The First 72 Hours: A Calm Operating Procedure
TL;DR The announcement lands and everything tilts. For the first three days: protect your nervous system, set gentle boundaries, capture what’s real in a simple system, and defer big decisions
Do what you can, with what you have, where you are - Theodore Roosevelt
The moment everything tilts
The announcement came with that particular hush a room gets when everyone is pretending to breathe normally. Words like “consultation” and “restructure” were said out loud, but the feeling arrived first: a drop in the stomach and a rush of heat to the cheeks. I was surprised by the mix - sadness, embarrassment, protectiveness for others, and the instinct to be useful.
Later that day, came the email confirming that my position was one of several that was at risk of redundancy.
What’s at stake (for me)
I’m a delivery‑minded, people‑first operator. I like clear backlogs, honest conversations, and structures that reduce chaos.
Redundancy tugged at identity and responsibility. The first 72 hours were about answering those questions without making irreversible moves or writing a narrative I’d later regret.
The moment of decision
I decided to lead myself the way I’d lead a team through incident response: stabilise first, then plan. No public posting, no diagnosing anyone else’s motives, and no big financial or career decisions while my body was still shaking off adrenaline.
While there was to be a consultation period, I knew that this outcome was one that I had little influence over and posturing it that way in my mind was the kindest thing I could do for myself because while I wasn’t focusing on this thing I couldn’t control, I had all this time to focus on the things I could control and that felt empowering.
What I did
Ground the body before touching the inbox
Walk. Hydrate. Write one honest journal entry - no editing, just “what I feel / what I know / what can wait.” Name the feelings so they stop trying to drive.
Being no stranger to a journal, I decided to keep a journal of the journey for no other purpose than to emotion-dump and gain clarity.1
My mind would revolve like a referdex resurfacing all the things I had to think about but the journal helped to get them out of my mind so my subconscious didn’t keep trying to remember them for me.
Set kind, clear boundaries
Support people who need a human, but cap heavy conversations2. Use a pause line that keeps the door open without sacrificing my own recovery.
Create space for yourself (within reason and boundaries of your employment) through out of office replies that are written when you’re thinking clearly without an overflow of emotion or through scripts that you can just copy and paste without burning any bridges.
Capture the journey while it’s fresh
I started journalling - not to publish, just to keep a true record when memory gets fuzzy. Note dates and small facts and intentions so you can drop them from memory but return to them later.
Stand up a single “72‑hour board”
I created a Trello board, with four lists: Admin • Money • People • Options. Each list gets 3 items max. If a task feels big, halve it; if it still feels big, halve it again. I used Atlassian’s free products but there are plenty of options that might work better for you. Sticky notes or index cards work just as well.
Defer irreversible decisions
No late‑night applications. No rewriting the whole CV that evening. If something feels urgent, I asked myself what would happen if I didn’t do it right there and then.
Protect next week’s energy
Book two job‑search blocks, one portfolio block, and one wellbeing block (don’t drop the wellbeing block)
What surprised me
Embarrassment showed up even though I know better. Naming it reduced its power.
Journaling calmed my body. Not because the situation changed, but because I wasn’t carrying it all in my head.
Tiny systems beat heroic effort. A four‑list board outperformed frantic productivity.
Kindness can be loud. Accepting help can make the next step lighter.
Leader’s Lens: If you manage people through change
Say the quiet part out loud: “This is hard. Here’s what we know and what we don’t.”
Offer practical anchors (EAP/GP info, timelines, what the next two weeks look like).
Open brief office hours for questions; don’t force one‑on‑ones if people need air.
Share a simple checklist for the first 72 hours. Structure returns agency.
Diary excerpt
“Today, I admitted to my team that I had known my fate yesterday but hadn't wanted to add more to their plate. Everyone is having conversations, myself included.”
Thought of the Day
'If I can't do that, then what can I do?'
'Do what you can, not what you can't.'
Stage of Grief
Shock, Denial, Anger, Reconstruction
Try this (this week)
• Write three lines: one feeling • one fact • one next step.
• Make the four lists (Admin/Money/People/Options) and add one small item to each.
• Send one gratitude message to someone who made the day softer.
Checklist
□ Body first: walk, water, one honest page.
□ Boundaries: cap heavy conversations; use a kind pause line.
□ Journal: date, 5 factual bullets max.
□ Board: Admin/Money/People/Options (≤3 cards per list).
□ Money: 12–13‑week baseline (or whatever buffer suits you), list questions for payroll/HR.
□ People: 3 thank‑yous; 1 mentor check‑in; no public venting.
□ Next week: 2 job‑search blocks, 1 portfolio block, 1 wellbeing block.
□ Deferrals: no irreversible decisions for 48 hours.
□ Review: 10‑minute close‑down each evening.
If your organisation is navigating change and you want calm, people‑first delivery without the drama, I can help.
This is based on my personal experience, anonymised to protect privacy. Nothing here is financial, legal, or medical advice - please seek professional guidance for your own situation.
The idea to create a blog series from the journal entries and my journey didn’t come until much later when I was questioning whether I still needed the journal.
As you’ll see in later posts, this is a ‘hindsight’ moment as initially I spent a great deal of my energy supporting others and having deep conversations without much thought of my own needs.