When Everything Falls Apart
My name’s Lisa, and I’m 43. Last year, I thought I had it all figured out. Fourteen years at Peterson Plastics in Ohio, worked my way up to sales manager, pulling in $85K a year. Not bad for a girl from Toledo, right?
But here’s the thing about thinking you’ve got life figured out – it has a way of sucker-punching you when you least expect it.
It all started falling apart on a Tuesday afternoon in late 2023. My supervisor Karen called me into her office, and I could tell by her fake-concerned expression that this wasn’t going to be good news.
“Lisa, we need to talk about your department’s numbers,” she said, tapping her manicured nails on the desk. “You guys missed the $2 million target this year.”
I wasn’t sweating it. Half the company missed their targets. The economy was rough, supply chains were still messed up from COVID – everyone was struggling.
“I understand, Karen. I’ve got some new strategies for next quarter that I think will really turn things around—”
She cut me off. “The thing is, Lisa, the company feels like maybe you’re just… stuck in your ways. You know, at your age, it’s harder to adapt to new market conditions.”
At my age? I’m 43, not 73. But I just smiled and nodded like a good little employee, even though inside I was screaming.
That same day – because apparently the universe has a twisted sense of humor – I got a text from some random number. It was a photo of my husband Mike with some blonde woman, her arm wrapped around his waist like she owned him.
Mike’s been working construction in Phoenix for the past three years. “Temporary,” he said. “Just until we get ahead on the mortgage.” Three years later, he’s still there, and I’m still here in Ohio, holding everything together alone.
Oh, and did I mention our 13-year-old son Jake has been struggling with depression? Yeah, it’s been a real party at the Williams household.
The Final Straw
I thought Karen’s little age-discrimination speech was the end of it, but apparently, she was just getting warmed up.
Right before Christmas, she pulled another stunt. We were organizing the company holiday party, and per usual, I submitted the headcount for my department. But then Karen decided to invite two new trainees who’d literally been there for three days.
The caterer charged us an extra $200 for the last-minute additions. Guess whose budget that came out of? Mine.
When we got back from the holidays, Karen called me in again.
“Lisa, I’ve been thinking. With your department missing targets and that whole catering mix-up at the party…” She slid a piece of paper across the desk. “We’re moving you to the production floor. There’s a supervisor position open.”
A demotion. After fourteen years of busting my ass for this company, they wanted to stick me on the factory floor because I had the audacity to turn 40.
“Karen, you know I can’t do shift work. Mike’s not here, and Jake needs—”
“You’re not really in a position to negotiate, Lisa.”
That’s when something inside me snapped. All those years of playing nice, of being the team player, of taking whatever scraps they threw my way because I was “grateful for the opportunity.”
“You know what? Screw this.” I stood up so fast my chair rolled backward. “You want to push out anyone over 35? Fine. But don’t pretend this is about performance. This is about age discrimination, and we both know it.”
I walked straight to HR and submitted my resignation. Effective immediately.
Reality Check
That night, I called Mike to tell him I’d quit. I didn’t even mention the photo – honestly, I was too drained to fight about it.
“Are you insane?” he yelled through the phone. “Jake’s got medical bills, we’ve got the mortgage, and you just quit? What the hell is wrong with you?”
No “Are you okay?” or “What happened?” Just immediate anger that I’d disrupted his comfortable arrangement where I handled everything while he played house with Blondie in Phoenix.
Jake heard me crying in the kitchen. He’s this skinny, quiet kid who barely talks since the depression hit, but he shuffled over and handed me the box of tissues.
“Mom,” he said in this small voice, “when you’re sad, you use tissues. But when tissues are sad, what do they use?”
It’s the kind of thing he’s been saying since his therapist started him on new meds. Random, philosophical questions that break your heart because you realize your kid is thinking about sadness way too much for a 13-year-old.
Job Hunting in Your 40s (Spoiler Alert: It Sucks)
I thought finding a new job would be easy. I mean, I had experience, solid references, and I wasn’t asking for maternity leave or anything. How naive was I?
The first red flag was the online applications. Half the job postings specified “3-5 years experience” – code for “we want someone young.” The ones that didn’t have age limits wanted senior executives with MBA’s, which I definitely wasn’t.
The phone interviews were even worse:
“We’re looking for someone who can grow with the company long-term.” Translation: You’re too old.
“Our team is very dynamic and fast-paced.” Translation: We want 25-year-olds who’ll work 80 hours a week.
And my personal favorite: “Can I ask about your family situation? We need someone who can be fully committed.” Because apparently, having a teenager with mental health issues makes you unemployable.
After two months of rejection letters and dead-end interviews, I was drunk on cheap wine at 2 PM, wondering if I should just start collecting cats and calling it a life.
That’s when my neighbor Sarah found me passed out in my driveway.
Meet Sarah: The Neighborhood Fish Lady
Sarah’s this tough-as-nails woman in her late 40s who runs a seafood stand at the farmers market. Her husband died five years ago, and she’s been supporting herself by selling fresh fish and teaching cooking classes.
She literally dragged me inside and made me coffee while Jake sat in the corner, looking terrified. Apparently, I’d scared him by not coming home the night before.
“You’re pathetic,” Sarah said, not unkindly. “Your kid’s watching you fall apart, and you’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself to notice.”
She was right. Jake had been getting worse, and I’d been so wrapped up in my own drama that I hadn’t seen it.
“Come work with me,” Sarah said. “I need help at the market, and you need to remember what it feels like to actually accomplish something.”
Working with fish? Me? I’d never even cleaned a fish in my life.
“It’s honest work,” she said. “And it pays better than you’d think.”
The MLM Disaster
Before I took Sarah up on her offer, my old coworker Janet reached out. She’d been laid off six months earlier but was driving a new BMW and posting Instagram photos from expensive restaurants.
