How Cooking Lobster Gave Me My Confidence Back Post-Layoff

It was an aggressively average Thursday morning in June. The kind where nothing feels particularly significant, but in hindsight, you realize the universe was definitely plotting something. I woke up in my studio apartment and did the usual: made the bed (half-heartedly), brushed my teeth, and got dressed one leg at a time like a functioning adult.

My to-do list at work had reached unhinged levels, so I made a cup of coffee, opened my laptop a little early, and tried to mentally prepare for the chaos. That’s when I saw it: An Outlook calendar invite. It was from my boss’s boss, with HR looped in, and had a subject line that read: “Quick Sync.” I stared at the screen for a good 10 seconds. You don’t just casually sync with HR unless something deeply unpleasant is about to go down. My stomach dropped. I tried to tell myself it could be anything. Maybe they were starting some exciting new initiative and wanted me to help lead it? Maybe I was getting promoted? Maybe—

Nope. My intuition was right. When the time came, I joined the Zoom link, smiled like a true corporate robot, and within minutes, I was officially unemployed. Laid off. My camera was on, and I remember nodding and smiling as if I wasn’t internally spiraling. It was weirdly civil, and I even thanked them for the opportunity before logging off. And then, just like that, it was over. My job. My routine. The thing that gave my days structure and made me feel like I was building something. Poof.

I closed my laptop. Stared at the wall. Then reopened the laptop, just to confirm it really happened. I didn’t cry right away. I paced. I organized the junk drawer. I opened the freezer, looked at a sad bag of Trader Joe’s cauliflower gnocchi, and closed it again. Finally, after about 30 minutes of aimless movement, I did what any mildly unhinged woman would do: I called my mom. “Come home,” she said, without missing a beat.

I didn’t need convincing. It’s hard to be in New York City when you’re sad, especially when you live in 400 square feet and the downstairs neighbors are practicing saxophone scales like they’re prepping for Carnegie Hall. I knew if I stayed, I’d spiral, so I threw a jumble of half-clean clothes into a suitcase and hopped on the next eastbound Long Island Rail Road train.

How I coped after getting laid off

There’s a kind of comfort that only home can offer—not just the physical place, but the emotional safety net of it. The version of home where someone stocks your favorite snacks without asking, gives you a hug without needing an explanation, and instinctively knows when to talk and when to just sit in silence. My dad met me at the train station like he always does, leaned in for a hug, then immediately cracked a joke about my “early retirement package.” We’re Italian and from Long Island—humor is our love language, especially in moments of mild crisis. And just like that, we were cruising down Sunrise Highway, heading straight for my childhood home.

“It wasn’t just dinner—it was a statement.”

That first day, I let myself collapse. I laid on the couch. I watched four straight hours of Love Island. I re-downloaded a meditation app and never opened it. I scrolled vacantly on LinkedIn. I didn’t say much. I didn’t have much to say. But as the weekend crept in and Father’s Day slowly approached, I started to get restless. The existential fog was still hanging over me, but now it had morphed into a low-grade panic. I kept checking my email out of habit, even though no one was emailing me anymore. It felt like the whole world was moving on without me, and I was just… sitting.

Then, sometime around 11 p.m., about a week later, in a weird fusion of grief, pride, and a desperate need to feel accomplished, I made a decision. I was going to cook lobster for my parents. Because what better way to prove I was still a competent, put-together adult than by casually preparing an entire gourmet meal in the middle of my quarter-life crisis? It wasn’t just dinner—it was a statement. My parents were always in my corner; this wasn’t about them. It was about proving something to myself. A redemption arc, served with lots of butter and lemon wedges.

How cooking lobster restored my self-esteem

I rarely cook for my parents. They’ve always taken such good care of me, so when I’m home, I usually let myself melt into that role of being looked after. The most they’ve ever seen me make in their kitchen is some late-night scrambled eggs or a rogue grilled cheese. But back in my apartment, cooking is one of my favorite ways to unwind. It makes me feel grounded. Capable. Creative, even.

So when I found myself at home, freshly unemployed and spiraling slightly, I decided to do something I’d never done before. It was time to cook lobster. Not just lobster, either—I was going to make lobster pizza. Because if I was going to prove to them (and honestly, to myself) that I was OK, I wanted to do it with a little Italian flair.

“In their reactions, I found something I hadn’t felt in a long time: a reminder that I could succeed, that I could create, and that maybe my confidence wasn’t gone for good.”

