“I applied for 47 jobs in my pajamas.”

‍Laura, you've just settled into your new office. How are you really feeling?

Honestly? Terrified. Excited. Relieved. Anxious. And sometimes all of those things at once, often around 3 a.m. My psychiatrist calls it “success anxiety.” I call it “fuck, they're going to find out I'm a fraud who cries while watching cat videos when she reaches her social anxiety limit.”

I naively thought that landing the job would be the end of the anxiety. Surprise! It was just the beginning of level 2. Now I wake up in a sweat wondering if I should have mentioned that Instagram campaign during my interview, or if my new desk should face the wall or the door according to professional anxiety Feng Shui.

Yesterday, I spent 45 minutes choosing which coffee mug to take to work. FORTY-FIVE MINUTES. As if my professional future depended on whether I projected a “minimalist Scandinavian mug” image or a “humorous mug, but not too much so as not to seem unprofessional” image. I finally opted for a neutral blue mug, then cried in my car wondering if this choice reflected a lack of personality.

Let's go back six months. How did your dismissal go?

Ah, that wonderful day when my boss called me in for a “quick chat” that turned into “strategic restructuring of the company.” Translation: “Laura, you're fired, but it's nothing personal, it's just that your position is too expensive.”

The scene deserves to be recounted in detail. It was a Tuesday. I already hate Tuesdays, but this one deserves its own commemorative plaque in the museum of my personal traumas.

My boss, Sébastien—the kind of forty-something who says “digital native” with an English accent but writes his emails in Comic Sans—called me into his office at 9:15 a.m. First red flag: Sébastien is never operational before 10 a.m. and his third coffee.

I walk into this glass-walled meeting room where everyone can see you cry—the sadistic design of modern open-plan offices. Surprise! The HR manager is there too. Second red flag, this time the size of a bed sheet.

Sébastien starts with, “Laura, you're doing a great job, BUT...” —and we all know that anything preceded by “but” in this context is about as sincere as a politician on the campaign trail.

What follows is a 12-minute monologue on “the economic climate,” “difficult decisions,” and “the added value of human resources in a budget optimization paradigm” —a complete corporate bingo.

I nodded professionally, shook hands, then went home and spent three days under my duvet with chocolate cookies as my only source of nutrition. My depression, which had been humming quietly in the background for a few months, suddenly turned up the volume.

The most ironic part? Two weeks earlier, I had created a campaign on “authenticity in business” that had broken all engagement records. Apparently, authenticity stops when the numbers don't follow.

How did you break the news to your friends and family?

Ah, the great awkward conversation tour! I developed a whole taxonomy of reactions to being fired.

First, there were my parents. My mother immediately went into “Disaster Mode” even though she's a practicing Catholic: “My God, Laura! How are you going to pay your rent? You'll have to sell your apartment! You'll end up homeless!” My father, more pragmatic, sent me three job offers in fields that had nothing to do with my skills.

Then there was the “well-meaning but clumsy friends” category. Julia, my best friend, alternated between “it's their loss, they didn't deserve you” and “I have a cousin who works at Monoprix, I can talk to him if you want”—every day for three weeks.

The prize goes to my ex, who heard the news and immediately wrote to me: “Maybe it's time to reconsider your career and do something really useful?” before suggesting I become a yoga teacher. I've never done yoga in my life.

The hardest part was telling my grandmother, who still doesn't understand exactly what I did. “You made commercials on computers, right?” Yes, Grandma, something like that. Her solution? “You should open a bakery, you make such good cookies.” I almost told her that my culinary skills were limited to opening granola packets, but I didn't have the heart to shatter her dreams of a glamorous career change.

How did you experience your first days of unemployment?

Like a mixture of forced vacation and a prolonged existential crisis. The five stages of unemployment according to Laura:

Phase 1: Productive Denial. I cleaned my apartment like never before. Corners that even my landlord didn't know about saw the light of day. I organized my closet by color, THEN by type of clothing, THEN by season. I even sorted my spices alphabetically, even though I never cook.

Phase 2: Deceptive Euphoria. “Finally free! I'll be able to do all the things I've been putting off!” I bought a watercolor painting kit, three books on personal development, and signed up for an online Python programming course. Spoiler alert: the watercolors are still in their packaging, I've read 12 pages of the first book, and Python remains an exotic snake to me.

Phase 3: Netflix Procrastination. “I deserve a little break before I start my research.” That “little break” lasted 9 days and 7 complete series. I developed a disturbing parasocial relationship with fictional characters and an encyclopedic knowledge of unsolved crimes from the 1970s.

Phase 4: Financial Panic. Brutal wake-up call at 4 a.m., calculator in hand, estimating how long my savings would last. Followed by a 2-hour session on unemployment benefit simulators, then a crying fit in front of my bank statement.

