Headed into my 40th birthday, I had big plans for my “best decade ever,” as I was calling it. After a grand party, I would settle back into my freelance media career, heal from the birth of my second child (recovery had been a bit slower this time round, but I wasn’t worried), and maybe even get to work on a novel. 

Then, two months before the big day, my husband slipped out of his home office, his face ashen. “There’s a chance the company’s going to be laying off a sizable” — emphasis on “sizable,” which probably should have tipped me off — “part of our team.” Mike had never been without work before, and we’d never been without his six-figure job. 

Still glowing from my “40 is the new 20” high, I reassured him, “We know how to get through stuff like this. No need to panic.” 

“Two months before the big day, my husband slipped out of his home office, his face ashen.”

I should have been panicking. My old life had just died, but I didn’t know that yet. 

It’s been two years since that conversation. Mike indeed lost his job, and then his mom a couple of months later. He started his own business, and it’s taken a while to find his footing. I’ve been laid off twice, been chronically sick, and watched AI take a sledgehammer to my industry. For several months, we’ve had to live off savings to afford daily expenses like childcare. It’s been the toughest time we’ve gone through as a couple — which is really saying something. 

Oh, and a couple of days after my birthday party (showing an impressive commitment to punctuality), perimenopause wrapped me in her warm, clammy embrace. 

It took me a long time to reconcile myself to our new reality. Like a musical chairs player, the melody suddenly stopped, and I was the only one left standing. Now what?

When I met Mike in 2009, I was lost at sea. After a tough early life and an aimless young adulthood, I was a frustrated creative in a dead-end job. My life at home mostly consisted of ramen and piles of dirty laundry. I didn’t see a path forward in my life, either professionally or personally. 

Then I met Mike, and he was instantly a safe harbor. The fact that he loved me unconditionally — something no one had ever done before — meant he was literally the best person I’d ever met. Plus, he knew how to do chores and finances. He was deeply competent and seemed to have all the answers. He was a great caretaker, and I needed caretaking.

But I knew it wouldn’t be a permanent solution. “I won’t always need you to take care of me,” I promised him solemnly. From the moment I knew we were serious, I threw myself into adding value in my own way: learning how to cook, taking charge of our self-care and social calendar, making sure we were both going to the doctor and exercising (for myself, a gentle Pilates).

“‘I won’t always need you to take care of me,’ I promised him solemnly. “

He was logical and structured. I was spontaneous and whimsical. And never the twain shall meet — at least, not at first. 

When I decided to actually take the leap and become a writer, Mike was my biggest cheerleader. He even helped me find my first gig, thanks to his late-night Twitter scrolling. My freelancing would never match his impressive tech job, but it was professionally and emotionally fulfilling. Mike was stable, and he didn’t mind feeling stagnant in his job so long as he could support me and then our kids. 

Still, I encouraged him to follow his passions. “I can be the stable one,” I insisted, not totally believing it but wanting to be a true partner to him. 

After the layoff, Mike told me he was taking me up on my offer: He wanted to be an executive coach. That would mean years — three, if his calculations were correct — of building his own business from scratch. He needed as much runway as I could give him so he could take off. 

This would be a totally new level of responsibility. But Mike had given me the most profound gift, all those years he’d carried me. Could I return the favor?

The timing was…not great, as it turns out.

Post-COVID, the media landscape was shrinking. In 2023, I was terminated from a 30-hour-a-week temp job — eight months pregnant — because of a return-to-work mandate 200 miles away. After my leave was over later that year, ChatGPT was already headed to the stratosphere, and people I respected started losing their jobs. I started hearing, “Well, we don’t really need writers anymore, do we?” from strangers who didn’t write.

“I started hearing, ‘Well, we don’t really need writers anymore, do we?’ from strangers who didn’t write.”

I could have continued to freelance — and, indeed, I was doing well at it — but insurance for a spouse and two kids costs $40,000 a year in my state. And I wasn’t primed to suddenly pivot to full-time and in-person. Boston doesn’t have many media jobs, and it’s not flush with gig work in the same way as Los Angeles or New York. 

