How Not to Get Laid Off

Nobody wants the call. The one where you get on the phone and your boss says, “Hey, I’ve got Karen from HR on the line.” 

Your stomach flips and you find yourself looking for the closest trashcan while hearing bits and pieces of those well-rehearsed lines, “we’re making some changes….” “we hate to do this, but….” “we’ll be letting you go.” 

Here’s how to avoid that call. 

When you start thinking about quitting your job, take a day off. Get some perspective, like watching a barista clean up the mess left behind when middle schoolers bumrush a Starbucks for vente frappuccinos. 

When you start applying for jobs, don’t do it at night. You’ll probably be mad from a crappy day and put your resume into the hands of anything that looks better than today. And sometimes anything calls back. And anything looks awfully good when nothing is going well. 

Instead of writing cover letters, write what you want out of this life. Skip the three, five and ten-year questions. There will be plenty of time for those in your interviews. Really sit down and think about what you’d like to do with your short time on earth. 

Take every piece of advice with a grain of salt. When you ask someone for input, remember their experience differs from yours. And just because what they say sounds good doesn’t mean it’s the right thing for you. 

Once you start interviewing for those jobs you applied for while watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory, ask more questions than they ask you. And if there are holes in the story or things that don’t make sense, stay away. 

If you sit down to talk with a potential future boss or folks on the team, watch how they act. If they’re answering a phone or lack the ability to hold eye contact unless they’re telling a story about themselves, stay away. 

Meet with people who work in the industry or role you’re considering. But know that those conversations aren’t enough to save you from trouble. 

Once you make it far enough in the process, if you have to continue following up to see if you’ll get an offer, don’t take it. It’s a good indicator of what the rest of the job will be like. 

If it’s sales you’re going into, ask about the clients you’ll be working with. If they say, “we don’t have any yet,” start sweating. Then, ask about the timeline and lead generation process in place for you to succeed. If they don’t have good answers, wipe your brow and run. 

Maybe you blow through all these warning signs and move forward anyway. If the future boss is pressing you to give less than two-weeks notice so you can start faster, get out before you even pee in the cup.

If the boss asks you to put together a list of leads you know in an industry you’ve never worked in but doesn’t have lists of their own, it’s a good time to follow up on those other applications.  

When you’re a few months in and folks who’ve been there awhile are telling you to be worried without telling you to be worried, you should worry. 

Once the feeling sets in that something isn’t quite right, and it hits you every day when you log in to your computer, think about your options before you end up talking with Karen on the line. 

Maybe you ignore the red flags. Or, maybe you never saw them. Or didn’t let yourself see them. And that’s okay. Because getting laid off may be the best thing that could happen. 

Thoughts in a Soap Bucket

Start by giving the whole car a good soaking with water. Knock off the worst of the dirt, especially in the wheel wells. 

Mix up the water and the soap; two caps worth of Mother’s California Gold or Meguiar’s (or whatever someone had gotten for Christmas). Grab two terry cloths, a brush, and wheel cleaner. 

The steps are muscle memory now. Developed over years of washing cars alongside my dad until it became a chore I took care of myself. 

Until I had my own vehicle, I hated it. 

But once I had my own ride, things changed. I took a little extra time to get those tough spots where mud had splattered up or tree sap sat a little too long. 

And I worked hard to get the grime collected in the interior's tiny corners. Spots no one else would notice, but to me, are what really made the car clean. There was plenty of time to think when washing the car. The moments alone, washing, rinsing, and repeating, gave me time to consider a lot of life.  

Each vehicle I’ve had is unique in how long it takes to wash. For a good, deep cleaning, I always plan on two hours, at least. 

But, as I’ve aged and life's problems have grown more complex, I find myself reaching for the five-gallon bucket. It sits under our house and holds most of the same materials and brands I used more than 15 years ago. 

Now, an hour and a half from where I grew up, I do the same routine in my driveway. And like when I was a kid, I still wash someone else’s car along with mine. The muscle memory comes back. I start with the roof and work my way down. 

