I'll Fall Apart Later

The day my career ended and I had a little league game at 4PM.

March 3rd, 2026.

It was a Tuesday.

My VP added a Teams meeting to my calendar the day before. Titled “Check-In.” We were due for bonus conversations, so I assumed that’s what it was.

I could not have been more wrong.

No warning.

No signs.

The moment I joined the call and saw HR on the screen, my stomach dropped.

My heart started pounding. I still didn’t know what was coming, but I knew it wasn’t good.

She read from a script. My position was being eliminated. Whatever came after that could have been another language. Nothing was coherent after “position eliminated.” And before I could process it, she dropped off the call.

There I was…alone with HR.

Just here today, gone tomorrow.

Ten years of friendships, culture, people I managed, relationships built over eight-hour days in the trenches. The kind where people end up knowing you better than some of your own family. One breakup is hard enough. This felt like ten at once.

And before I could even register it, it was gone. Did that really just happen?

Do I call my husband?

No. I’ll fall apart.

Do I tell my team?

No. I’ll fall apart.

Breathe.

Head down. Focus.

I lose network access by 6PM. It’s 10:30AM. My son’s baseball game is at 4PM. I’m already leaving early.

The clock is running.

Breathe.

Flash drive. Check. Ten years of files, pictures, folders. Comb through everything. Save what’s mine.

By 1PM, every name on my team chat had gone red except mine. They were all talking about me. And then the pings started.

Daniela, I just heard. No words.

Daniela, I’m in shock.

Yeah. Me too.

I couldn’t respond. The moment I responded, I’d fall apart. So I kept my head down.

Breathed. Kept moving.

At 2PM I sent my goodbye letter. Graceful exit while dying inside.

Then I called my husband.

He’s the head coach. First game of the season, the one that sets the tone, the one he’d been preparing for weeks. He needed a clear head. I knew that. I’d known it all morning.

I called anyway. I held it as long as I could.

And then I fell apart.

He showed up. He always does.

I got to the field and let the game hold me for 90 minutes. The dirt and the cheering and my kid rounding the bases. The noise of something that had nothing to do with any of it.

He hadn’t brought me this far to drop me now.

But I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

God, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be on my terms.

Here’s what’s true: I wasn’t growing. I was stifled. I’d already been questioning whether this was still the right place for me. Whether I could retire there, or whether I was just too scared to leave.

And somewhere underneath the shock and the rejection, I knew.

This was God’s hand.

It just hadn’t traveled from my head to my heart yet.

I’ve been a believer since 2020. I didn’t fully surrender until September 2025. And since then, everything has been shifting. There were nights I cried out and said: I want to work for You. Something meaningful. Something aligned.

Be careful what you pray for.

The rug came out. The career identity, gone. And in the silence after, something I hadn’t been able to ignore for months got louder.

Write.

A reawakening of something I loved that I had stuffed down. A passion that's lived with me since I was 8. Career. Mom. Wife. A life of drop-offs, practices, games, dinners, errands, friends, and a passion that was forgotten.

Not polished. Not pretty. Not wrapped up. Just true.

They won the game that night.

- No one is too lost to be saved.