My Turn
It was finally my turn—or at least that’s what I told myself as I tugged my black turtleneck down over my freshly done braids. Eight months out of uni and I was still trying to figure out where exactly “my turn” was supposed to be.
I’d made what I thought was a smart choice back then: turned down an interview with a prestigious IT company, literally the week after I had graduated. In my head, jobs were like buses—miss one and another would roll up soon enough. Plus, I had wanted to enjoy my summer. That was the plan.
I learned quickly that wasn’t true.
Summer faded into autumn and autumn into winter, and I was still stuck at the same job—my summer gig turned full-time grind—earning just over minimum wage checking through endless stacks of marked exam papers. I couldn’t wait to leave and start living. Whatever that meant.
And yet, the same thought kept looping back: if I’d gone to that interview, where would I be now? What would life look like? It was the kind of question that never gave me an answer, only that dull ache of regret.
Snow and Slush
Most of my close friends were already settled in their graduate roles, and all I wanted was to start my own journey too. I can’t lie—I felt like a flop. Comparison is the thief of joy, they say, but honestly? It still stung.
Anyway, today was the day. After sending off hundreds of applications and getting nothing but silence, I finally had an interview. This was it. I even caught myself thinking about handing in my notice at work—just stepping out in faith. Something in me whispered that things were about to shift in my favour.
As I buttoned up my slightly worn duffle coat, I thought, There’s something distinctly London about a surprise snowstorm in late February. It was still pitch-dark when I set out, trudging through snow at 7:00 a.m., and my main goal was simple: don’t fall flat on my face.
The hem of my wide-leg pinstripe trousers was already soaking up icy slush, but at least my chestnut-brown Uggs had grip. (A deliberate choice. Sometimes fashion just has to suffer.) I even caught myself wishing I owned proper snow boots—right before I nearly skidded over a drain. By the time I got to the station, my nose was running. Great.
On the train, I stared out the window as snowflakes stuck stubbornly to the glass, picturing all the ways I’d show up to my big day looking like a half-drowned cat. And, of course, I was right to worry.
By the time I got off the Tube at Edgware Road and dragged myself through the slushy streets, my feet were soaked, my coat was damp, and my hands were stiff with cold.
The company was tucked away inside a housing estate in northwest London. I still remember the building—big, brown, and a little intimidating. I’d been preparing for this interview for weeks: rehearsing polished answers, drafting clever questions, doing everything I could to prove I was the right fit.
But the truth? By the time I stepped into that reception, dripping and shivering, I didn’t feel ready at all.
Not Good Enough
The interview itself was a blur. I shook hands with the hiring manager, who noticed me discreetly trying to wipe my damp hand on my trousers. My answers tumbled out in pieces, my mind foggy from the cold and the pressure. It felt like my best responses were stuck somewhere else, refusing to line up when I needed them most. I remember almost watching myself from the outside, thinking, What on earth am I even saying?
Stepping back out into the cold afterward, I already knew—I hadn’t impressed them. For the first time that day, I was relieved I hadn’t gone through with handing in my notice.
The rejection email came a few days later. Polite. Brief. The kind that thanks you warmly for your time before reminding you they’ve “decided to move forward with another candidate”—in this case, someone who already worked there. I sat in my room, watching the snow outside collapse into grey slush, reading the line again and again. Why bother interviewing me if they already had someone lined up?
The words “It was a great interview” echoed uselessly. Great wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. And just like that, the chapter I’d imagined so clearly for myself—new job, new life—felt completely out of reach.
It made me turn inward. Single. Minimum wage job. No progress. By my own standards, I was failing. By everyone else’s, probably too.
And then, as if the universe wanted to rub it in, a uni friend rang. His opener? “So are you driving yet?” Not a “How’s life?” or “How are you holding up?” Just that. I told him I had my provisional, was saving for lessons, and hoped to take my test before the year was out.
“Nah, that’s not good enough for me,” he said casually, before cutting the call short.
I stood in the kitchen afterwards, stunned. Not good enough? First of all, we were just friends. Barely even that—an occasional “hi” over text. And second, I had never, for a second, thought he saw me as anything more than a platonic mate. Platonic in every sense. Now here he was, confirming what I already feared—that I wasn’t good enough. Not for him. Not for the world. Not for anyone.
I deleted his number that same evening. And I promised myself: the day I passed my test and got a car, he would never hear from me again. KMT.
Melting Into Spring
The weeks that followed were heavy. Winter job hunting is exhausting—dark mornings, dark evenings, rejection after rejection. Every unanswered email felt like proof that I wasn’t cut out for this.
Still, time moved on. The snow melted, and I forced myself to keep going, learning what I could from each failed attempt.
My Turn, Again
Then one morning, months later, my phone rang. It was the same company. The one that had rejected me in the snow.
They were expanding, the estates manager explained. A new role had opened up—one that sounded like it had been written for me. Would I like to come in for a chat?
This time, I didn’t hesitate.
Spring had cleared the streets, and I walked into that same reception with dry shoes – black suede loafers actually, steady hands, and a calmer heart. I even smiled to myself, remembering how small and nervous I’d felt on my first visit. The hiring manager greeted me warmly, and before I knew it, after a short conversation, the job was mine.
It felt surreal. The opportunity I thought I’d lost to a snowy February morning had circled back. As if London itself was reminding me: it wasn’t the end. It just hadn’t been my time and now it was!
That day taught me something I hold onto still—resilience matters. Timing matters. Sometimes the door doesn’t open right away because it isn’t ready, or because you aren’t. Sometimes, the things we chase need a little more time to bloom.
And when they do—it really is your turn.