Terry cloth in hand, I begin with the passenger side fender. I do my work in sections, washing, rinsing (top to bottom) and moving on. 

I get intense satisfaction from washing a car. It feels gratifying to put my hands to work cleaning something tangible. Most of my career has been spent at a keyboard, on call, or in meetings. I’ve never had jobs demanding much-skilled labor with my hands beyond navigating a Google Doc or Microsoft product. 

So, when I can stick my hands in a bucket of soapy water and remove the road’s grit, it helps me reconnect.

I’ve thought about a lot of problems while covering the windshield with a layer of white suds. 

I’ve taken out frustration on the remnants of bugs long dead, now in their permanent place of rest on my grill. The sound of a vacuum has drowned the noise of the world around me and let me focus for 10 minutes or so. 

The final step is always cleaning the interior. I’ll grab a cloth and a bottle of Griot’s and buff, shine, and clean the plastics and soft parts around the cab. 

This part of the process always feels fitting. It wraps up the hard work done on the exterior and brings everything together. It’s like wiping clean all the mess I’ve been thinking about while doing the work. 

And after all the cleaning, I’m the next one who needs a shower. Usually, I’ll take a few moments to sit on the steps and admire my work. I’ll drain a water bottle or sip on what’s left of a beer. And whatever’s been bothering me, the thing I worked in my mind while I applied the soap, doesn’t seem as daunting. 

The muscle memory of washing the car helps solve a problem. I take it bit by bit, working on what’s in front of me. And when it’s all done, I know things will be much cleaner, not so messy or full of junk. 

The Writing Room

I’ve parked myself on the long end of a sectional designed in the mid-century modern style. It’s a shade of grey, on the lighter side. The cushions could use fluffing, but then again, a couch should look like it’s used. It’s suspicious when a couch always looks brand new. 

The sofa stands a few feet off the floor on wooden legs. It’s a comfortable piece, one of those first big purchases we made as a married couple. 

Its friend, the ottoman, sits in the middle of the floor, a resting place for candles, books, magazines, and feet. It shares the same light grey material and when you pull the cushion up, it becomes a place where you can hide things before guests arrive. The last-minute stuff that doesn’t really have a permanent home. 

The room’s height gives it a sense of being much larger than it is. 

The center point is a stone fireplace. It stretches to the top of the 14’ ceilings, commanding the room. Each stone is well-fit together, smooth yet rough. A small, perfectly round hole can be found about three-quarters of the way up. Some lost soul committed the cardinal sin of fireplaces by trying to mount a TV on this piece of art. I guess the stone didn’t appreciate it all that much and did what it needed to do to stop him. 

A white mantle decorates the stone. It’s not overstated. A black mesh material, anchored by three pumpkins, covers the self. Below it hangs three (plastic) skeletons, roughly six inches tall. They blow in the breeze of a fan on a higher setting, remnants of a holiday, not twenty-four hours old. 

While the fireplace remains dormant, so do the tools which maintain it. A brass set sits on the left side of the rock, patiently waiting for colder weather to return. They’re well-worn and were put to good use by a man I miss more and more as the years go by. 

In the corner, two chairs occupy space because they fit the aesthetic more than any practical use for sitting. Between them, a darkly stained table intended for another home provides a place for a lamp, two books and a box of tissues. Underneath it all sits the equipment powering every device we own, its blue hue indicates all is well. 

The TV plays a Christmas ambiance on a day when the high is 71, but that’s okay. She likes it. 

Across the room, six pictures line the wall commemorating a day that was put off too long for something out of our control. 

A buffet, once belonging to an aunt I never really understood, holds our stamps, tape, and an assortment of batteries. 

The hardwoods show signs of life, scratches from the dog, furniture, and the dozens of other moments that make a house a home. 

A curtain rod keeps drapes off the floor but has done so much more when water started seeping from the roof into the walls. 