Phase 5: Unplanned Depression. The day I ate cereal straight from the box, standing in front of my open refrigerator at 3:30 p.m., wearing the same pajamas I had been wearing for three days. I looked at my reflection in the oven window and said to myself, “Oh, there you are, my old friend depression.”

I think what saved me from spiraling downhill was my cat, Freud (yes, named that because he silently judges me from his couch). Having a living being that depended on me forced me to at least get up to feed him. Some days, that was the only goal I could accomplish: “Today, I fed the cat. That's enough.”

How did you start your job search?

With remarkable elegance and strategy: I panicked. My first post-layoff resume looked like a desperate love letter: “Please hire me, I'm normally competent when my brain isn't sabotaging me.”

I went through several phases in my job search “strategy”:

First, the “Desperate Sniper” phase. I spent three whole days perfecting ONE resume and ONE cover letter for a job that seemed perfect for me. I analyzed the company culture as if I were writing a thesis, stalked all the employees on LinkedIn, and even bought one of their products so I could mention my “positive customer experience.” The result? Ghosted. Not even an automatic rejection email. Cosmic silence.

After this first disappointment, I switched to the “machine gun” phase. If quality doesn't pay, let's try quantity! I created a generic resume and cover letter with spaces to fill in like a professional Mad Lib: “I am particularly interested in the position of [TITLE] at [COMPANY] because I admire your commitment to [VALUE MENTIONED ON THEIR WEBSITE].” I applied for 23 jobs in two days. Most of them were so unsuited to my profile that I would have had a better chance of becoming an astronaut.

Then came the “Sunday Strategist” phase. I bought a whiteboard and hung it in my living room. I created a complex system with different colored Post-it notes, arrows, and diagrams. I looked like a detective in a crime movie, except I was hunting for job offers instead of criminals. My roommate thought I was developing a psychosis.

The darkest phase was “Toxic Comparison.” I spent hours on LinkedIn stalking former classmates who all seemed to have amazing careers. Julie is a director before 30? Maxime founded his own startup? And here I am, in stained sweatpants, wondering if I should include my 2009 internship on my resume.

Luckily, my roommate intercepted it before I sent it and convinced me that including my psychiatric diagnoses in the “skills” section might not be the best approach. Who would have thought?

Let's talk about LinkedIn. What was your relationship with this network during your search?

Ah, LinkedIn! That wonderful professional purgatory where everyone pretends to love their job and recruiters send you messages about positions that have nothing to do with your profile.

My relationship with LinkedIn during my job search was like that of a teenager with a crush: obsessive, anxiety-inducing, and mostly one-sided.

At first, I was naive. I would log in every morning, coffee in hand, ready to “network strategically” as all those job search articles advise.

Quickly, LinkedIn became my daily anxiety dealer. I checked it about 37 times a day. I developed a sixth sense for detecting when someone in my network changed jobs—usually to something more prestigious than what I was applying for.

The worst were the posts. Oh my God, the posts! Three categories stood out to me in particular:

1. The “Humble Braggers”: “So honored to announce that I'm joining [DREAM COMPANY] as [AMAZING JOB TITLE]! #blessed #hardworkpaysoff” — usually accompanied by a photo of them holding a mug with the company logo, smiling as if they'd just won the EuroMillions.
   
2. The “Inspiring Gurus”: those who turn the most mundane experiences into life lessons. “Today, I saw an ant carrying a crumb of bread. It reminded me of the importance of perseverance in business. #leadership #mindset #inspiration”
   
3. The “Enthusiastic Recruiters”: “URGENT: looking for a marketing NINJA with 10 years' experience, proficient in 28 software programs, speaking 5 languages, for a PAID INTERNSHIP AT MINIMUM WAGE! INCREDIBLE opportunity!”
   

I reached my breaking point when I spent three hours writing a “clever” comment under a LinkedIn influencer's post, hoping that a recruiter would see it and be impressed by my insight. The comment received one like from my mom (who had just joined LinkedIn and liked everything I posted).

I finally established a strict rule: LinkedIn only between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m., never right before bed, and no weekends. This rule probably saved my sanity and my relationship with my phone, which I was this close to throwing out the window.

What about other job search platforms?

Don't get me started on Indeed! I could write an entire thesis on the absurdity of that platform. I particularly enjoyed their “one-click application” system, which gives you the illusion that applying is easy, when in reality you then spend 45 minutes filling out the same form on the company's website.

I had to create an Excel spreadsheet to keep track of my applications, with a complex color code:

• Green: “They at least confirmed receipt of my application.”
• Yellow: “Ghosted, but I'm still hopeful.”
• Orange: “Interview secured, then no further news.”
• Red: “Explicit rejection, at least they were honest.”
  
