Job rejections, a breakup, and year-long joblessness, pity party for one, thanks!

I lost jobs, a partner, and even a potential home, all in a month!

Firstly, I’d like to say hi, Eid Mubarak, and thank you all so much for subscribing to my very first newsletter! (I know I’ve been harassing you all about it on my socials!).

I wrote the below post in the throes of heartbreak so indulge the maudlin mood, please.

Here’s what I’ve been up to and how I’ve felt about it all. If you like my writing, please do share this Substack with others!

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When I was 25 and, like domino pieces, my best friends were starting to get married off one by one (I love this for them; my couple friends have shown me the healthiest representations of marriages (Allahumma barik*)), I was so lonely. I didn’t so much want to get married (like the famous Broad City quote, ‘What was I, a child bride?’), but was more so grieving the inevitable loss of friendships to come. In the theatrics of a pity party one day, I was crying in bed. An old work friend who I knew had liked me (boys make it so obvious), randomly called me. When he heard I was crying because I felt lonely, he joked, ‘I was just crying 'cause I’m lonely too.’ After that, we spent the next part of our lives not being lonely together. Those wonderful times together have now ended.

Not long ago, I was with someone I was set to marry (we’d even looked at rings), I had a couple of job interviews lined up, and was maybe even going to become a homeowner. In a cosmic thumbs up of this union, we were kindly asked by a relative of a friend if we wanted to purchase their beautifully renovated London home before it went on the market – seriously, who does that happen to in this climate? The pieces of adulthood felt like they were harmoniously slotting into place. Oh, the dinner parties we were going to have, the holidays we were going to take, how we were going to do life together, enjoying the deliciousness of ticking off huge milestones.

In the moments leading to our separation, my heart was separating, but in a desperate attempt to be okay, my body automatically began trying to push the pieces back into a whole, as though I could stoically hurry myself into recovery. 'We had more than people get in a lifetime,' I reassured myself. 'Things fall apart to make way for even bigger blessings.' I made plans to busy myself immediately – I’d see the people I had been meaning to, I’d visit the friend who’d just moved abroad, I’d (finally) start my Substack, I’d write so much more, I’d get so fit, PureGym would have to kick me out.

I don’t know if it’s just a thing women do (or perhaps the broken hearts club), or it’s just the consequence of living in a capitalist world that pressures you to throw yourself back into productivity, but I wanted to rush to the part of being a valuable member of society again. I wanted to skip the part where I lived in a feral state, eschewing showers, watching gooey rom-coms between mouthfuls of Häagen-Dazs, crying if so much as the wind changed direction. But being a girl boss, etc. (read: self-employed creative) meant I had shit to do. Despite my inclinations to assume the foetal position and break down, the deadline for the Al Jazeera commission loomed and wasn’t going to write itself.

This time also marked a year since I was let go from the job I had moved house for (leaving your parental home is no easy feat for a South Asian woman). The precariousness of being a freelancer was cushioned by the stability of a partner who swiftly took over my Netflix and Spotify payments (in modern romance, I think that’s called a marriage proposal??), began paying for date nights, and randomly put money into my account. ‘I’ll figure it out,’ I’d tell him, busying myself into countless job applications. ‘We’ll figure it out,’ he’d counter, adopting my problems as his.

I know people roll their eyes at cutesy Insta posts of a happy couple on their wedding day, usually captioned ‘I married my best friend’ (or its Muslamic counterpart ‘and He created you in pairs’, which, in fairness, is divinely beautiful), but now, in all the wisdom of heartbreak and taking stock of all that’s been lost, I have admiration for those who manage to wed their best friend.

Now, I find myself without the habit and hobby that it is to have a best friend, feeling completely unhinged and exposed. But I really will figure it out, alone this time.

*To my non-Muslamic readers:
Allahumma barik means may Allah bless you/them.

Thank you for reading. Soon, I will have less personal and more social issues that I’ll cover on this newsletter. Please consider sharing with your friends and also feel free to make a one-off donation to keep this labour of love going!