I stared out floor-to-ceiling windows at the frigid Hudson River. It was just days before the winter-holiday slowdown at work, and in that stark industrial room, all of my colleagues stared, too, just like we had the prior December (and the one before that).An executive spoke coldly about budget cuts and the need to maximise value by remaining “lean and mean”. Then we were ordered back to our desks, which were lined up in long rows a floor away.First there was silence. Then the firings began. One by one, I’d hear a phone ring and pray it wasn’t mine. If it was, it meant I’d soon be leaving my desk for the last time. After a fateful walk to Human Resources to sign paperwork, I’d then be escorted out of the building while an ex-coworker would pack up my things.Years later, tears still fill my eyes remembering taping up boxes for my friends. One second they were there, and the next they were gone without even a goodbye. I was always the lone survivor, and some days, the guilt was enough to make me want to follow them out the door.Year after year, the layoffs continued, but I remained. Once a part of a small editorial team of three at one of the world’s most famous lifestyle brands, by the end, I was a sad and scrappy team of one. My second to last joyful season of firings, my boss was cut. Then one year later, they fired the editor beneath me and decided I could handle things on my own.You are a rockstar! You are so efficient! Take this raise! Hooray, you! When I