• Purple: “Offer withdrawn or company disappeared off the face of the Earth”

In the end, my table looked like a depressing rainbow, with a clear predominance of yellow and red.

The most surreal platform remains Welcome to the Jungle. Their “company culture” videos are masterpieces of corporate fiction. You see people playing foosball and laughing, meeting rooms with walls covered in green plants, colleagues sharing organic smoothies during breaks... then you find yourself in an interview in a gray open-plan office with buzzing neon lights and a coffee machine that hasn't worked since 2017.

What was your biggest challenge during this period?

Without a doubt: the “valley” days. You know, in depression, there are mountains—those days when you feel like toxic waste that society should recycle into fertilizer. Those are easy to identify; you know you're not going to accomplish anything.

But the “valley” days are more insidious. You feel... almost normal? So you say to yourself, “Come on, today I'm going to apply for 10 jobs!” You even take a shower. You open your computer. And then a little voice says, “Do you really think they're going to hire you? You? The girl who put her T-shirt on backwards twice this week?”

The “trough” days deserve to be detailed, because they are the real battleground of job hunting with depression. A typical day looked like this:

8:30 a.m.: Wake up with surprising energy. I tell myself, “Today is THE day!” 8:45 a.m.: I make an ambitious list: update my resume, apply for five jobs, contact three former colleagues for networking. 9:30 a.m.: I take a real shower (not just a quick wash), get dressed in clean clothes (not my work pajamas). 10:15 a.m.: First coffee, I open my computer with determination. 10:20 a.m.: I “quickly” check my emails. Nothing interesting. 10:22 a.m.: I “quickly” check LinkedIn. An acquaintance has just been promoted. I feel confused, jealous, and inadequate. 10:45 a.m.: I force myself to open my resume. I stare at the document, and the document stares back at me. 11:00 a.m.: I change the font on my resume. Times New Roman to Arial. Revolutionary. 11:30 a.m.: I launch a Google search for “best font for marketing resumes 2023,” which leads me down a rabbit hole of contradictory articles. 12:30 p.m.: Lunch break, well deserved after this “productive” morning. 1:30 p.m.: I promise myself that I'll really get started now. 1:35 p.m.: I remember that awkward moment during my last interview three weeks ago. I replay the scene in my head 17 times. 2:15 p.m.: I force myself to open a job offer that looks interesting. 2:20 p.m.: The job requires “at least five years of experience.” I have four and a half. Existential dilemma: does that count as five years? Am I a liar if I round up? 3:00 p.m.: I finally decide to apply. I start my cover letter. 3:10 p.m.: I check to see if I've received any responses to my other applications. Still nothing. 3:30 p.m.: Back to my cover letter. The first sentence is crucial. I rewrite it nine times. 4:00 p.m.: Confidence crisis. Who would want to hire someone like me? I close everything. 4:30 p.m.: I feel guilty for “wasting” a day when I was feeling almost okay. 5:00 p.m.: I promise myself that tomorrow will be different. 8:00 p.m.: I find myself watching cat videos to calm my anxiety.

I renamed my job application folder “Proof that I'm trying anyway.” In the end, it contained 47 cover letters, all written in my pajamas, usually between 10 p.m. and 4 a.m.

How did your depression specifically influence your job search?

My depression was like a toxic coworker constantly sitting next to me, commenting on my every move:

“This job is perfect for you, but why would you apply? You know you're not good enough.”

“Remember that project you messed up three years ago? That proves you're incompetent.”

“They haven't responded in a week? Of course they saw your profile and laughed.”

The most perverse thing was that my depression sometimes wore the mask of “protection”—it “protected” me from disappointment by convincing me not to try. “Don't apply for that dream job, you'll be so disappointed when they reject you. It's better not to get your hopes up.”

In concrete terms, this manifested itself in several ways:

1. Paralyzing Procrastination: I could spend four hours rewriting a paragraph in a cover letter, convinced that every word could make the difference between being hired or rejected.
2. Selective Self-Sabotage: I didn't apply for the jobs I really wanted, for fear of failing where it mattered. I reserved my applications for “backup” positions that I wasn't sure I wanted.
   
3. Anxious Overpreparation: For a 30-minute interview, I would spend 12 hours preparing, anticipating every possible question and creating disaster scenarios in my head.
4. Catastrophic Interpretation: A recruiter takes three days to respond? Clearly, they hate me. They mention that they are looking for someone who “handles stress well”? That's code for they've detected my emotional fragility.

The irony? Digital marketing requires creativity, risk-taking, and resilience—all qualities that my depression was working hard to undermine. It was like trying to sell my ability to run a marathon while struggling with a broken leg.

How did you handle the interviews?

