The Day Before the World Changed

I landed a contract at Microsoft in early 2020. The timing, at first, felt perfect. I was coming off a frustrating engagement. I had taken a personal risk by not renewing a contract that didn't suit me anymore. I was excited to contribute in a meaningful way again.

The role was on the Office 365 team, and my task was clear: surface knowledge silos and help centralize them into a shared Git repository. It was the kind of structural thinking I excel at. The commute to campus felt like a dream. It was March 10th—my birthday.

But something was off. I couldn't get my badge. The recruiter waited with me, confused. We chatted while the news played on screens nearby. The NBA was postponing games. There were murmurs of a virus, but no protocols yet. The badge would be resolved tomorrow, they said. I met the team—one PM, two technical writers—and was sent home without a desk or tasks.

The next day, I showed up eager. I got a laptop and credentials. No badge still, so I shadowed my manager to get access. I overheard someone ask, "It's gonna go back up, right?" They were watching the stock ticker. I admired the vacation photos on the desk I was borrowing and wondered if I'd get to take vacations like that one day, if I became an FTE.

But I couldn't access my tasks in Azure DevOps. "There's nothing assignable right now," my boss said. "Try again tomorrow." So I went home.

That night, March 11, the NBA suspended its season. Microsoft announced remote work. Within days, I was fully remote—without ever truly starting. I never got a badge. I never got my desk. I never saw that team in person again.

I was later assigned to a critical documentation project supporting the remote transition. I sat in Zoom meetings all day with people I'd never met. I tried to perform under stress I didn't understand. At the time, I didn't know I was autistic. I didn't know I had ADHD. I only knew that I was overwhelmed, unsupported, and ashamed to ask for help.

My wife, a nurse, was working at the hospital. Daycare closed. News broke in waves. I spiraled. I was let go that June.

On paper, I collected unemployment. In reality, I lost much more. The structure. The pride. The rhythm I was just starting to believe in. That birthday dinner—our last "normal" one—still feels like a relic. A ghost meal.

Sometimes I think I stood in a very particular line—one that should've led to stability, not chaos. But everyone has a 2020 story. Mine just started in the Microsoft parking lot, waiting for a badge that never came.