After 13 years on the radio, I got laid off.
I was bitten by the ol’ workforce optimization bug, and it bit me real good. Despite the drastic “unbeknownst” of it all, it happened. And I am here, writing about it. Periodt.
Is that the most eloquent way I can put it? No. Is this what the 13-year-old version of me would have considered a “big whoop”? Definitely not. But the definition of “whoop” has evolved. There are levels now. A whoop spectrum, if you will. So yes, Sabrina the Teenage Non-Witch, this was a big whoop.
I thought I knew what 2026 looked like. I had a plan, a routine, a professional identity and a contract. I had reminders, show prep and a daily reason to wear Spanx by 9 a.m. Then suddenly I had free time. A suspicious amount of free time.
At first, I assumed I’d use it to network, update my resume, learn witchcraft and strategically plan my next professional move. Instead, I bought a mini chainsaw.
To be fair, I did not wake up and decide, “Today I become a Florida retiree and/or suburban dad without the benefits of patriarchal dividend.” It happened gradually. I noticed a very dead, very ugly tree in my front yard. I watched one video. Then another. Then the mini chainsaw arrived, and I experienced the kind of confidence that should legally require supervision.
Cutting down that tree was tedious, sweaty and therapeutic. I also learned I am not allergic to wasp stings to the neck, which was reassuring after taking 17 screenshots of insect-bite comparison charts like a good little WebMDer should.
The problem with completing one outdoor project is that you immediately become unbearable. Now every shrub looks suspicious. Every branch is “a quick trim.” Every neighbor’s yard is none of my business, but unfortunately, I have eyes. I fear that I am one more power tool purchase away from demolishing a load-bearing wall.
This is not the only personality shift I’ve experienced. I also tried to become a crockpot person.
I wanted to be the kind of woman who throws ingredients into a pot and returns to something tender, fragrant and emotionally stable. I printed recipes. I highlighted steps. I watched videos narrated by folks who seem to have never once had a panic attack near raw meat.
After multiple attempts, I have accepted that I am not meant to crockpot in this lifetime. My final creation was what could be considered a shoe-leather soup, which somehow managed to be both dry and wet. Science cannot explain it, and frankly, science has suffered enough.
This is the weird part of starting over nobody tells you about. People expect the emotional stuff: the fear, the grief, the “what now?” What they don’t prepare you for is the strange human instinct to create structure wherever you can find it.
When your normal routine disappears, your brain builds a new one out of whatever is nearby: yard work, failed recipes, and saving videos on how to turn a gutter downspout into a beautiful water feature while acquiring approximately 1.25% of the necessary supplies. In my case, that means one bag of mulch and a steppingstone I found on a curb.
I also built a picnic table for squirrels. I don’t think I need to explain myself any further. We listen and we don’t judge.
Meanwhile, technology has not caught up with my life change. Alexa and Siri still remind me about traffic and show prep like two tiny corporate demons who refuse to acknowledge the restructuring. I’m still waking up at 6 a.m., except now I’m standing in the yard with coffee, talking about weather with a neighbor and saying, “Well, we needed the rain.” Nightmare fuel.
Also weird: running into people who ask, “So what’s next?” or “What’s the plan?”
I don’t blame them. It’s the natural question. I’m also accustomed to intrusive questioning because I am a lesbian. At some point, strangers had no qualms about asking things like, “Who is proposing to whom?” “Who is carrying the baby?” and, of course, the classic go-to of a heterosexual male with no sense of reality, “Threesome?” So yes, I can survive “What’s next?”
But after answering it 400 times with “still navigating,” “taking a moment to reset” and “working on some things I hope to announce soon,” I just made things up. Whether it was self-preservation, self-entertainment or proof that I should finally take Level 3 Improv, I do not know.
What I do know is that at least four people think I’m going back to school to get my medical degree, and one person believes I’m turning my passion for creating custom ringtones into a business because there is big money in that industry. (Honestly, I may keep that one).
There have been good surprises too. People have shown up in ways I will never forget. Some people did not, and that hurt until the little awareness angel on my shoulder reminded me that not everyone is a mind reader.
I don’t know exactly what’s next. What I do know is that I am still here. I am still funny. I am still useful. I am still curious. I am still capable of making something out of a weird, uncomfortable, wildly unplanned chapter. I may not have a five-year plan just yet. I definitely do not have a successful crockpot recipe. But what I do have is a healthy respect for power tools, a growing tolerance for the uncertainty and the inconvenient realization that life after the plan falls apart is still life.
Sabrina Ambra is a longtime media personality, a seasoned comedian, live event host, and mildly unhinged, but in a cute way.
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