The grey walls aren’t as drab as they sound when you write them out on paper. And in most spots, it appears to be painted well. But if you look closely, careless brush strokes have left their permanent mark. 

Lessons

About halfway through the first summer of college, I’d had enough. 

I worked a temp job at a European-based manufacturing company not far from my hometown. I lived with my parents, fresh off my first year and a major change. 

My brother got me the job. He worked there and said they were looking for help repairing modules used in weaving machines. The pay was $10 an hour for 40 hours per week, which was more than I’d make at the family machine shop. 

A handful of us worked on the project, maybe eight or ten people, all hired through a staffing agency.

It was pretty dull work. My job was to check the modules with some kind of homemade tester (it didn’t work most of the time) and ensure they were up to code (there was no code). The days were long. We were mostly left alone, a backwater project in a company building robot arms. 

But over time, a few of the higher-ups with nothing better to do checked on us. 

At some point, someone decided our little team needed to move faster. We had some pie-in-the-sky goals to hit and we weren’t hitting the mark. Half the time, the parts weren’t even fixable when they came to us, so it wasn’t all our fault. 

But along the way, a middle manager was yelled at by a little higher than a middle manager. 

And the finger-pointing started. 

The blame was square on the team and me. It was my first taste of the inner bile created in companies with long org charts. 

They told us to pick it up or else. I don’t know what “or else” meant to a bunch of people doing the kind of work we were doing, but I decided this wasn’t right.

So, I marched across the warehouse and found my brother. I told him what was going on. That lies were being told and we were blamed for something out of our control. I told him we were working our asses off (still one of the few times I’ve used anything close to a cuss word in front of my brother) off and I was sick of it. 

He said he’d look into what was going on and like me, was not all that happy with the treatment. 

That night, I explained the injustice to my dad (sans “asses”). I told him that if things weren’t better tomorrow, I was done. I’d quit. Tell them to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. So long, suckers. 

His response? 

“No, you won’t. You’ll stay there and work this job until it’s time to go back to school.” 

Like I’ve done for most of my life, I responded with a few smart remarks (still sans “asses,” he would go on to be chairman of the deacons) and declared I’d do as I well pleased. I was 19 years old. 

I know he didn’t like that too much and he responded with the classic and irrefutable, “while you’re living in my house..” (you can finish the rest). But what he said next has stayed with me for a long time.

“This is going to show you why you’re going to college.” 

Not one to lose an argument with my parents, I took what little freewill I had and hopped in my ‘89 Blazer (4x4 and fuel injected). 

My golf clubs were in the back. I drove across the state line and went inside a Wendy’s (I’d forfeited my right to supper that night) and ordered a chicken sandwich with the dexterity of a car tire. 

After blowing an hour’s wages, I headed to a public park along a small creek. I’d fished, won baseball games, and had plenty of cookouts at this place. But today, I pulled out my $25 Academy Sports putter and rolled golf balls around an artificial green. 

I don’t remember walking away with anything insightful from my few roaming hours. My brother eventually called me. My parents were wondering where I was.

I’m not sure how the conversation went when I returned home that night. I can’t imagine it was very pleasant. 

But what my dad said to me has stayed between my ears long after I’ve forgotten even most details of the day.

It resonated because when I returned to work, I looked around. I was the youngest one there. A couple of other undergrads came and went (one fell asleep on the job). But most everyone was in their 40s or 50s. They were working a $10-an-hour three-month gig. And if that’s what they had to do, I get it. 

But I started to find a sense of purpose. I went back to college that fall with the images of that back room, those piled-up plastic modules, and the conversation with my dad in mind. I started working an on-campus job, landing internships and slowly building towards a life. 

A few extra years of life have opened my eyes to what my dad taught me that day. He showed me what was in front of me. That I had an opportunity to grab an education, a once-in-a-lifetime experience and run with it. To see where it could take me.

It wasn’t really about finishing that summer job. It was about every year for the rest of my life. It was about pushing through something that wasn’t going well but doing it anyway. 

