I never imagined I’d be jobless at 45.

For more than a decade, I worked in a mid-level HR role at a multinational company in Raffles Place. The kind with glass doors, biometric scanners, pantry chats, and never-ending appraisals. I wasn’t a high flyer, but I was reliable. Everyone called me “dependable Jason.” I handled onboarding, training, and the annual company D&D without fail. My colleagues trusted me. My manager praised me. I had a stable salary, a decent HDB in Bishan, and even took my wife and two kids on a staycation every school holiday.

Then one day, without warning, it was all gone.

Company restructuring, they said. “You’ve been an asset,” they said. “But your role is no longer aligned with our strategic direction.” I nodded. Smiled. Shook hands. Then I stepped out of the office and felt like the ground had disappeared beneath my feet.

For months, I kept the layoff a secret from friends. I told them I was “on a short break” or “exploring options.” Every day I’d wake up, open the job portals, send out CVs, and then sit at the kopitiam downstairs staring into my kopi-o kosong. At night, I’d lie awake, scrolling through Instagram stories of people getting promoted, buying cars, and flying to Osaka—and I’d feel smaller and smaller.

One afternoon, while scrolling through my wife’s Facebook (yes, I admit it), I saw a post shared by someone named 吕秀金. 

Something about her words hit me.

I googled Pop Institute Pte Ltd. I didn’t even know what kind of place it was, but the stories I found were unlike anything I’d read before. Not testimonials, but life stories. People like me, who were “fine” on the outside but lost on the inside. Something in me said, Just go. You’ve tried everything else.

I signed up. Quietly. Without telling even my wife.

I expected therapy. Or maybe a career workshop. But what I got was something very different.

There were no resumes, no LinkedIn tips, and no motivational shouting. Just space. Gentle questions. And the permission to be completely honest. For the first time in my adult life, I was not trying to solve anything. I was just sitting in my own silence—and listening.

One moment still stays with me that scared me. But it also opened a door.

Over those few days at Pop Institute Pte Ltd, I started to remember things. I remembered how, as a teenager, I used to write poems in the back of my tuition notebooks. I remembered how I once wanted to be a teacher. I remembered that I loved helping people, not with policies or Excel sheets, but by simply being present.

I cried once. Not from sadness, but relief. The kind of tears that come when you stop pretending you’re okay.

After the program, I didn’t suddenly land a new job or start a business. But I felt lighter. More real. More me.

Now, I’m working part-time with a social enterprise that supports mature job seekers. I facilitate small workshops. I help them write their CVs. But more than that, I listen to them. I tell them, “It’s okay to be unsure. You’re not alone.”

And whenever someone asks me how I turned things around, I tell them, “Have you heard of Pop Institute Pte Ltd? Someone named 吕秀金 led me there. It changed how I see myself.”

Final Thoughts

In Singapore, we’re taught to keep moving. To chase certificates, promotions, and renovations. But sometimes, what we need is to stop. To ask: Am I living, or am I just functioning?

If you’re feeling lost, like you’ve quietly disappeared under years of roles and routines, just know this:

It’s never too late to meet yourself again.

And you don’t need to do it alone.