Low diatribe

I've been playing the long game for months. Waiting. Applying. Refining. Patient in the way you learn to be patient when there's no other choice.

Then a former colleague reached out. She'd moved to a new company and they were hiring. Encouraging messages. Raving about the hiring manager. The kind of referral that makes you think: maybe this is it.

Friday morning: resume sent.
Friday afternoon: HR call scheduled.
Monday morning: HR call completed.
Monday afternoon: hiring manager call scheduled.
Tuesday morning: hiring manager call completed.
Tuesday afternoon: expecting next steps. Wednesday: dying in anticipation.

Nothing had actually changed. I'd been waiting for months. But that steady progression from Friday through Tuesday tricked my nervous system into thinking bankable progress was being made. The end was in sight. I could relax.

That's when hope crept in. Not the careful, grounded kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that fabricates futures. I started thinking about the perfect fit. The team. The work. The relief of finally landing somewhere that made sense. I wasn't just waiting anymore. I was planning.

Then a single day of stillness felt like eternity.

Thursday morning: the boiler-plate rejection.

"After careful consideration, we've decided to move forward with other candidates. While we're unable to provide personalized interview feedback, please know that we truly appreciate the effort and time you invested in the process."

The narrative I'd been building collapsed in a single sentence.

The familiar spiral started. Was I "over qualified"? Did I say something I shouldn't have? Did I not say something I should have?

I could spend days in that loop. What did I miss. What could I have done differently. Maybe if I'd emphasized this instead of that. Maybe if I'd asked better questions.

How could I make them see the future I saw.

The phrase hung there. Make them see. Like they were missing something obvious. Like if I could just find the right words, the right angle, they'd realize we were meant to be together.

I sounded like a schoolboy talking about a crush.

I was crushing on them. I'd been crushing on every company I interviewed with. Looking for the things I wanted to see.

Crushing on companies fueled the urgency with hope. The moment I started imagining the perfect fit, my nervous system set a deadline. Friday/Monday/Tuesday became "we'll be out by Christmas." Wednesday was Christmas Eve. Thursday was the day that Christmas didn't come.

The disappointment is the same every time.

The fabricated future. The imagined fit. That was all in my mind.

It's about the prolonged absence of stability.

The job search at this level is like a day at DisneyWorld with attendance at capacity. Four hours waiting in line for a 90-second ride that shuts down just when you're next.

That's what makes each "no" hurt. Not because that specific opportunity was special. Because it extends the timeline. Another week. Another month. Another line.

I can't go back to how it was before the wait.

But I can stop fabricating futures and their timelines. Stop trying to figure out what I could have done differently to make them see what I wanted them to see. I can stop crushing on companies.

Because somewhere along the way, I'd been so focused on the how that I forgot my why.

I've had a narrow view of what next steps should be. The default path: replicate and continue my career trajectory from BigBook Company. I never really questioned it.

It's not a map I have to follow.

I like building software. I like building teams. I like building culture. The common why: building. I want to make my world better and enjoy doing it. How I get there can take many paths.

I just never gave myself permission to look.

Giving myself permission doesn't change the waiting. The absence of stability remains. The search continues. "No" only becomes "never" when you stop.

The work evolves. I persist. But I'm done imagining perfect fits that don't exist.

I'm done chasing waterfalls.