I Didn’t Get the Job

A tragicomedy in five corporate grief stages

I don’t know why this one stung so much. Maybe because I spent two weeks prepping for the interview? Not normal, functional adult prep, but military-level, wall-chart-making, red-string-on-the-wall crime scene prep. I turned my living room into a war room. At one point I made a battle plan involving Post-it notes, a laminated SWOT analysis, and a colour-coded schedule. I am not bitter (she says, sobbing into a spreadsheet named “Q3-Life-Plans-vFINAL-NO-SERIOUSLY-FINAL.xlsx”).

But I get it. It’s the corporate world. It’s not personal.

Except… It feels personal. Going for a role, applying, finding the time between school runs and snack negotiations, doing a 9pm interview on a Friday night in the middle of the summer holidays? It takes a chunk out of your soul.

I think I went through all five stages of grief before I even had the interview.

Stage one: Denial.
“I’d never survive full-time work again,” I whispered to no one, while rocking back and forth in leggings I’ve worn since Tuesday.

Stage two: Bargaining.
“But steady income could be good, right? I could outsource the kids’ social lives. Maybe even buy a new coat?”

Stage three: Depression.
I cried three times in one week just imagining my daughter looking for me at nursery while I answer a Teams message.

Stage four: Delusion. (Not official, but we all know it’s real.)
I got excited about the idea of offsites, team animations, coffee that’s not mine. WHO WAS SHE?

Stage five: Blind Hope.
For the first time in ages, I dared to dream. About actual plans. Being seated at the table again, having big conversations, making decisions, speaking to other adults that weren’t my husband.

And I sort of loved the interview prep. I know. Silly. Embarrassing. I basically built a mock interview dungeon and started drafting Slack threads to imaginary colleagues. My brain was alive again. It had a chew toy. And it felt, dare I say… good.

But then I had the next round of the interviews.

And I knew.

Not that I didn’t get it (I’m disgustingly and incorrectly optimistic about my own abilities) but I knew it wasn’t a match. The conversation had the energy of a self-service checkout machine rejecting my bagging area. Robotic. Hollow. Like I was being scanned for corporate weaknesses.

Did I blink weird? Did I say “KPIs” too enthusiastically? Did I smile too much? Should I have been more apathetic?

I hate rejection. It’s so physical. It gets into your chest and settles in your bones like an unpaid bill. And even though I know it’s not personal, it feels like I lost a job I never even had.

Was someone else better? I can handle that.

Did I fumble it? Did I give off “hasn’t spoken to an adult in 48 hours” energy? Was it the moment I earnestly pitched my delegation prowess like I’d just cracked the code to happiness and quarterly reporting at the same time?

Anyway. This is a very self-indulgent post. I know that.

But I think I needed to say it out loud (on the internet, with several hundred words and an overuse of italics). Even my content lately has felt a bit… off. Like the corporate veil was descending again:

“Don’t post that. Is that appropriate? Don’t say f*ck. Don’t mention childcare logistics!”

Nah.

So. Silver linings: Expect a flood of deeply not corporate-friendly content from me coming soon. I’m back. Slightly bruised, but back. And this time, I’m bringing the spreadsheets and the swearing.