Just over two years ago, we walked through the front doors on the same morning. Two strangers sharing a start date. Over time, it was evident that we shared more than a start date. We shared a commitment to common sensical execution. We shared a disdain for bureaucracy. And we shared a passion for getting things done. We would proudly acknowledge to all who would listen that we “support, enable, and facilitate the success of others.” Over time, we became the steady rhythm of each other’s workdays. We also served as each other’s private sounding board before speaking more loudly to a wider audience.
Last week, that rhythm was abruptly broken. He was let go for pure budgetary reasons.
In the military, departures are a choreographed dance. We know the month and year an individual will leave the team even before they arrive. We are able to plan the transition, celebrated the service of the departing, and integrate a new teammate with the same deliberate precision we bid farewell to their predecessor. There is a clear beginning, a middle, and end. In the civilian world of “at-will” employment, that is often not the case. The music often stops without warning. One moment, a teammate is part of the collective “we” and the next, they are but a memory behind a locked IT account. This isn’t always the case and more often than not, it is not the intent of the supervisor. Largely driven by legal caution, this approach creates a vacuum where culture attempts to live. And it disrupts productivity and psychological safety along the way.
With my teammate’s departure, the silence is loud. And for those of us still fortunate to be on the team, it brings a specific, heavy weight: Survivor’s Guilt.
The teams to which I have been a part take pride in holding each other accountable. We celebrate individual and collective successes. We encourage professional growth. And we grow to genuinely enjoy each other. When a teammate’s access is revoked while ours remains, our internal dialogue shifts from “How do I do the work?” to “Why am I the one still here?” We take a pause from focusing our attention on delivering value to at least considering our individual survival and personal guilt. However, we cannot let that guilt turn into fear.
If we start working out of a place of “not being next” instead of “being our best,” the team has little chance of regainig meaningful momentum. The remedy isn’t to ignore the empty desk or pretend the “sudden end” doesn’t sting. The answer is to lean harder into the values that made the partnership possible in the first place. We honor those who are no longer in the room by bringing a higher level of warmth and excellence to the chairs we still occupy.
I have personally experienced the unexpected pop-up call from HR. As difficult as that experience was, the key was not to look back, question why, or be angry. I failed at all three. True to form, my teammate closed this chapter with great professionalism, fully knowing he contributed greatly and was appreciated by all of us fortunate enough to spend our days with him.
Keep going, keep growing.
- How might we turn the “weight” of a teammate’s departure into a renewed sense of purpose for ourselves?
- In what ways can we honor a departed colleague’s contribution while remaining committed to the mission ahead?
- Are we working today out of fear, or out of a commitment to the person we promised to be?