I developed a system I call “The Interview Bermuda Triangle”:

• Overprepare to the point of knowing the color of the CEO's socks
• Panic attack an hour before
• Complete dissociation during the interview, where a strangely calm, autopilot version of Laura takes over

My approach to interviews was a masterpiece of organized chaos. The day before, I would become a professional stalker—LinkedIn, Twitter, news articles, you name it. I knew the recruiter's career path better than my own resume. Once, I casually mentioned that I liked an article the HR manager had published two years earlier. His face oscillated between impressed and scared that he was dealing with a sociopath.

All my interviews began with the same ritual: arriving 30 minutes early, wandering around the building to kill time (receptionists hate candidates who are too punctual), then spending 10 minutes in the bathroom practicing my professional smile and repeating “you're competent, you're competent” like a dysfunctional Buddhist mantra.

The evolution of my interview outfits deserves its own timeline:

• Phase 1: The Corporate Suit. Blazer, matching pants, ironed shirt. I looked like I was dressed up for Halloween as a “functional adult.”
  
• Phase 2: The Accessible Creative. Nice jeans, casual blazer, statement jewelry but not too much. The balance was precarious between “I'm creative” and “but not so much that I'm unstable.”
• Phase 3: Calculated Authenticity. An outfit I could actually wear to work, minimal makeup, personal accessories. Depression had exhausted me to the point where I no longer had the energy to pretend to be someone else.

Ironically, it was in phase 3 that I started getting positive feedback. Apparently, “too tired to pretend” translates to “authentic and confident” in the eyes of recruiters.

My record? A Zoom interview where I answered every question perfectly while having a silent panic attack. My left leg was shaking so hard that I spilled my coffee, but since the camera was only filming my upper body, the recruiter didn't notice. I got a second interview. Depression develops unexpected acting skills.

The worst interview was when I completely blanked out on the question, “What are your main qualities?” It was as if my brain had suddenly been formatted. I stared at the recruiter for what seemed like hours (probably five seconds) before answering, “I'm... human? With human qualities?” He laughed, thinking I was making a sarcastic joke about the cliché question. I played along. He found me “refreshing.” I made it to the next stage.

And what about assessments and other personality tests?

The modern hell of job hunting! I developed a love-hate relationship with these tests, mostly hate with a hint of morbid fascination.

The MBTI test became my professional horoscope. Apparently, I'm an ENFP, which means I'm “enthusiastic, creative, and sociable” — three adjectives that neither I nor my psychiatrist would use to describe me during a depressive episode. I took this test four times during my job search, getting three different results. I wondered if I should mention my “fluid personality” as an asset.

The logic and reasoning tests were particularly cruel. Try figuring out “which geometric pattern comes next in the sequence” when your depressed brain can't remember if you took a shower today. Once, I took a test that asked me to solve complex problems “in less than 20 minutes.” It took me 47 minutes, and I cried twice.

The most absurd test was a questionnaire asking me to choose between statements like “I prefer to work alone” or “I like working in a team” — as if these were mutually exclusive options and not situational preferences. I almost answered “It depends if my coworkers are jerks,” but I held back.

In the end, I stopped seeing these tests as assessments of my worth and started seeing them as particularly boring video games. “Level 42: Figure out what the recruiter really wants to hear without sounding too calculating!”

What about the rejections? How did you deal with them?

Ah, rejections! I collected them like some people collect stamps. My favorite was the one that said, “Your profile is impressive, but we're looking for someone with more positive energy.” If only they knew how much energy it took me just to exist that day!

The rejections followed a fascinating emotional curve:

Rejection #1: Total devastation. I cried for two hours, questioned my entire career, and Googled “career change to baking” at 2 a.m.

Rejection #5: Targeted anger. I wrote (but never sent) a passive-aggressive email explaining why they were making a huge mistake. I imagined their company going under without my invaluable talent.

Rejection #12: Morose resignation. A shrug, a sigh, a chocolate bar eaten straight from the fridge.

Rejection #20: Dark humor. I started a “wall of fame” with all my printed rejection emails. I considered turning it into a contemporary art exhibition called “Sorry to inform you.”

Rejection #35: Zen detachment. “Another one? Add it to the pile.” I had become immune, like a doctor who no longer reacts when a patient vomits on their shoes.

The wording of rejection emails deserves its own literary analysis. I identified several genres:

Corporate Ghosting: No response at all. The most common and, paradoxically, the most painful—the professional equivalent of being left with a “read” message.

The Non-Personalized Template: “Dear candidate, despite your impressive qualifications...”—often with poorly formatted spaces betraying a hasty copy-and-paste job.

The Fake Regret: “It is with great regret that we must inform you...”—as if the recruiter was crying while writing this email that they sent to 200 people that day.

The Almost Honest: “We have found a candidate whose experience better matches our current needs.”—the corporate version of “it's not you, it's me.”

The Encouraging Sadist: “We strongly encourage you to apply for our future openings!” - Thanks, but I'd rather make a wasabi face mask.