You can’t put a price on it. You can say thank you, but it’s not really sufficient. When you have a father who knows what to say to their son at a moment like I experienced, well, it can change your whole life. 

Making It

Instead of running the milling machine, I leaned against the lathe, running my mouth. 

10 years ago or so, I was about to head to college. I was working in my dad’s machine shop doing straightforward jobs. 

It’s a conversation stuck in my brain because it was the start of something. I spoke into existence what I wanted to do, the height I wanted to reach. 

“I think I’ll switch my major to business. Maybe marketing. And I think one day, I want to run my own business like you,” I told my dad. 

I don’t remember exactly what he said, but I do know it was something to the effect of how owning a business had been good to him. It hadn’t been easy, but he wouldn’t have done it any other way. 

I was a few months away from college. I planned to enroll as a history major and did just that, but I was already thinking about making a change. 

And somewhere in between, my dad mentioned a few times that marketing departments are often the first to get cut during layoffs. He’s not wrong about that. And I would experience a layoff, just not while working in a marketing department. 

Actually, I never worked in a marketing department. And I haven’t been a full-time writer for an agency or a publication. I didn’t get an English degree or study journalism. 

But here I am, a decade after that conversation over a machine, running a freelance writing business. 

I live out what I said I wanted to do every day. But it wasn’t a direct line to get here. When I think back on it, it’s really amazing. And I wouldn’t change any of it. 

I got a real taste of the writing bug in high school. Encouraged by an incredible journalism advisor, I learned how to put words on paper that told a story. I don’t remember many pieces I wrote, but I remember one about my addiction to fly fishing. 

And I don’t remember my advisor’s exact words, but I know she liked it. Liked it enough to submit it for an award (I didn’t win). It gave me some confidence in knowing I can throw some words together. 

High school was the first taste, but college was when I got cold, hard cash for writing stories. I was freelance writing for my school’s publication, but if you told me that’s what I was doing, I wouldn’t have understood what you were talking about. 

I was playing a role in a content strategy and didn’t know what that even meant. And wouldn’t for another seven or eight years. 

I wrote two articles and the work (or the budget) dried up. So for the next few years, I didn’t pick up a pen or sit down at the keyboard to write unless it was for an assignment or an email. 

I decided I wanted to be on the fast track to management. Land a great job out of college. Get ahead of everyone else. And make it. 

And I did that. I landed a job out of college I had no business getting. It was way above my experience level, but a company believed in me and took a chance. I’ll always be grateful for it. I got a decade’s worth of experience in two years. But what I told myself all those years ago was still in my mind. 

So, when it felt like it was time to make a move, I did. I strolled into a sales job with the stated goal (in my own mind) of making enough money to fund my own company. Work, sell as much as I could, and save that cash to strike out my own. Seemed simple enough. 

Six months after starting, I was out of a job. 

Canned around 2:30 on the Monday after Thanksgiving. For the price of my signature, I received 30 days severance. The plan looked dead in the water. But something had happened during those six months. I sat back down at the keyboard and started writing. I even got paid to do it. 

Writing wasn’t paying the bills, so I hustled and got a few interviews, but nothing would stick. Then, on a whim, I chased down a lead and started working as a contractor for political advocacy organization. It didn’t pay much. And I was once again in a job I had no idea how to do. 

But I did do it. And with the contract winding down and the odds of full-time employment looking slim, I was back on the job market. 

I interviewed. And interviewed. I received rejections. I never heard back. I applied for jobs I didn’t even remotely want because I needed cash and needed it fast. There was something I needed to buy.

In the meantime, I sold ads. I hustled for other political organizations. And I kept writing.

I finally landed that full-time gig. It went well, but then the whole world shut down and so did a good chunk of my income. I had bought what I needed and we had set a date. Now, I had to find some more money to keep the house and the lights on. 

