I was the dream. Or at least, I thought I was doing everything right.

I got the degree. Landed the remote tech job. Worked my ass off—nights, weekends, grinding through the launch of a massive project that kept getting pushed up in the timeline but never down in expectations. I said “yes” more than I should’ve, jumped in to help the team, stayed quiet when management dropped the ball. I didn’t complain, didn’t fade out, didn’t do the bare minimum like everyone says Gen Z is all about. I just worked.

I have a wife. I have kids. I don’t live in a trendy downtown apartment and drink overpriced cold brew while dreaming of a sabbatical in Portugal. I live in Indiana. I do the dishes. I wrestle toddlers. I grocery shop and pay the bills and Google things like “how to help a kid sleep through the night” between late-night commits and debugging someone else’s spaghetti code.

I’m not saying I’m special. But I’m also not the caricature you see in thinkpieces written by 50-year-olds terrified that someone under 30 might one day make decisions without asking permission. I am not entitled. I’ve been trying to build a life that means something, and for the past three years, that meant being the guy who showed up every day—on Zoom, in Slack, in the codebase, in the trenches.

And then the project ended.

And then the layoffs came.

And then I got the random call.

No conversation. No warning. No attempt to reassign me or recognize that I was part of the reason the damn product shipped on time in the first place. Just a sterile message from my highest level boss and HR and a wave of silence from the same people who used to throw fire emojis under my commits like they meant something.

It’s wild how fast a “team” evaporates when the company’s bottom line gets nervous. It’s even wilder how loyal we’re expected to be to a system that cuts us off like a glitch in the matrix.

Here’s the part that hurts: I wasn’t slacking. I wasn’t quiet quitting. I didn’t just clock in and coast. I gave everything—and I still wasn’t safe. And that’s the mindfuck: When you’re already over-delivering, where is there left to go?

The answer is: out the door. With nothing. Luckily some severance. No plan. Just vibes and LinkedIn posts full of people saying “Let me know how I can help” when they absolutely won’t. And supposedly it’s happening to others, too.

“You’re Young, You’ll Bounce Back”

I’m 26. That’s what people keep telling me. Like it’s a free pass to eat shit for a few more years before I get to expect stability.

But I already have a family. I don’t have the luxury of “figuring it out” in Bali or moving back in with my parents for a while. There are mouths to feed, a mortgage to pay, futures to build. The weight of adulthood isn’t theoretical—it’s screaming in my ear at 6am with peanut butter in its hair.

And here’s the thing: I wanted this. I wasn’t dragged into adulthood. I chose it. I wanted to be a provider, a partner, a father. I love my life. I love my kids. I’m proud to be young and committed and all-in.

But this system punishes that. It punishes anyone who dares to ask for a life outside the 80-hour hustle grind while still doing the damn work. It punishes people who believe in loyalty and contribution and effort, because all that matters at the end of the day is whether your salary fits into the Q4 spreadsheet.

It’s dehumanizing. And it’s not just me.

This Is What Burnout Looks Like—Except No One Cares When You’re Burnt

Burnout is usually framed as some slow decline into exhaustion. But for a lot of us in tech, it’s more like sprinting toward a deadline that keeps moving until the finish line vanishes—and then the floor collapses under you.

That’s what this feels like. Like I was running toward something real, something meaningful. A goal. A raise. Recognition. Maybe even a promotion if I stuck it out another year. And instead of crossing that finish line, I fell through a trapdoor.

And it’s silent. No one calls. No one checks in. No one really wants to talk about what happens after you’re not useful to the company anymore. We celebrate hustle, but we don’t grieve burnout. We don’t talk about how much it fucks with your head to be told, explicitly or not, that your worth ended when the project wrapped.

The Gen Z Lie

I’m tired of the narrative.

The one that says Gen Z doesn’t want to work. That we’re lazy. That we only want remote jobs so we can work in pajamas and watch Netflix. That we don’t understand loyalty or commitment.

I’ve been more loyal than this industry deserves. I gave more than I should’ve. And I know dozens of other people just like me who are still doing it—still giving, still believing that if they just push a little harder, it’ll finally be enough.

But here’s the truth no one wants to say: The tech industry is full of performative progressivism and selective empathy. They’ll brag about mental health weeks and unlimited PTO, but fire 200 engineers over a spreadsheet that went red one time.

We’re not lazy. We’re not cynical. We’re just disillusioned—and we earned that disillusionment the hard way.

Trying to Be a Good Man in a System That Rewards the Opposite

What do you do when you’re trying to do everything right—and it still falls apart?

When you’re trying to be a good husband, a good dad, a good teammate, a good contributor. When you don’t cut corners. When you care. When you want to be proud of your work, not just paid for it.

And still, you’re tossed aside like you’re disposable.

This country doesn’t make it easy for young men to grow up with integrity and stay that way. Especially not in tech, where reward systems are designed to promote clout-chasers and overconfident liars who know how to spin jargon into fake metrics. I just wanted to do my job well. I just wanted to be dependable.

But in the end, I was just headcount.

The Road Ahead (And Why It’s So Damn Hard to Look at It)

Life After Layoffs

I’ll bounce back. I have to. Because my kids need me to. Because this life we’re building isn’t going to pause while I lick my wounds.

But right now, I’m angry. And I think I deserve to be.

Because I’m tired of pretending this is just part of the game. I’m tired of swallowing the narrative that layoffs are just business when the business was built on the backs of people like me—people who gave everything for a shot at stability and got chewed up instead.

I’m not writing this to get sympathy. I’m writing this because I know I’m not the only one. And I want other people—especially other Gen Z dads out there trying to keep it together—to know you’re not crazy for feeling betrayed.

You were.

And the worst part is, we’ll still show up again. We’ll still apply. We’ll still smile in the interviews and say we’re “passionate about clean code” and “eager to contribute.”

Because we have to.

Because this is the deal we’ve been handed.

But I swear, someday we’re going to stop pretending that deal is fair.