Earlier this year, a friend of mine had to lay off a significant portion of their team. Not because of a bad quarter. Not because of internal dysfunction or poor leadership. Because the business couldn’t carry the weight anymore. The market shifted, revenue fell, and they had already tried everything they could think of to avoid this moment. They held on as long as possible.
I’ve been there. On both sides. I know what it feels like to make the call, and I know what it feels like to receive it. And I’ll say this without hesitation: no matter how many times you do it, no matter how clearly the numbers back up the decision, laying off good people is one of the hardest things you’ll ever do as a leader. It guts you. Because these aren’t abstract “resources” or percentages on a chart—they’re people who showed up, gave their best, and didn’t do anything wrong. And suddenly, you’re the one who has to sit across from them and say, “I’m sorry, but we can’t keep you.”
There’s no easy way to do it. And even when you handle it with care—when you reherse what you're supposed to say, communicate clearly, offer support, give as much runway as you can—it still hurts. It still lingers. And for the leader who has to carry that decision, the hardest part often comes afterward.
Because when the calls are made and the systems are updated and the rest of the team has absorbed the news, you’re left standing in front of them—exhausted, humbled, and trying to reestablish some kind of stability. That’s where the emotional weight really kicks in. And what hit me hardest in this case wasn’t the layoffs themselves—it was hearing that my friend felt embarrassed. Not shaken. Not just sad. Embarrassed. As if they had failed.
That’s what I want to address. Because I’ve seen this happen before, and I know how damaging that feeling can be—not just to the person carrying it, but to the culture they’re still trying to lead. Shame is heavy. And it’s quiet. It doesn’t show up all at once. It creeps in. It convinces you that if you were a stronger leader, you would’ve found another way. That “real” leaders find a path forward without having to make hard calls. That maybe—just maybe—you don’t deserve the trust of your team anymore.
That feeling isn’t just unfair. It’s dangerous. Because shame doesn’t just live in your private thoughts—it changes how you lead. It makes you hesitate. It dulls your voice. It shows up in meetings as over-explaining and second-guessing. It creates dissonance and distance between you and your team, right when they need you to show up the most.
There’s a difference between carrying responsibility and absorbing blame. One is leadership. The other is self-erasure. And that’s not what your team needs from you. They don’t need you to pretend like everything’s fine. They don’t need a hero. What they need is a leader who can acknowledge what happened, own the weight of it, and still lead them forward—with steadiness, with clarity, and with enough self-trust to keep going. Not with sad happy hours and extra time off.
You’re allowed to feel the loss. You’re allowed to hurt. But you’re not required to carry shame for doing the best you could in a moment that no one wanted. This wasn’t a failure. This was reality. And if you’re still standing—still showing up, still caring—then you’re doing more than enough.
That’s what leadership looks like now and in the future. Not perfection. Not immunity from hard decisions. But presence. Steady, grounded presence. Especially when it hurts.
T L ; D R — Laying off good people never feels fair, even when it's the right decision. And for the leader who has to carry it out, the hardest part often comes after—when the shame creeps in and starts rewriting the story as failure. But doing the hard thing in impossible conditions isn't failure. It's leadership. The team that remains doesn’t need a flawless leader. They need a present one. Don’t let shame silence your voice. You still belong in the room.