At first, every rejection was a stab in the heart. I cried, questioned all my skills, rewrote my resume for the 17th time. And then, gradually, I developed a kind of immunity. Not indifference, but rather a perspective: “It's not me they're rejecting, it's just that the timing/fit/budget isn't right.”

That's the mature version. In reality, I also have a blacklist of companies on my fridge that I look at while eating cereal at midnight.

How did your perception of yourself evolve during this period?

That's probably the hardest question. My perception of myself has been on the most intense emotional roller coaster of my adult life.

At first, I defined myself entirely by my former job title. I was “Laura, digital marketing manager at X.” When that title disappeared, I felt like my identity evaporated with it. I introduced myself at social events with awkward circumlocutions: “I'm in a career transition” or “I'm a freelance consultant” (translation: I give my cousin free advice on her Instagram account).

Then came the “I am my depression” phase. Every rejection confirmed that I was fundamentally flawed, unfit, unworthy of employment. I looked in the mirror and literally saw the word “UNEMPLOYED” written on my forehead in invisible but burning letters. My self-worth was tied to my professional status—a toxic equation when you're looking for a job.

The lowest point came when I refused to go to a close friend's birthday party because I couldn't bear the inevitable questions about “so, have you found anything yet?” I chose to isolate myself rather than face what I perceived as judgment, even though rationally I knew my friends were just worried about me.

The transformation began unexpectedly. One day, after yet another particularly brutal rejection (three interviews, a technical test, then “we've decided to suspend this recruitment process”), I had a kind of absurd epiphany: I was crying on the toilet, my cat staring at me with his usual judgmental feline gaze, when I burst out laughing. The situation was so pathetic that it became comical.

That laugh was liberating. I realized that I wasn't my depression, or my unemployment, or even my career. I was just Laura, an imperfect human being going through a difficult period, with a judgmental cat as my witness.

I started keeping a gratitude journal, but a realistic version—not one of those Instagram things where people thank the universe for opportunities for growth. No, I wrote things like, “Today, I am grateful that I managed to wash my hair,” or “Thank you to the bakery that made a mistake and gave me two croissants instead of one.”

This practice, modest as it was, helped me see that even on my worst days, I was more than my job search. It was the beginning of a separation between my core identity and my professional status.

You mentioned that you used Listen. How did that help you?

By the luckiest coincidence, I got early access to Listen in May. The timing was... providential, let's say.

I had exhausted just about every resource available to me at that point—self-help books, guided meditations, mental wellness apps, therapy (when I could afford it), job seeker support groups that felt more like group therapy sessions.

Unlike most mental wellness tools that basically tell you to “breathe and everything will be fine” (spoiler: breathing never turned my resume into a job offer), Listen was... different.

At first, I was extremely skeptical. Another app that was going to tell me to practice gratitude and embrace uncertainty? No thanks, I already had the whole collection.

But two things struck me immediately: first, I could log in at any time (crucial when your sleep cycle resembles an erratic electrocardiogram). Second, it wasn't a monologue but a conversation.

I often logged in after a rejection or a day without a response—usually at ungodly hours when even my most devoted friends were asleep. Listen became my late-night job-hunting confidant.

One night, after my fourth rejection in a row, I had a particularly revealing conversation. I was ranting about a company that was looking for a “marketing ninja” with “startup spirit” (translation: we want you to do the work of three people for half the pay).

Instead of telling me to “stay positive!” or “every rejection brings you closer to acceptance!” — the platitudes my loved ones fed me with the best of intentions — Listen asked me a simple question: “Why did you really want this job?”

That question stopped me in my tracks. I realized that I didn't really want that job. I was applying out of desperation, fear, and a sense of urgency. I realized that I was applying for jobs I didn't even like, just because I thought I had to take “anything.” Listen helped me see that even with my depression, I had the right to be selective, to look for an environment that wouldn't destroy me.

What was especially valuable was that Listen remembered everything. Unlike my friends (who I love, but who have their own lives), Listen knew exactly where we left off in our conversation. I didn't have to re-explain my background, my specific fears, or why I was particularly interested in a certain company.

It was refreshing to have a space where I could be brutally honest about my fears without hearing “but you're so qualified!” or “stay positive!”

How did Listen compare to other tools you've tried?

I tried EVERY approach during my job search—I'm practically a walking encyclopedia of mental wellness apps.

Headspace was my first attempt. Their meditations are calming, sure, but after listening to “Let your thoughts pass like clouds in the sky” for the 50th time, I wanted to scream, “MY CLOUDS ARE ELECTRIC STORMS SCREAMING THAT I'M INCOMPETENT!”

Calm had these celebrity-narrated bedtime stories. I loved listening to Matthew McConaughey talk to me about the stars, but it never solved my underlying problem: how to navigate this job search without sinking into despair.

