interviews with a smile while your nervous system is sitting in the back seat wearing a helmet. Bravery is rebuilding after a company turned your life into a line item and then asked everyone to stay aligned.
Comments are nice.
Referrals are better.
Open roles are better.
Introductions are better.
Severance is better.
Extended benefits are better.
Honest communication is better.
Not calling it a family before the family meeting is also better.
And if executives really believe someone is an incredible talent, then prove it with something stronger than a LinkedIn condolence wrapped in leadership cologne. Make the call. Send the email. Move the resume. Open the door. Put your title to work. Spend some of that influence you keep telling everyone you earned.
Because the world does not need more executives entering layoff posts wearing empathy like a rented tuxedo on the stage.
It needs leaders willing to do something after the applause.
Until then, forgive me if I do not stand up and clap every time someone writes, “This was a tough decision.”
The decision may have been tough.
But the consequence went home with someone else.
