There is a particular kind of confusion that comes with being pushed out gently.
No one raises their voice. No meeting is called to say this is ending. There is no clear moment where you are told you are no longer wanted. Instead, things simply begin to shift around you.
Conversations happen without you. Decisions are made elsewhere. Information arrives later than it used to, if it arrives at all.
At first, you assume it is temporary.
You tell yourself it is workload. Or timing. Or priorities changing. You wait for clarity because clarity has always arrived before.
This time, it does not.
I remember the moment I realised something fundamental had changed. Someone new appeared, occupying my role. She did not have the background I had been hired for. She did not have experience in the work I had been doing. What she did have was proximity to the right people.
And I was expected to train her.
No one explained why. No one acknowledged the contradiction. Everything was framed as practical, as transitional, as reasonable. The language stayed polite. Professional.
That politeness is what makes it so disorienting.
Because when something ends without being named, your mind searches for reasons. You start filling in the gaps yourself. You wonder what you missed. You replay conversations, looking for the moment where things turned.
That is how narrative replacement begins.
Instead of being told the truth, you are left to construct a story that explains your disappearance. And more often than not, the story you tell yourself is harsher than the truth would have been.
I noticed how quickly my sense of value began to erode. Not because anyone said I was inadequate, but because no one said anything at all. Silence does a particular kind of damage. It removes your ability to orient yourself.
At the same time, I was still expected to perform. To be helpful. To be professional. To transfer knowledge without being given context for why I was no longer trusted to hold it.
That contradiction takes a toll.
It teaches you that your usefulness can be extracted even as your presence is erased.
What became clear over time was that this kind of exit was not accidental. It was strategic. Naming the truth would have required accountability. It would have required someone to own a decision. It would have required honesty about power and preference.
Quiet removal avoids all of that.
It allows the organisation to preserve its image while rewriting the story behind closed doors. It allows discomfort to be displaced rather than addressed. And it leaves the person exiting to carry the emotional cost alone.
I wish I could say I recognised it immediately for what it was. I did not. I spent time trying to prove my worth again, even as the ground beneath me had already shifted.
What I know now is this.
When you are quietly removed, it is not because you failed to see what was happening. It is because you were not meant to have a clear ending. Ambiguity protects the system. Clarity would have protected you.
And that is the part that hurts.
If you have ever found yourself fading out of a role without explanation, still expected to contribute while being slowly erased, I want you to hear this.
Your confusion was not a lack of awareness.
It was the result of being denied truth.
And recognising that is often the first step toward reclaiming your sense of self after an ending that was never properly acknowledged.
Copyright © 2026 Lynette Diehm.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without written permission of the author.