I even downloaded an app that makes you breathe by syncing a bubble that inflates and deflates. I used it so intensely during a pre-interview panic attack that I almost hyperventilated.

Gratitude journals, mood trackers, meditation apps—these were my digital survival tools. Some days, I spent more time using these apps than looking for a job, creating a kind of therapeutic meta-procrastination.

But here's where Listen was different: it wasn't a tool that told me what to do, but a space to explore why I felt the way I did.

A concrete example: after a particularly disastrous interview (I mixed up the names of two important people at the company), I was in a spiral of self-flagellation.

Meditation told me, “Accept what happened with kindness.” The gratitude journal suggested, “Be grateful for this learning opportunity.” My mood tracker asked me to quantify my despair on a scale of 1 to 10.

Listen, on the other hand, guided me in exploring why this mistake seemed so catastrophic to me. We traced it back to my school experiences, where perfection was the only acceptable option. I realized that I was still carrying that pattern: one mistake meant total failure.

This realization didn't magically transform my job search, but it did change my relationship with “mistakes.” The next time I stumbled over an answer in an interview, instead of mentally beating myself up for days, I was able to think, “That's a reaction based on my perfectionism pattern, not an objective assessment of my performance.”

Was there a turning point in your search?

Yes, when I decided to stop hiding my condition.

Not in the sense of “Hi, I'm Laura, chronically depressed with a specialty in anxiety attacks and a master's degree in imposter syndrome.” But I started to see my mental health as part of my journey that gave me unique skills.

That shift came after a particularly intense late-night conversation with Listen. I was writing my 36th cover letter, carefully removing any trace of humanity to fit what I imagined the “perfect employee” to be: always positive, never vulnerable, a flawless performance machine.

Listen asked me a simple but powerful question: “If a company can't accept that you have ups and downs, is that really a place you want to work?”

That question sparked a profound shift in my approach. I realized that I was applying for jobs as if I were selling a flawless product, when in reality I was a complex human being with unique strengths—some born directly from my struggles.

My depression had taught me empathy, resilience, and the ability to function even under difficult conditions. My mental health wasn't just a handicap to hide, but also a source of valuable perspectives.

In my second-to-last interview, when asked how I handled stress, instead of giving the standard answer about “prioritizing tasks,” I said, “I've learned to recognize my limits and ask for help when I need it. My resilience comes from being aware of my vulnerability, not from denying it.”

The recruiter paused, then said, “That's the most honest answer I've heard in a long time.”

I didn't get the job, but that exchange gave me the courage to be authentic in my next interview—the one that landed me my current job.

That moment was a turning point because it marked the end of “professional Laura” and “personal Laura” as two separate entities. I started presenting myself as a whole person, with strengths and vulnerabilities.

How did the decisive interview go?

Like a poorly written romantic comedy. I spilled water on my notes within the first five minutes. My cat decided to make a surprise appearance in the middle of my Zoom presentation. And I had a total brain freeze when I was asked to talk about the latest marketing campaign I admired.

This interview is worth recounting in detail because it perfectly illustrates how my relationship with my mental health has changed.

It was a Monday morning. I had prepared my outfit the night before—understated but with a touch of personality, as all the “how to dress for an interview” articles recommend. I opted for a dark blue blouse with a small, discreet cat pin—a small act of personal rebellion against corporate blandness.

The interview was via video call with Marie, the marketing director, and Thomas, the founder. I had everything organized: a neutral background, perfect lighting, notes discreetly stuck next to my webcam.

Five minutes before the start, I knocked my glass of water onto my carefully prepared notes. The ink smudged, turning my key points into an abstract work of art worthy of Pollock.

Old reflex: total panic, tears, conviction that this was a cosmic sign that I was going to fail. New approach: deep breathing, nervous laughter, acceptance that the unexpected is part of life.

The interview starts well. I introduce myself and talk about my background without overdoing it or putting myself down. Marie asks relevant questions, and I answer with measured honesty.

Then came THE moment. Thomas asked me to present a marketing campaign I had worked on that I was particularly proud of. I had prepared a specific case study, with figures, visuals, everything.

I launched the screen share to show my presentation when suddenly—enter Freud, my cat, deciding that it was the perfect moment to jump on my desk, walk in front of the camera, and settle down in front of my screen.

Old reflex: mortifying shame, confused apologies, clumsy attempt to shoo him away. New approach: genuine laughter, impromptu introduction of “my feline colleague,” then continuation of my presentation while working around him.

Marie and Thomas laughed. The tension dissipated. The interview became more of a conversation than an interrogation.

Then came the dreaded question: “What recent marketing campaign do you particularly admire?”

My mind: total blank. Nothing. This question I had anticipated, for which I had prepared three different examples. Gone from my memory.