But I did my level best. I found a part-time writing job in higher ed, doing work I enjoyed with people I loved. But the federal administration’s ongoing litigation against colleges and universities meant that job didn’t last very long. Undeterred, I took a job as a copywriter at an agency. One month later, I was laid off again, mid-December. “I feel like Bob Cratchit in A Christmas Carol,” I told my husband tearfully on the subway ride home. 

All the while, my body was falling apart. My children, who are small, brought home every manner of virus. My Eustachian tubes (the drainage system of the sinuses) sealed shut for three months in 2025. In the winter of that year, I had asthma so bad I needed nebulizer treatments…just like the year prior. In early 2026, I contracted RSV, and it knocked out my immune system so badly I had three separate sinus infections over eight weeks. Let’s not forget the missed periods, general sweatiness, and ongoing sleeplessness of my disappearing estrogen.

By the time 2025 was over, I felt like a failure, as adrift as I’d been at the start of our relationship. I knew I was never going to get the kind of stable, lucrative job Mike had had, but I wasn’t even coming close. I felt like I was squandering all the work he’d put in, all that hard-won savings we were now using for the kids’ school and ever-increasing grocery and medical bills. 

The children were on our state’s Medicaid. I was collecting unemployment. It was time to go back to the drawing board. 

In times of difficulty, I have always loved the Hemingway quote: “The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.” That’s been a pretty tidy summary of my life, even before these last two years.  

What’s interesting to me now, though, is the rest of the quote: “But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”

Beyond Hemingway’s general tendency towards melancholy, it means that survival ultimately comes down to adaptability. Change or die, in other words. Resist the inevitable tides at your peril. 

Or, to put a slightly more positive spin on it: Who I was isn’t who I am anymore. I might have to give up some things — important, terrible things — without my partner as a safety net. He’d carried me this far. I had to do this next part myself. 

“To put a slightly more positive spin on it: Who I was isn’t who I am anymore.”

First, I needed to find some kind of sustainable work. My former higher ed employer opened up an entry-level coordinator position, and I managed to snag it. This might seem like the exact opposite direction — instead of taking on more responsibility as a manager or editor, I stepped back professionally. But it meant insurance and stability, with the freedom to continue writing on the side. It was the exact “bridge” that we needed, and I was happy to have it in this job market.  

Next, I had to develop my financial literacy and join with Mike in making big money decisions. If we were going to survive this thing, we needed to start rowing in the same direction, at the same time. Now we’re both responsible for managing our spending and tracking our income. We also divide the chores more equitably; I am trying not to see myself as deficient for learning some of these basic concepts (folding shirts in thirds, you say?) for the first time. 

Finally, I needed to get healthy enough to pick myself off the floor, in every sense. I made an appointment with Midi Health to get medication for perimenopause. I got out more and started walking again. I started lifting weights so I’d be able to pick up my kids without losing my breath. 

Just a few days ago, Mike passed his 500th hour of coaching, which means he can now get his advanced certification and get hired as a professional coach in-house. Our children are thriving at two very good public schools that I somehow managed to apply to during all of this turmoil. By the time this comes out, I’ll be a few weeks into my new job. We are, for the first time in a long time, stable. 

We’re not out of the woods yet — and I know better than most people that all of the security could go away in a flash. But it’s enough for now.

“I know better than most people that all of the security could go away in a flash. But it’s enough for now.”

I’m essentially unrecognizable to myself. Instead of the girl who snoozes her alarm and eats pasta for every meal, I’m diligent about getting up early and accessing healthier food. Instead of lounging at every available moment, I always have some chore that needs doing. My uniform of leggings and a sweatshirt has now been replaced by smart and sensible workwear. 

I’m tired, and a bit slower than I used to be. But I’m also stronger than I’ve ever been. Last week, I lifted with the heaviest weights I’ve ever used, and I cooked a chicken that my whole family said was “excellent.” 

Perhaps this will be my best decade ever.

Katherine J. Igoe is a writer and editor who covers fashion, beauty, and lifestyle, with sustainability at the core of her work. She’s written for The New York Times, The Cut, InStyle, etc., and been a contributing editor at Cosmo and Marie Claire.