The Other Side of the Table

When I was looking for my first job, I sent out more resumes than I can count. Most disappeared. The interviews that came back were awkward, scattered, forgettable, probably on both sides. Nothing worked until someone offered an internal referral, and by that point I would have taken anything — so I did. I started as an intern, did whatever was asked, and was grateful for it.

Then one day, HR needed extra hands for campus recruiting. I went along. Suddenly I was on the other side of the table, the side I had been trying so hard to reach.

We saw hundreds of people a day and talked until our voices gave out. Within the first few hours I was forming impressions before people had even spoken, from their posture, their handshake, and the way they held a resume. We had little time with each person. Looking back, that also means we were making judgments on very little information.

Some resumes were hard to follow, with typos, inconsistent formatting, or no clear structure. Others were clean and correct but told me little about the person. The same qualifications kept appearing: a high GPA, relevant coursework, a club presidency. They were real achievements. In a long line of candidates, they did not help me distinguish one person from another.

Follow-up questions sometimes changed how I understood a resume. A claim about leading a team might turn out to describe a smaller role in a group project. What mattered was whether someone could explain what they had actually done. I was learning to ask for the details rather than rely on the title.

There were surprises in the other direction, too. Someone with no big names or flashy internships on the page could talk clearly about work they had done and why they had done it that way. Those conversations stayed with me. A resume could not tell me everything, and a brief conversation could not either.

By the end of the day I could remember maybe five faces. That said something about the limits of the process, as well as the difficulty of making an impression in it.

The uncomfortable part was recognizing myself. A year earlier I had been one of those candidates. I had thought my GPA mattered: 4.0, surely that means something. It did, but so many other candidates had strong grades too. From the other side, I could see how much a number left unanswered.

I had thought I would stand out more than I did. A referral and the timing of it had mattered more than I understood when I was applying. Someone had vouched for me when the page alone was not enough.

It was easy to take a rejection as proof that someone had failed to see what I could offer. Sitting in that chair complicated the picture. I still did not think every hiring decision was fair or good. But I understood better how little of an applicant’s life the people making it could see.

Years later, on job sites and in client meetings, the change of perspective became useful again. We tried to understand what the client was worried about: the landlord, the opening date, whether the space would still work in five years. Where could they save money? Where was it worth spending more? Sometimes the honest answer was that they did not need what we were proposing.

Those conversations were useful to the business, too. Clients came back and referred others. I think being willing to advise against unnecessary work helped build that trust.

I try to ask what the person across the table needs to understand, rather than assume that what matters to me will matter to them. I still have to remind myself to do it.

Writing