Talking about being made redundant
The first time you say it out loud
Mine was to my wife, in the kitchen, on the night of. I rehearsed it for ninety minutes on the drive home and still managed to lead with "so, weird day". She caught the tone before the words. Most partners do.
The conversations after that one (with kids, with parents, with mates, with old colleagues, with the recruiter, with a stranger at a barbecue who asks what you do) are all different versions of the same problem. You are reporting a status hit, in real time, before you've finished processing it yourself.
The men I know who handled this well had thought about the script in advance. The men who handled it badly didn't, and accidentally said the wrong thing to the person who mattered most.
Here's how I'd think about it.
The audience matters more than the message
The same news, told to four different people, needs four different framings. Not because you're spinning, but because what each of them needs to hear is different.
Your partner needs the facts and the plan. Not the spin. They are riding the financial hit with you and the worst thing you can do is dribble information out over weeks. One sit-down, all the numbers, all the timeline, then a follow-up the next day when the shock has settled.
Your kids need calm, age-appropriate, and honest. Not a fake "everything's fine" (they read it). Not a panic-spiral (they absorb it). The middle: "Dad's job is changing. We're going to be ok. Some things might be different for a while. You don't need to worry about money."
Your parents need a curated version. They will worry more than is useful and they're less able to help than they wish they were. Tell them after you've already got a plan, not during the panic.
Your mates need the real version. Especially the ones who've been through it. They are your release valve.
Your professional network needs a tight, forward-looking version. "Org restructured, role made redundant, I'm in market for X." No more, no less.
The kid conversation
This one most men dread. I dreaded it. The actual conversation took about four minutes and one of my kids asked if we could still go to Bunnings on the weekend. That was it. Kids care about routine, not abstractions.
What worked for me, with primary-school-aged kids:
- Both parents in the room
- Plain words ("My company doesn't need my job anymore")
- A specific reassurance about what won't change ("We're staying in this house, you're staying at school, mum's still working")
- A specific honest acknowledgment of what might change ("We might do fewer takeaways for a while")
- Permission to ask anything ("If you have questions later, just come find me")
What I avoided:
- Detail about money
- Blaming the company
- Pretending I was fine
- Pretending I was devastated
- "It's actually a good thing" (kids smell that one)
Older kids (teens) need more. They can handle context, financial reality, even your own wobble. Treat them like the adults they're becoming, not the kids they were last year.
The partner conversation
Hardest one. Highest stakes.
The trap most men fall into: they treat redundancy as something they have to fix before bringing it home. So they sit on it for days, try to land a new role first, then announce both at once. This usually backfires. Partners can tell something is wrong, the not-knowing is worse than the news, and the lack of consultation lands as a betrayal even if you meant it as protection.
Tell them the day you find out. Bring the package document. Have a rough plan ("here's our runway, here's what I'm doing this week"). Then shut up and let them respond. Their first reaction is rarely the considered one. Day three is when the actual conversation happens.
If you're co-parenting after a separation, your ex needs to know too, especially if child support or parenting arrangements are tied to your income. Don't surprise them. Send a text, offer a call, keep it factual.
The mates conversation
This is your release valve. Pick two or three. The ones who'll say "mate, that's brutal, want to grab a beer" rather than the ones who'll immediately try to introduce you to their cousin who works at Atlassian.
What you need from mates in week one is witnessing, not fixing. Sit with the news. Take the piss out of the situation a little. Don't catastrophise. Don't pretend to be fine. The whole point is one venue where the mask comes off.
Some men have one mate they can do this with. Some have none. If you have none, this is the moment to find one. A men's group, a sporting club, a coffee with the bloke from your old team. The cost of going through this alone is much higher than the cost of asking someone for a beer.
The professional version
For LinkedIn, recruiters, old colleagues, and the barbecue stranger, you need a 30-second script. Calm, neutral, forward-facing.
Mine:
The org went through a restructure and my role got made redundant. I'm in market for [specific role/space], and I'm having coffee with anyone who knows that patch well. If you've got fifteen minutes, I'd love to pick your brain.
Notice what's not in there:
- Nothing about how it felt
- No bitterness toward the company
- No detail about the package
- No "I should have seen it coming"
- No "I'm not desperate"
The professional version is a positioning statement, not a confessional. Keep it short. Repeat it often. Update it as your search sharpens.
The bitterness trap
There will be days when you want to write the angry LinkedIn post about how the company treated people. Don't. Not because the anger isn't valid (it often is). Because the post follows you for years and the moment you publish it, every recruiter and hiring manager who reads it puts you in the "high drama" pile.
Vent to your mates, vent to your therapist, vent to the dog. Don't vent on a public platform.
The best revenge is being good at what you do next. Boring, true.
What I underestimated
How much harder it gets each time you tell someone. The first conversation is adrenaline. By conversation 15 you're flat. By conversation 30 you're tempted to just stop telling people and pretend it didn't happen.
Build in a recovery rhythm. Don't do all your update conversations in one week. Pace them across a month. Take a day off telling anyone after the harder ones.
This is grief admin, not just career admin. Treat it accordingly.
Tell true. Tell short. Tell the right person.