I showed up ten minutes early because I’ve learned the hard way that time is a predator.
The reception area is a terrarium of polite life: soft chairs, a plant that looks like it’s on a performance improvement plan, a bowl of mints that taste like regret. Everything is beige in the way people get beige when they’ve decided passion is “unprofessional.”
I check in. My voice comes out smooth, friendly, and appropriately human.
“Hi. I’m here for the 10:30.”
Inside my head: I have been in rooms where my future was decided by someone named Craig in shoes that cost more than my rent. I have survived Craig.
They hand me a visitor badge that sticks to my coat like a needy thought. HELLO, MY NAME IS: I write my name carefully, like the pen could detonate the room.
I take a mint because I have learned the sacred rule: accept the small offered mercies. It makes you look house-trained.
A door opens. A person appears—professional, neat, holding a tablet like it contains my sins.
“Hi! Thanks so much for coming in.”
“Of course,” I say, because I’ve mastered gratitude as a survival strategy.
We walk down a hallway. The carpet muffles my footsteps like the building doesn’t want witnesses. Inside my head: This hallway is the long throat of a beast. I have smiled inside beasts before.
Conference room. Glass wall. Two waters. A desk. One polite apocalypse. They give you water like they’re testing whether you can be trusted around liquids.
“Please, have a seat.”
I sit with my hands folded like I’m praying for funding, like I’ve never bitten the inside of my cheek until it tasted like a decision.
“So… tell me about yourself.”
Sure. Absolutely. Love that.
Out loud: “I’m someone who really enjoys building things that work—teams, processes, outcomes. I’m collaborative, I like solving problems, and I’m excited about roles where I can grow.”
Inside: I am a person who has survived being loved by amateurs, being hated by professionals, being broke in interesting cities and lonely in the ones with good lighting. I have carried my dignity home like a drunk friend with one shoe. My brain is a nightclub and trauma is always on the guest list.
I nod at the right speed. I blink at the right intervals.
“What interested you in this position?”
Out loud: “I love the mission. I’ve been following your work, and I really connect with the direction you’re going.”
Inside: I need money in the way plants need light. My landlord does not accept ‘potential’ as payment. I am not a tragic poet living on moonbeams—I am a tragic poet living on direct debit.
I sip water like a person who has not screamed in their car recently.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
Five years is a temple built from guesses.
Out loud: “In five years, I see myself having grown into a leadership role—mentoring others and contributing strategically.”
Inside: In five years I hope to be employed, hydrated, and no longer haunted by the particular ringtone of someone who used to say “baby” like it was both a promise and a threat. Inside: growing a spine. Also: sleeping eight hours without waking up to existential dread and the memory of that one time I said something horny to the wrong person.
They nod like they can picture me as an icon on an org chart.
“What’s your greatest weakness?”
Ah. The velvet trap.
Out loud: “I can be a perfectionist.”
Inside: Perfectionism is fear in a tailored blazer. It’s believing the world is a grading rubric and you can earn safety with bullet points. I can be a hostage negotiator with my own self-worth. My nervous system hears “feedback” and starts writing a memoir.
They smile. They jot something down. Maybe it’s “good communicator.” Maybe it’s “dead behind the eyes.” Maybe it’s my future in shorthand.
“Tell me about a time you overcame adversity / failed / handled conflict.”
I inhale and choose the version of the truth that won’t scare the furniture.
Out loud: “In my last role there was a misalignment between teams on priorities, and I helped facilitate a conversation to clarify expectations and move forward.”
Inside: Conflict at work? Sure. Like when my manager took credit for my project and I smiled so hard I nearly cracked a molar. Like when I typed “Happy to help!” while my soul crawled out of my mouth and tried to escape through the vents. Like when I refused to weaponize the one thing I knew would destroy them. (And yes, I want a medal for that. Or at least a drink.)
Out loud: “Early in my career I took on too much independently instead of asking for support, and I learned the importance of communication and delegation.”
Inside: Babe. I have failed like a sport. Romantically, financially, spiritually, cosmetically. I have tried winged eyeliner while hungover and created something that could legally be classified as modern art.
I pause at exactly the right moment. The pause says: I’m reflective. I’m mature. I’m safe to hire.
Inside the pause: Please don’t make me reveal I’m held together by caffeine, spite, and the desperate desire to be loved without having to earn it.
“Do you work well under pressure?”
Out loud: “I thrive in fast-paced environments.”
Inside: Pressure is my most intimate relationship. We’ve shared meals. We’ve shared beds. We’ve shared the sacred moment at 3 a.m. when your thoughts strip naked and start doing stand-up comedy about your worst choices. I thrive because I have to. Like mold. Like myths. Like me.
“Why do you want this role?”
Out loud: “I’m excited by the challenge.”
Inside: Because I’m excellent at pretending I’m not collapsing in a stylish way. Because I can turn panic into bullet points. Because I have spent my whole life taking the unspeakable and writing it neatly in a box labeled Other. I’ve eaten challenges for dinner and they didn’t even text me after.
“Do you have any questions for us?”
Oh, I have a thousand.
About meaning. About mercy. About whether any of this counts as a life, or just a performance review for the gods.
But I ask the safe one, the one that fits in the room:
Out loud: “What does success look like here?”
They answer with metrics. I nod like I haven’t measured success in smaller units— in getting out of bed, in not texting the wrong person, in going one whole day without wanting to scream fuck into the open mouth of the sky.
We stand. We shake hands. My smile is steady as a courtroom clock. My soul is doing lines in the bathroom stall of my chest.
“Thanks again,” they say.
“Thank you,” I say—like a saint, like a professional, like someone who hasn’t survived an entire private war with nothing but manners and a wicked sense of humor.
I walk out carefully. Controlled. Composed.
And in the hallway, where nobody can see, my brain bows too— then flips the universe off, lovingly, with both hands.
TL;DR: Job interviews are just trauma in a blazer + room-temperature water + trying not to say “I dissociate in meetings” out loud.
submitted by /u/deadeyes1990
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