So, I started reaching out. I emailed. I Slacked. I told anyone who I knew that I was in business. I could write whatever they needed. And I did write just about anything that came my way. 

Over time, I got a little better. A lot of good people helped me along the way. I learned. I landed new clients. I moved on from a few. Some moved on from me. 

But, about a year ago, the bank account looked pretty good and so did the prospect of being a full-time freelancer. I put in my notice and took the next step. 

I paid the state $125 to set the whole thing up with some legal protection and those three magic letters, “LLC.” 

It took about 10 years, down a path that sometimes didn’t seem like it was headed much of anywhere. But now I realize it was going towards that peak I talked about long ago with my dad.  

If I could go back to that moment in a small machine shop in a small town and do anything different, I wouldn’t. There’s not a single thing I would change. 

Superstition

Two taps, one on each opposite corner of the plate. 

Two half swings of the bat towards the pitcher. 

Dig in the back foot. 

Baseball’s superstitions are as much part of the game as an umpire getting haggled for a bad call. Every player has their own, usually born out of a game winning hit or a streak of luck you don’t want to break.  

And my approach at the plate followed the same sequence. 

Once I was in the batter’s box, I stayed there, only pivoting my front foot out to reset after talking a ball, or a strike. 

Then, I’d let the bat swing like a pendulum twice, and get back in. 

If I fouled a ball off, I’d take a short lap to reset. I guess I thought I earned it if I had made some contact. But, as soon as I stepped into the box, I returned to my routine. 

Two taps, once on each opposite corner of the plate. 

Two half swings of the bat towards the pitcher. Dig in my back foot. 

I had to do it. If I didn’t, something felt off. Even now, I can feel it. Like an itch you just can’t scratch. 

If I didn’t go through the routine, everything was off. It was like I had no shot of hitting the pitch. I probably wouldn’t do well in this pitch clock era, if the clock trickled down to small town summer leagues since that’s as far as my career made it. 

The superstition didn’t stop (or start) at the plate. 

In the on deck circle, I always hit each spike with my bat. It knocked some dirt loose but I mostly liked the sound. 

If you and I went outside to throw right now, I’d pick up a glove and on every throw I’d pat the glove twice before releasing the ball. 

As a kid, this habit was formed on the field, much to my coach’s (and dad’s) dismay. I was holding down the hot corner for the first few years of ball and the distance from third to first isn’t insignificant, even on a little league field. 

“You’ve gotta quit patting your glove,” my dad would say when I came back to the dugout. “It’s taking too long to get the throw off.” 

But how do you stop doing something when it feels like it’s as much a part of the process as putting on the glove? Or making the throw? 

It’s like the ball simply could not make it to first, or wherever it was going, unless it touched my glove twice. Somewhere along the way, someone, or something, broke me out of it and I stopped doing it during games. 

It still creeps in. 

It did during intramural softball in college when I was slinging the ball from shortstop. The basrunners and distance were a little more forgiving. And my dad and coach weren’t around to tell me to stop doing it. 

If I was playing the field, I always had a batting glove in my back right pocket. I throw right-handed (but bat left) so I kept my left batting glove on while I played the field. I never touch a baseline, whether it’s freshly chalked or barely visible during the late stages of a game. I did that once and caught all kinds of grief. 

In the span of seven, nine, or more innings, all of these rituals  happened dozens of times. 

It’s like they were in sync. 

Each is a different process to a complicated game. 

And each had to happen or else the whole machinery, or at least my role in it, would fall to pieces.

The game’s changed a lot. If you turn on the TV and see how the Braves are doing, you’ll see plays challenged and a pitcher doesn’t even have to throw a pitch to intentionally walk a guy.  But you’ll still see batting routines so ingrained in a player, it’s part of his identity. Guys skip over the first or third base line on the way to their position or the dugout. 

A cross sign is made after a homerun or base hit. Caps are turned inside out for a late inning rally. Beards are unshaven during win streaks. Or they’re not allowed to grow facial hair at all (the Yanks).   

