There are words we do not say anymore. Covenant. Vocation. Dignity. They sound old. Heavy. Unfit for quarterly earnings. But once, they named something sacred. Work was not just what we did. It was how we belonged—to each other, to place, to time, to the world. Before the algorithm, before the inbox, before the polite termination call, there was labor—and there was meaning. Not perfect or fair. But rooted. This is a reckoning, not a romance. A story not of golden ages, but of forgotten altars.
Because we did not simply lose jobs. We lost memory. And in the silence that followed, we told ourselves it was freedom. This essay is for those who remember otherwise. For those who ache without knowing why. And for those who still believe the soul deserves more than severance.