“Girl, I’ve got the perfect opportunity for you,” she said over lunch. “I’m making five figures a month with this women’s wellness company.”
Wellness. Right. It was basically selling overpriced supplements and “intimate health” products through social media. The whole thing made me uncomfortable, but Janet was flashing her earnings reports like lottery tickets.
“Just try it for a month,” she said. “You’ve got nothing to lose.”
So I spent $3,000 I didn’t have on inventory and business clothes, created a fake “boss babe” persona on social media, and started messaging every woman I’d ever met about their “feminine wellness journey.”
It was humiliating. I felt like a fraud posting selfies with captions like “Living my best life as a wellness entrepreneur!” while my bank account circled the drain.
The final straw came when I tried to pitch my old boss’s wife at a company event. I thought if I could land one big client, maybe this would all work out.
I went in with my rehearsed speech about financial freedom and female empowerment, but halfway through, someone mentioned seeing my social media posts about “intimate wellness products.”
The whole room went dead silent. Here I was, the former sales manager who used to run meetings about quarterly projections, trying to sell vaginal steams to my ex-colleagues.
I bolted. Left the event, went home, and deleted every single post from my “business” Instagram account.
Learning to Use a Fish Knife
The next morning, Sarah showed up at my door at 5 AM.
“Time to learn a real skill,” she said, handing me a pair of rubber boots and a waterproof apron.
The farmers market was already bustling when we arrived. Sarah’s stand was simple – ice-filled bins full of fresh fish, a wooden cutting board, and an array of seriously sharp knives.
“First lesson,” Sarah said, picking up a whole salmon. “Everything dies. Fish, dreams, marriages, careers. The question is what you do with what’s left.”
She demonstrated how to gut and fillet the fish with quick, confident movements. Blood and scales went everywhere. I stood there trying not to throw up.
“I can’t do this,” I said. “It’s too…” I searched for the word. “Violent.”
Sarah looked at me like I was an idiot. “Honey, you’ve been gutted and filleted by life for the past six months. At least the fish are already dead.”
It took me three weeks to work up the courage to actually hold the knife. But once I started, something clicked. There was something satisfying about the clean cuts, the precision required, the immediate results.
Plus, I was making decent money. Not sales manager money, but enough to keep the lights on and buy Jake’s medication.
Jake Finds His Purpose
The biggest surprise was Jake’s reaction to my new job. Instead of being embarrassed that his mom was “just” selling fish, he became fascinated by the whole process.
He started coming to the market after school, asking Sarah questions about different species, learning about marine biology, helping customers choose the best fish for their recipes.
For the first time in months, he seemed genuinely interested in something. His therapist said it was a breakthrough – he was connecting with life again, even if it was through death and preparation of fish.
“Mom,” he said one day while helping me clean up, “when you cut the fish, do you think they know they’re going to become something better?”
Leave it to my kid to turn fish processing into philosophy.
When the Past Comes Calling
Three months into my fish-selling career, guess who showed up at my stand?
Karen. My former supervisor, looking uncomfortable in her business suit, trying to blend in at the farmers market.
“Well, well,” she said with that same fake smile. “Look who’s found their true calling.”
I kept filleting the red snapper I was working on, not looking up.
“I heard through the grapevine that you were telling people at the Christmas party that you were running some kind of import business,” she continued. “Guess that didn’t work out either, huh?”
Sarah appeared beside me, holding a very large fish and an even larger knife.
“Lady,” she said to Karen, “you’re blocking paying customers. Either buy something or move along.”
Karen huffed and left. Sarah grinned.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“My past,” I said. “And probably my future boss if I’m not careful.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Your future boss?”
Two weeks later, Karen called me. She’d been “restructured” out of her position – aka fired for the same age discrimination she’d used on me.
“I heard you’re doing well with your… business,” she said awkwardly. “Do you think there might be room for someone with management experience?”
I looked at Sarah, who was trying not to laugh.
“We’re not hiring,” I said. “But the gas station down the street is looking for someone to work the overnight shift. You know, for someone who can adapt to new market conditions.”
The New Normal
It’s been eight months since I started working at the market. Mike finally admitted to the affair and asked for a divorce. Honestly, it was a relief. We’re splitting everything 50/50, and he’s actually stepping up with child support now that he doesn’t have to pretend we’re working things out.
Jake’s doing better. He still has bad days, but he’s back in school part-time and talks about maybe studying marine biology in college. His therapist says having a purpose – helping at the fish stand – has been huge for his recovery.
As for me? I’m not going to lie and say everything’s perfect. I’m 43, divorced, and I smell like fish most days. My hands are permanently stained, and I wear rubber boots to work.
But here’s the thing: I’m not afraid anymore.
I was so terrified of not being good enough, not being young enough, not being perfect enough, that I let other people define my worth. Now I wake up every morning knowing exactly what I need to do and how to do it well.
Sarah and I are talking about expanding the business. Maybe catering, maybe a small restaurant. Jake’s already designing logos on his laptop.
Last week, I ran into one of my old coworkers at the grocery store. She looked tired, stressed, older than when I’d left the company.
“Don’t you miss it?” she asked. “The steady paycheck, the benefits, the security?”
I thought about it for a second, watching Jake help an elderly customer pick out fish for her anniversary dinner, seeing him smile and actually engage with the world.
“No,” I said. “I really don’t.”
The knife that taught me to cut fish also cut away everything that was keeping me small. I traded a corporate title for calloused hands, a company car for a pickup truck that smells like the ocean, and a paycheck signed by someone else for money I earn with my own skills.
And you know what? I’ve never been happier.
Sometimes you have to lose everything to find out what you’re actually made of. Turns out, I’m made of tougher stuff than I thought.