Luckily, I’d taken a virtual lobster masterclass a few weeks earlier with Mark Murrell, the Chief Curator of Get Maine Lobster. At the time, I joined mostly out of curiosity and a desire to shake up my weeknight dinner routine. But now, Mark’s voice echoed in my brain like a culinary guardian angel. “When it comes to lobster,” he said, “sight and feel are key.” I pulled up Get Maine Lobster’s recipe for grilled lobster pizza, headed to the store, and loaded my cart with the goods. Back in the kitchen, I rolled up my sleeves, tied my hair back, and took a deep breath. Showtime.

First up? I needed to face the lobster. A light sheen of panic-sweat made an appearance—apparently sautéing shellfish was enough to trigger a full fight-or-flight response. My inner critic was perched on the counter, judging every sizzle. A few minutes in, I flipped the tails over and blew out a sigh of relief. Maybe this wasn’t a disaster in the making. Maybe I could actually keep it together—a small victory for both my dinner and my post-layoff self-esteem. I pulled them off the heat, let them cool for a beat, then carefully split the shells to free the meat. It was buttery, rich, and somehow, despite my nerves, perfectly cooked.

Bit by bit, the motions became second nature. For once, my thoughts weren’t just circling around my job or the gnawing need to prove myself. They were too busy keeping pace with the knife. I was sweating, slightly unsure, but fully in it. While everything cooled, I turned my attention to the dough. “Deep breath in, you’re almost there,” I told myself. I only had a few steps left. As I spread out a sheet of parchment paper on the back of a baking sheet, brushed it with olive oil, I realized just how large an undertaking the process was. I prayed to the Food Network gods that I didn’t miss a step, that I didn’t mess it up somehow. If I did, I wasn’t sure I could handle another failure. Not again, not so soon after my layoff. I needed to feel competent.

I laid the dough on top and stretched it out with my fingers until it reached the edges, and into the oven it went—450 degrees, top rack, no looking back. I watched through the oven window like it was a high-stakes baking show, waiting for the dough to bubble and blister. After a few minutes, the edges started to puff and take on a golden brown hue. I could practically hear Mark Murrell cheering me on through the ether. As the pizza cooked—filling the kitchen with an aroma so good it could’ve lured the neighbors—my parents started poking their heads in, curious for a taste.

“My newfound confidence carried me forward in unexpected ways—a reminder that I could still take risks, try new things, and trust myself.”

Panic hit instantly. I had always been the baby of the family, the one expected to spill, trip, or ruin dinner—not this time. I couldn’t play that role today. I carefully slid the pizza onto a cutting board, topped it with fresh parsley, and stood there for a second in awe. It looked like something out of a glossy food magazine. It felt like a win. For a minute, I forgot about the job, the resume drafts, the existential questions. I was just a girl who grilled a lobster pizza—and absolutely crushed it.

How I moved forward with confidence

That night, we sat down for Father’s Day dinner at our kitchen table—the same one I’ve sat at for dinner my whole life. But this time, I was the one serving the meal. I slid the pizza onto a wooden board, sliced it into imperfect wedges, and placed it in the center of the table.

My dad took a bite first—he’s always the tester—and immediately let out a low, satisfied “Mmm.” My mom followed with an audible gasp, then a wide-eyed, “Wait… you made this?” My brother reached for a second slice before he’d even finished the first. Compliments flew—about the crust, the lobster, the cheese, the whole thing—and for once, I didn’t deflect or brush them off. I let myself soak in the moment. It wasn’t just that the pizza was good (it was); it felt like proof I was capable, even after losing my footing at work. In their reactions, I found something I hadn’t felt in a long time: a reminder that I could succeed, that I could create, and that maybe my confidence wasn’t gone for good.

The act of cooking that day, as messy, nerve-wracking, and lobster-scented as it was, gave me a small but crucial sense of control. It forced me to slow down, follow steps, make decisions, and trust my instincts. And the reward wasn’t just the pizza—it was seeing the people I love enjoy something I made with my own two hands. The laughter at the table. The clink of glasses. The feeling that, even if everything else felt uncertain, I was still capable of creating joy.

That confidence didn’t disappear when the kitchen cooled. After about two weeks at home, I brought it back with me to New York City. My newfound confidence carried me forward in unexpected ways—a reminder that I could still take risks, try new things, and trust myself. Some days, when applying to jobs feels fruitless and overwhelming, I revisit that memory. I open LinkedIn, send a note, take a small leap, and remember that I’m capable. I cooked lobster once, and a damn good lobster at that. In doing so, I proved to myself that I still am everything I thought I was before—resilient, creative, and ready for what comes next. In the end, I didn’t just cook lobster to prove I was OK. I cooked lobster because it reminded me that I still am.

Feature graphic images credited to: Emily Bresnahan | Dupe, Mikhail Nilov | Pexels, Elisa Morey | Dupe