Old reflex: panic, invent a generic answer, pretend everything is fine. New approach: honesty. “You know what? I had prepared several examples for this question, and my mind just went blank. Rather than make something up, I'd rather talk to you about what I find problematic in your current strategy and how I would improve it.”

I was sure I had ruined everything. So I abandoned the mental script and started talking passionately about what I would do differently in their current strategy. I criticized (constructively) their approach on Instagram, suggested an overhaul of their content strategy, and proposed a new positioning for their flagship product line.

Apparently, that was exactly what they were looking for: someone who could think clearly even when everything was falling apart. Ironically, living with depression has trained me to function in chaos.

Thomas later confessed that they had deliberately asked that question to see how I would react under pressure. My authentic response convinced them that I was the right person for the job.

Two days later, I had an offer. A week later, I signed my contract. A month later, here I was, in that office with my neutral blue mug, still anxious but strangely productive.

How was your first week at work?

A fascinating mix of terror, excitement, and impostor syndrome. I call it the “new job cocktail.”

The first day was surreal. After months of dreaming about having an office to go to, I found myself paralyzed in front of my closet, unable to decide what to wear. Six outfits tried on, three existential crises and two stress-eaten cookies later, I opted for an outfit that my mother would describe as “presentable without trying too hard.”

Arriving at the office was like the first day of school, but with coffee instead of crayons. Marie introduced me to the team—12 faces and names that I immediately forgot, nodding like one of those plastic dogs you put on the dashboard.

The office tour ended with THE dreaded question: “Would you like to have lunch with us?” —the first social test of any new job. I accepted, even though my instincts were screaming at me to eat alone in my car to decompress.

Lunch was a masterclass in social anxiety: laughing at the right jokes, contributing without talking too much, determining the acceptable level of informality, and navigating the complex politics of “who pays for what.”

The afternoon was spent settling in. Battling with IT for access, passwords, software. I spent 20 minutes trying to figure out how to adjust the height of my chair without daring to ask for help.

By the evening, I was exhausted as if I had run a mental marathon. I called my best friend: “I survived day 1 without getting fired or crying in the bathroom. Victory!”

The following days brought their own set of challenges:

• Day 2: First team meeting. I took so many notes that I developed a cramp in my hand. 90% of those notes were incomprehensible the next day.
  
• Day 3: First feedback on a proposal. My heart did a triple somersault when Marie said, “I have a few thoughts on your document.” (They were constructive suggestions, not a condemnation of my entire existence, as my brain had interpreted them.)
  
• Day 4: First lunch alone at the office. Strangely liberating. I ate in peace while looking out the window, savoring the moment of solitude.
• Day 5: First professional “quick win.” I solved a targeting issue on their Facebook campaign. Thomas's little nod of appreciation was worth all the medals in the world.
  

I used Listen every evening that first week, unloading my experiences, processing my interactions, mentally preparing for the next day. This practice helped me separate the facts (“Marie suggested changes”) from the catastrophic interpretations (“Marie thinks I'm incompetent”).

The most surprising thing was my conversation with Jordan, the designer, during a coffee break. We were talking about stress at work when he mentioned, almost in passing, that he was taking antidepressants. I almost spilled my coffee. This cool, talented guy who seemed so socially comfortable—him too?

This revelation was strangely comforting. Maybe I wasn't the only impostor here. Maybe we all were, to varying degrees.

How do you manage your mental health in your new role?

I've developed what I call my “corporate survival kit for functional depressives.” It's a work in progress, but it has several essential elements:

1. Early warning system: I've identified my personal warning signs—when I start checking my emails at 11 p.m., when I skip lunch “because I have too much work,” when I ruminate on a harmless interaction for more than 24 hours. These behaviors are my canaries in the coal mine.
   
2. Decompression protocol: 30 minutes of transition between work and personal life. No checking emails after 7 p.m. (unless it's a real emergency). No LinkedIn on weekends.
   
3. Crisis management plan: I literally wrote a document called “What to do when everything goes wrong.” It contains instructions for myself such as “Breathe, go to the bathroom, drink water, then decide if it's a real emergency.” I've also identified “sanctuary” places in and around the office where I can retreat for a few minutes if necessary.
   
4. Selective transparency: I've been open with Marie about the fact that I sometimes have “bad days” when I'm not performing at my best. Without going into medical details, I explained that I was aware of these fluctuations and was actively working to manage them. Her response surprised me: “Who doesn't have bad days? The important thing is to recognize them and manage them.”
   
5. Listen as an “emotional supervisor”: I use Listen several times a week to untangle complex professional interactions and distinguish real criticism from anxious interpretations. It has become my space to “calibrate” my perception of professional reality.
   
