I took vacation days to interview, bought my own plane ticket, and paid for my own hotel.

The first thing the interviewer said was, “I have no intention of hiring you.” I had 8 more hours left in my interview day. It was painful. They ended up continuing with the schedule like everything was fine, and I smiled and played along, pretending like I didn’t hear what I just heard.

The worst part? I believed them. I spent the whole day thinking I was wasting my time, just another box to tick for some HR policy or a formality because they already had someone else in mind. I sat in back-to-back meetings, group panels, lunch with the team—smiling, nodding, answering questions like I hadn’t just been gutted in the first five minutes.

The night before the interview, I’d stayed up practicing my talking points. My husband, Drew, helped me run through mock questions. He’d kissed my forehead and told me, “They’d be lucky to have you.” I wish I could’ve bottled that moment and opened it during the interview, when I felt small and unwanted.

I flew across the country to be told, in essence, I didn’t belong. And still had to play polite guest for an entire workday. Every meeting blurred into one another, and I was mentally checked out by noon. I kept thinking, “Why am I here?” over and over, like a cruel loop in my head.

By the time I got back to my hotel room, my shoes were cutting into my heels and my blouse was damp from sweat. I stood in front of the mirror, stared at myself, and burst into tears. I felt stupid, embarrassed, and exhausted. Like I’d fallen for something—been tricked.

I called Drew. “They said they’re not hiring me. First thing, right out the gate,” I whispered. He was quiet on the other end for a beat, then said, “Then you don’t owe them anything. You gave them your best. That’s on them.”

I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept replaying the day, the cold tone in the interviewer’s voice, the blank stares from the panel, the small talk over lunch that felt forced. I thought about the money I spent getting there, the vacation days I used up, the time away from my family. And for what? A practice run?

The next morning, I had time to kill before my return flight. So I found a little café near the airport. I sat with a coffee I didn’t really want, watching strangers come and go. Everyone looked like they had a purpose. I felt directionless, like a balloon that lost its string.

Just as I was about to leave, a woman at the next table leaned over and said, “You dropped this.” She handed me my business card—it must’ve slipped from my folder. I thanked her, then she glanced at the logo. “You work in instructional design?”

I nodded, unsure where she was going with it.

“My sister’s hiring for someone like you. They’re struggling to build training materials for their nonprofit staff. You should reach out,” she said casually, like she wasn’t changing the entire course of my week.

I blinked at her. “Really?”

She laughed. “Yes, really. Here, let me text you her info.”

It felt surreal, like life had tripped me, then handed me a cup of tea while I was still on the floor. I sent her sister—Becca—an email that night, unsure anything would come of it. She responded within two hours.

“Can you Zoom tomorrow?”

I said yes before I could overthink it.

Becca turned out to be warm, sharp, and hilarious in the dry British kind of way. She ran a literacy nonprofit in Baltimore, and they were expanding. They’d gotten a grant to scale up, but the team was overwhelmed, and their internal training systems were a mess.

“We’ve got passion,” she said, “but no structure. I need someone who can teach the teachers.”

That was my wheelhouse.

We talked for over an hour, and at the end, she said, “We’d need you part-time to start. Freelance contract. But if it works out, I want to bring you in full-time.”

I said yes again.

I flew home feeling… lighter. Like maybe the trip hadn’t been a total waste after all.

Back in my own kitchen, Drew handed me coffee, and I told him everything. He just raised an eyebrow and said, “Told you. They’d be lucky to have you.”

Over the next month, I balanced my old job and the new freelance gig. The nonprofit’s work lit me up in a way I hadn’t felt in years. I was working with passionate people who actually listened. Who actually cared.

Meanwhile, the company that flew me out? They never even sent a rejection email. Nothing. Just silence.

I should’ve been mad, but honestly? I felt grateful. They made it easy to walk away.

Three months into my work with Becca, they offered me a permanent position. Remote, with great benefits. It wasn’t flashy, but it was meaningful. And the people? Genuine, down-to-earth, and the exact kind of team I wanted to grow with.

Here’s the twist, though. A year later, I ran into someone from that dreadful interview trip. I was at a conference in Chicago, giving a talk on accessible learning design. Someone came up afterward and said, “Hey, I think we met last year… weren’t you interviewing at Carmichael & Rhoades?”

I froze. I couldn’t place his face, but he seemed familiar.

“Yeah,” I said slowly.

He gave a sheepish smile. “I was one of the panel folks. I left that company six months ago. Toxic as hell. Half the leadership was replaced. They had a mass walkout right after your visit.”

I raised my eyebrows.

He went on, “You left an impression, though. You handled that day with a lot more grace than most people would’ve. Word got around about what the hiring manager said to you. People were furious.”

I blinked. “Wait. People knew?”

He nodded. “Oh yeah. The HR rep filed a complaint. That guy’s gone now.”

I didn’t know what to say. All that time, I thought no one noticed.

Turns out, sometimes people are watching—quietly, silently—more than we know.

The same week I heard that, Becca offered to promote me to Director of Learning Strategy. Full-time, better salary, more say in the mission.

I said yes, again.

And that same night, as I sat on the couch, glass of wine in hand, laptop closed, I thought about that first interview. About the plane ticket, the hotel room, the tear-stained pillow. The woman in the café. The random chance.

Life has this weird way of rerouting us when we’re headed somewhere we don’t belong. Sometimes the thing that breaks us is also the thing that redirects us.

So yeah. I paid for that whole interview trip just to be told I wasn’t wanted. But the universe paid me back with interest.

Here’s the thing: just because someone says you’re not good enough doesn’t make it true. Sometimes it’s just the wrong room. Sometimes the room is full of people who don’t know what they’re doing.

But you do. And eventually, someone will see that.

If you’ve ever been blindsided in a job interview, or told you weren’t good enough for something you know you’re great at—share this. Someone else needs to know that detours aren’t always failures. Sometimes, they’re the shortcut.

Like this post if you’ve ever taken a leap—and ended up landing somewhere better.