Redundancy generally follows from one of two possible situations. In the first, an employee is informed that his or her role and duties are no longer required—that the roles and duties no longer have any value to an employer—and that the employee can bring no value to any other roles or duties in the organization. In the second, an employee is told that, although his or her roles still exist, other employees can do them at least as well or better. At the heart of both these situations, however, there is a single message being imparted to the employee in a redundancy process: you are no longer of value to this organization. To be told that one is no longer valued is likely to be a psychological shock, especially if an employee has formed an attachment with the organization and colleagues, and if the employee attributes a high value to his or her job.

I was made redundant five years ago from my position as a university lecturer specializing in cultural history and the history of ideas. It was the best job I had ever had. I loved everything about it: my teaching and administrative roles, the university I worked for, the colleagues I worked with, the students I taught. It was demanding, since I was on a teaching-only contract and had a heavy teaching load that invariably involved 60-hour working weeks, but I found the work meaningful, interesting and challenging (in a good way). I was part of a small department, and it was clear to me how I contributed to it; moreover, I felt valued by my colleagues and my students (justifiably, since I was dedicated to my work and good at it).

I had held this position for four years on a series of rolling short-term contracts. Technically, this meant that I had become a permanent lecturer. However, the funding for my post ran out, and my technical permanency offered me little protection. In a botched process, I was made redundant with a coldness that contrasted with the affection I had always felt towards my employers.

Thus, two weeks after my official redundancy meeting, I went from being someone who had a decent salary, a job title and position, meaningful and enjoyable work, colleagues, and status, to someone who had none of those things. I was 44 years old and should have been in the prime of my career; instead, I was jobless and my prospects of ever working in academia again were bleak. (And, apart from two colleagues who emailed me to wish me well, nobody marked my departure—there was not even a card. Several colleagues whom I had considered friends never contacted me again. My many students, on the other hand, were very generous in recording their dismay that I was leaving and their good wishes for my future.)

At the time, I barely reflected on this dramatic change, since I was preoccupied with various practicalities associated with the redundancy and my new situation. As I scrambled to claim benefits and figure out what I was going to do, I did not allow myself time to wonder about how little I was valued. Nor, at the time, did I allow myself to dwell on how a life and career I had long set my heart on was almost certainly over.

There is a twist in this tale: my role had not become redundant. Not long after I was made redundant the college advertised my position. I knew they would, and they expected me to apply (indeed, they hoped I would because they wanted me back). Yet they advertised largely the same role as a 0.7 position (rather than full time as it had previously been), for nine months, and with a one-week lead-in before teaching began (which would have required me to do a lot of preparation in my own time before the role officially commenced). At the same time, they advertised another position with a similar workload as a 1.0 for twelve months and with a six-week lead-in. I was shocked. And I recalled a colleague telling me that at a departmental meeting, at which the question of my possible return was discussed, the head of department had said: ‘What choice does he have? What else is he going to do?’

I decided I did have a choice: I could choose to maintain some self-respect and not allow myself to be messed around and undervalued. I did not apply, even though I knew that in not doing so I was almost certainly ending any faint chances of continuing my academic career.

The past five years have been a constant struggle. For most of that time I have had to focus on getting by from one month to the next. Survival received almost all my attention and diverted me from deeper distress about the bigger picture of my life. But I realize now how, lingering beneath the surface over these years, was a profound emptiness and loss. For that is what redundancy brings. In a society and culture in which high value is attached to employment, work, salary and status, the loss of all those things can be devastating. For me, the devastation has been insidious rather than sudden, but it has been no less powerful.

More particularly, redundancy can lead (as it has done in my case) to isolation, to a loss of self-worth, to frustration, and to a less meaningful life. I have worked as a freelancer since my redundancy, but I have earned less than a third of what I earned as a lecturer (while having to work even harder), and the work I have done has never come remotely close to providing me with the fulfilment and pleasure that my academic work gave me. In short, I have had to spend more hours doing significantly less enjoyable and meaningful things for a fraction of what I once earned, while unable to do anything I have wanted to do because of the all-consuming time and poor remuneration of my new work. Slowly but surely, the things I do have no longer seemed to hold value to me (which is also reflected in how poorly remunerated my work is); simultaneously, I have increasingly found it difficult to see my own value to society and the world.

There is also a sense of shame: to be unemployed, to be performing low-salaried work, to have no or low professional status, to be doing something that is little valued—sometimes these invite (unwanted) pity or sympathy, often they are shamed by our politicians, commentators, media, society and culture. I want to be loved and valued for who I am; too often, I feel rejected and shamed for my low salary and professional status.

Redundancy certainly cannot be blamed for all my struggles and problems over the last five years. Many people respond to redundancy by going on to better things. For some, redundancy may have been the best thing that happened to them. But this is not the case for me. I recognize now how badly it hit me and how I have yet to recover from it. All I had ever wanted was to be an academic and for my work to engage with and communicate ideas, history and culture. I am grateful that I managed to experience these things for a few years; but the loss resulting from redundancy looks ever more like a death, and I increasingly feel that, even now, I am in a grieving process.