It all seems silly from an the outside. And maybe it even does to the guys doing it. But if it’s working, you don’t dare stop it. 

I haven’t been on the field in a long time. I don’t get out and throw the ball or step into the box much anymore. I have a few times in softball leagues. And even if the person pitching behind an L screen is 72 years old and gripes about every call, the old superstitious kick back in. That underhanded pitch may be lobbed in at 20 MPH hour, but I’m a goner unless I can get each step in. 

Two taps, one on each opposite corner of the plate. 

Two half swings of the bat towards the pitcher. Dig in the back foot. 

287 Passwords...

My wife and I have been hooked on NBC’s Superstore. We got started on it while we were on vacation in Canada (it’s a thing, but that’s beside the point). And since coming back home, we’ve continued to binge it. 

We’ve been served a whole bunch of ads while we watch these 20-minute shows and one, in particular, has caught my copywriter's eye. 

Google is running a series called “There’s No Place Like Chrome,” and from what I’ve read on the internet, they’re targeting iPhone Safari users. I haven’t used Safari since the iPhone 4 so I need no convincing of Chrome’s benefits, but these ads, and the copy, in particular, have stood out to me. 

My favorite focuses on passwords. 

It begins with a woman using her phone. She’s laying down, typing (and you can hear the unmistakable sound of a thumb-typing on a phone). She’s trying to enter a password and getting the not-so-fun denial tone and vibration telling her it’s wrong. She leans up with a look of confusion and annoyance. 
Then, we get our first line of copy while she’s still unsuccessfully trying to log in. 

She continues to try, letting out an exasperated sight we can all relate to, and five seconds later, Google finishes the sentence. 

Same. My passwords are numerous and so unique no one will be cracking into my accounts. 

Andddd at this point I’m laughing and turn to look at my wife, who isn’t. 

Because she’s sat with me many times as we search in our password book only to find something scratched, or I’ve changed it and haven’t updated it.

With the clear value of Chrome, Google wraps it up in a nice bow: you’ll never have to dig through old scraps of paper or answer ridiculous security questions again.

The copy speaks clearly to a person like me. Someone who thinks they’re clever. That they can outsmart the hackers, bots, and trolls on the web. Until it’s time to log in and they don’t have a clue what the password is.  

Google’s copy nails it using three sentences and 30 seconds of video. The copy doesn’t have to do much because it so clearly conveys a problem most of us face. They tell us exactly how they can make that pain go away. 

Except for the people who only use one password for everything (they’ll have bigger issues to worry about if the hackers come knocking).

Don't wait on unemployment insurance-start a side hustle

In April I found that I was facing a shortage of several things; toilet paper, face time (real faces), and a full-time job. On the positive side, I had a surplus of beans and soup, but that’s a story for a later day. 

Like many Americans, my hours were reduced by my employer. The economic uncertainty caused by the pandemic led to several cuts at my organization. I was one of those. There is hardly ever a convenient time for a reduction, but this was especially less than ideal given that I was planning to get married in June (how to pandemic proof your wedding blog coming soon). 

Once the decisions had been made we were encouraged to apply for unemployment. At this point, states across the country were facing an overwhelming number of applications. Unemployment was well over 10%. 

The process to apply is painful and I could write for several pages on what should be done to fix this archaic system, but that’s not what I’m here to discuss. I never received one payment from unemployment insurance because I still “earned too much” each week. The state’s definition, not mine. But what I discovered during this whole process is the real insurance policy is in a side hustle. 

Before we get into this, I’ll provide some background. I started a side business as a copywriter in November 2018. I had very few clients, made very little money, and generally had no idea what I was doing. It came about from the desire for more creativity that was lacking in my day job. Plus, the extra income to protect against any job loss (although at the time, I thought I would never be laid off) was another motivation. So I started writing emails, web copy, a random product insert, and anything I could do to get more experience. 

