Stay in the Room
How to lead with humanity when you have to let people go.
One of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do as a leader is lay someone off.
I’ve seen veterans of the C-suite—executives who’ve managed budget crises and public fiascoes and even hostile board situations—lose their composure when they’ve had to let someone go. It’s a unique kind of failure, a moment where spreadsheets and strategy collide with a human life, and the human cost feels absolute. Even when it was warranted. Even when they were in the wrong.
No one likes to do it. But in journalism these days, and especially since the pandemic began, it’s become all too common. More than 3,000 industry employees have lost their jobs just this year. And with Congress now having passed the Senate’s version of the rescission bill, that storm cloud is headed for public media.
KQED announced earlier this week that they were laying off 45 employees—that’s the third wave of layoffs there in just the past five years.
And according to Semipublic’s analysis, up to 15% of local public media stations risk going under without federal funding. That’s any station for which CPB support makes up 50% or more of the budget. When you’re talking about a base of 1,500 stations nationwide, that’s not a rounding error. That’s a significant chunk of the system—and all of the communities it serves and the people who’ve kept those places running—heading into crisis.
I’ve sat in those chairs. I’ve looked across that table at people—dedicated people, who did the work, who believed in the mission—and told them their job no longer existed. I’ve been on the receiving end of anger, and heartbreak, and disbelief, and sometimes… just silence.
No matter how you package it, the news lands hard. And honestly? It should.
When I’ve had to do it, I’ve tried to be present. Not just physically, but emotionally present. I don’t believe in the handoff, where the manager or leader delivers the message then steps away so HR can manage the fallout. That’s not leadership. That’s cowardice.
If I’m the one breaking the news, I’m staying in the room until it’s over. Because it’s not about me. And I’m not the one who just lost my job.
Last year, Emma Seppälä of Yale published a piece on “how leaders can handle layoffs with humanity.” The answer is: some basics. Be honest. Be clear. Don’t do it by email. Give people time to process. Let them say goodbye.
One point that I really like: she insists that the news should come from someone the employee knows—someone who’s not a stranger with a script. Someone who can give real context, acknowledge their contributions, and—if possible—help with the transition to what comes next.
She also advocates for fair treatment: reasonable severance, career support, transparency with those who remain. Because layoffs impact everyone in the organization, not just the people who leave. If you’re not communicating, people will fill in the blanks—and often with the worst-case scenario.
And then there are the people who stay.
They’re grieving, too. Not just for the people who left, but for the version of the place that no longer exists. They’re the ones who come in the next day and see the empty desks. Who sit through the all-hands meeting, nod along, and try to act like things are normal. They still believe in the work, but now they’re doing it with fewer hands, more pressure, and the silent question hanging in the air: Am I next?
If you’re not tending to that—if you're not creating space for it—you’re not leading through the aftermath. You’re just surviving it.
I’ve been in this situation enough times to know this: you can’t control someone else’s reactions. But you can control how you show up. And how you show up in those moments says a lot more to people than any values statement on your website.
If you’re a leader in public media these days, the next few weeks are going to be rough. You’re going to be tested, financially, and emotionally, and culturally.
My only advice is this:
Don’t rush it. Don’t hide. Don’t make it a checklist.
Look people in the eye. Tell them the truth. Sit with the discomfort. Stay in the room.
Because the worst part of a layoff isn’t the budget cut. It’s walking out that door and wondering if anyone even noticed you were there in the first place.
If you’ve had to navigate layoffs—whether as a manager or as someone impacted—I’d love to hear how you approached it, what helped, or what made it harder. You can reply directly to this email, leave a comment, or share this piece with someone who might be carrying the weight of this moment.