I don’t think I would have had the courage to become a freelancer if I hadn’t been laid off.
The year was 2014. I was 27, living in a tiny studio on the Upper West Side, conveniently located next to not one, not two, but three frozen yogurt shops. I had just lost my job, and my ego was crushed.
Once the initial humiliation wore off, the layoff started to feel like a nudge toward something I’d wanted to try for a long time: Could I actually make it as a freelance writer?
I gave myself six months. My definition of “making it” was modest. I needed to earn enough money to pay the rent on that tiny apartment and support myself without going…