Fast forward to 2020. I’m working a full-time job and still do some work on the side for a couple of long-standing clients. Nothing significant, at times only bringing $100-$200 per month. That’s where things stood when the pandemic hit and I was working 60% of my normal hours. While battling the unemployment system, I began looking for extra writing work. I reached out to former clients, colleagues, in Slack channels, and many people in my Rolodex. I scrolled down writing job boards every morning. 

By late May, I had replaced most of the lost income. By now, it was evident that I would not be receiving assistance through the unemployment office. I began to realize that in its current form, unemployment insurance is unreliable for those who need it. You should not, and likely cannot afford to, count on this to replace lost wages. If you lost your job, you should look at applying for unemployment. But I’m here to talk to you about why should have a side hustle for times like we’re experiencing now and how to get one started. 

Lean into your skills 

Start with what you know. Whether we realize or not, almost all of us have a skill or some knowledge that someone else is willing to pay for. Think of things you’ve done in your past. In my situation, I had experience as a writer. I freelanced for my university while I was in college. I took a few years off but used that experience to build upon what I do now. This started as a creative outlet but has now become a solid source of revenue. Examine what you do in your full-time job. Maybe you have a skillset or expertise that you can offer through consulting services. If you’re a designer, there are always opportunities for freelance work. 

If you’re having a hard time finding a direction, make a few lists. Right out a freelance resume. What are the skills and experiences you can use to earn extra income? Don’t worry too much about finding something and developing a perfect plan of execution. In the beginning, your focus needs to be on identifying something you will enjoy and that has a market that will pay for your services. 

Tell the world 

You’ve picked out what you would like to do as a side gig. That’s one step forward, but now what should you do for the next step? 

Utilize your network. 

Find others in your area of interest who you can talk to and ask questions of. Many of these people will be full-time freelancers. They’re the perfect people to ask when you’re trying to figure out how to get started. 

In my case, I spoke with two fantastic writers. One of them recommended I reach out to someone who turned into my first paid gig. These conversations will be invaluable when it comes to launching your side business. 

Don’t stop there. Let others in your network know that you are freelancing and available for work. And I get it. This is not easy to do, especially when you are starting out and probably don’t have any work samples. Update your LinkedIn to start receiving leads from their ProFinder service. 

Search for Slack channels that exist in your area of interest. I’ve joined marketing and freelancing groups. I’ve landed clients through these groups and learned from people who’ve been doing gig work for years. 

Trust me when I say that the entrepreneurial and freelance community is extremely supportive. Most people genuinely want to help you on this journey. Reach out, let others know what you’re doing. 

Take steps towards your first client

It’s time to land your first gig. 

A few Google searches on how to land a freelance client may leave you with a lot of questions. Some suggest you work for free to build up a portfolio. Others say this is the cardinal sin of the side hustle. 

Personally, I don’t think anyone should work for free. There are a few exceptions (non-profits you care about, etc.) but generally, it’s not a good idea to work without pay. Even if your rates are low in the beginning, this still gives you a basis on which to charge and grow.

Side hustling is a slow build

We won’t get into the whole process of building a freelance business. I’m still figuring that out myself.

The point I want to convey is that no matter how comfortable you are in a job, things can change in an instant. If you asked anyone whose job was affected by the events of the last few months, I doubt many would say they expected anything to happen. I sure didn’t. 

Control your safety net

Without a side gig, I’m not sure what I would have done to make it. I never once received a check from unemployment but that turned out to be okay. 

Find something you enjoy and give it a go. Maybe it will turn it into a full-time career for you or maybe it won’t. Think about that sweet spot of income you want to make with your side hustle. Maybe it’s $500 or $5,000. 

I set a modest goal of $500 a month last year. I didn’t hit that very often. Now I’m earning double that. That’s not a lot of money. But to me it is. It helps. 

Now go get yourself some unemployment insurance. The homegrown kind that you hustle on your own. When the next crisis hits you’ll have confidence that you can continue supporting yourself, even when things seem like they’re falling apart.