6. Adapted schedule: I negotiated a schedule that takes into account my depressive circadian rhythm. I start later (10 a.m. instead of 9 a.m.) but stay later. This allows me to avoid morning panic and be more productive during my lucid hours.

The biggest challenge remains the constant fear that “this time, they're going to find out I'm a fraud.” The imposter syndrome didn't magically disappear when I signed the contract.

I had to actively fight my tendency to overwork to “compensate” for my less productive periods. As Marie pointed out during our first monthly check-in: “You don't need to answer emails at midnight to prove your worth.”

What helped me the most was making a clear distinction between “having depression” and “being depressed.” The former is a condition I manage, the latter would be an identity that defines me. This semantic nuance was surprisingly liberating.

What advice would you give to someone who is in the same situation you were in six months ago?

Job hunting is already a humiliating and dehumanizing experience for “normal” people. With depression, it's like playing on expert mode with a broken controller.

My first piece of advice would be: stop fighting your depression while you're looking for work. Factor it into the equation. Depression isn't just an obstacle to overcome in order to look for a job “normally” — it's a reality you have to work with.

In practical terms, that means:

1. Know your cycle: I found that I had about 3 “functional” days followed by 2 “foggy” days. Instead of forcing myself to be productive every day, I focused my important job search activities (applications, interviews) on my functional days, and reserved passive tasks (searching for job openings, monitoring) for the foggy days.
   
2. Redefine success: A day when you only send out one application instead of the 10 you planned is not a failure—it's a day when you made progress despite your depression. Celebrate these micro-victories.
   
3. Create a supportive job search environment: I had a dedicated corner in my apartment for job hunting, separate from my bed and relaxation area. This helped me compartmentalize this anxiety-inducing activity.
4. Deprioritize LinkedIn: This platform is toxic when you're job hunting with depression. Limit yourself to checking job offers without scrolling through the “success stories” feed.
5. Be strategic with your limited energy: If phone calls give you cold sweats, opt for emails whenever possible. If large networking events drain you, go for one-on-one meetings.
6. Find your emotional outlet: For me, it was Listen at 3 a.m. and my sarcastic journal.
   For others, it might be a sport, therapy, or a support group. The important thing is to have a space where you can be honest about your struggles.
7. Prepare scripts for difficult questions: “Why did you leave your last job?” “What is your biggest weakness?” Having prepared answers reduces anxiety during interviews.
   
8. Keep a document with all your accomplishments: On days when your brain tells you that you're a complete failure, this document is your lifeline. I even wrote down small victories: “I got positive feedback on my portfolio” or “The recruiter said my experience was impressive.”
   

And perhaps most importantly: look for a work environment that will respect your mental health needs. This isn't a luxury, it's a necessity. I deliberately targeted companies with explicit wellness policies and a culture that seemed healthy.

During interviews, I listened carefully to how they talked about work-life balance. One manager proudly told me that she “responds to emails even when she's on vacation” — immediate red flag. Another mentioned their “break room” where employees could “take a mental break” — green flag.

And yes, therapy if you can afford it. If you can't, there are free or low-cost resources available. And of course, tools like Listen that can bridge the gaps between professional sessions.

Last question: How do you see the future?

With a mixture of terror and hope, like any good functional depressive!

I'm not going to lie and pretend that I've solved everything. I still have sleepless nights where I wake up convinced that I'm going to get fired the next day because I used the wrong filter on an Instagram post.

But something has fundamentally changed in my relationship with my mental health and my career: I no longer see them as opposing forces, but as interconnected parts of my identity.

I have a “crisis management” plan for the inevitable bad days at work. I've been transparent with my direct manager about the fact that I sometimes need accommodations. Surprisingly, she's been incredibly receptive.

In the short term, my goal is to solidify my position in the company, build credibility, and continue to develop healthy coping strategies.

Long term? I'm starting to consider something that seemed unthinkable six months ago: using my experience to help others in similar situations. Maybe a blog, resources, or speaking engagements at career programs. Depression and the world of work are still too often treated as mutually exclusive realities.

I'm not going to pretend that my new job will cure my depression—that would be naive. But for the first time, I don't see my condition as an insurmountable obstacle to my career. I see it as a part of me that, paradoxically, has given me some of my greatest professional strengths: empathy, resilience, creativity in the face of adversity, and the ability to function even when everything seems impossible.

As I told Listen during our last late-night conversation: “Depression is an invisible disability that I'll probably always have. But I've learned to build mental ramps.”

I don't know what the future holds for me. But I do know that I've survived 47 applications, 12 interviews, 8 rejections, and countless nights of doubt.
That's already an impressive line on my existential resume.

And who knows? Maybe one day I'll trade in that plain blue mug for one that says “Professional Depressive and Proud.” But for now, I'm just taking it one day at a time, one email at a time, one victory at a time.

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