You're Not Supposed to Do That

On risk, realness, and hitting "send" anyway.

It has been a year.

A year since the layoff. A year of contingency plans and post-it budgets and waking up every day to treat the search like a job in itself. A year of scanning job boards with the kind of intensity usually reserved for missing persons. A year of holding together a fragile routine built on discipline, hope, and the stubborn belief that structure might summon something.

And somewhere in that stretch of time, grief. The kind that doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t arrive with logic or fairness. I lost Marvin. The dog who calibrated my heart, who taught me what it meant to really care for something that needed you. He’s the standard now. The original. Every dog I love after him will live in his long, benevolent shadow. His absence is stitched into the year. Not in one sharp moment, but in all the soft ones that followed. The ordinary days that feel just slightly off-kilter. The corners of rooms I still expect to see him in. The quiet that doesn't sound right.

I’ve kept myself afloat with freelance. The kind of work that arrives like weather: sudden, unpredictable, gone before you can properly get dressed for it. I am grateful for it, mostly. But it is not stable, and it is not always enough. Rent still arrives like a threat.

Every week, I send out a small flotilla of resumes to places I have never heard of, jobs I am overqualified for, jobs I am perfectly qualified for, jobs where I know I will be the only person who includes a comma where a comma belongs. Most are answered by silence. Some are answered by bots who would very much like to connect with me to talk about their latest leadership podcast. Occasionally, someone says thank you. Rarely, someone says yes.

LinkedIn is a mausoleum where ambition goes to dress itself up in Canva templates and euphemisms. The posts all sound the same because they are. “So excited to announce.” “Beyond thrilled to share.” “After much reflection.” No one is telling the truth, which is that most of us are terrified. We have conversations about AI as if it’s the weather and not a slow-motion layoff. The industry that once celebrated big ideas now wants scalable ones. Preferably written by someone who doesn’t need health insurance.

All of which is to say: I was not feeling particularly hopeful when a recruiter reached out about a job at a place I had applied many times without response. An agency I had quietly added to my “they don’t want you” list as far back as 2018. But the past year has a way of rearranging your priorities. Or at least reframing them. So I took the interview.

And it went well. After my initial call with the recruiter, he immediately scheduled an interview with the person you would think of as the boss’s boss’s boss. The kind of leap that makes you briefly forget how long you’ve been out of full-time work. It was a great chat. I liked this person, genuinely. They were sharp in the way that makes you feel sharper just by proximity. Interested without pretense. For the first time in a long time I felt like a person who still had something to offer.

When it ended, I felt the twitchy, hopeful kind of regret that only comes from realizing you might actually want the thing you’ve told yourself you don’t need. It’s a feeling that comes with recognizing your own hunger. I kept thinking about the parts of the conversation I didn’t get to. The things I couldn’t show. I don’t have a trophy shelf. I’ve never won a pencil, gold or otherwise. My portfolio is built on what worked, not what made an awards panel applaud. I worried that would count against me. That not having proof of fluency in the preferred language of the industry would quietly take me out of the running.

So I wrote the kind of recruiter thank you note you’re not supposed to write. I skipped the template. I didn’t talk about being grateful for the opportunity. I talked about why I thought I belonged there. Why I believed in what I do. Why I could make the work better. It was a risk. A real one. And when I hit send, I held my breath.

Hi [RECRUITER],

Thank you so much for taking the time to talk with me about the [REDACTED] role. I was excited going into our conversation, and even more so coming out of it. You gave a thoughtful overview of the opportunity and I very much appreciated your openness and insight. And another thank you for how quickly you scheduled my follow-up with [BIG BOSS.] I really enjoyed my conversation with her.

After [BIG BOSS] and I spoke, I went digging through all my old hard drives and thumb drives in search of previous awards show submission decks. Sadly, I came up empty. They may have disappeared into the same digital void where my missing W-2 from 2017 now resides.

That said, I understand the importance of awards. They matter. They shine a light. They tell the world, “Something good happened here. Someone made something worth paying attention to.” I know they bring in clients, help build teams, keep good people busy doing work they care about.

And while I can’t drop a polished awards deck into your inbox, I hope you’ll consider this note—this conversation, this moment—as its own kind of submission. A story not about a campaign, but about me.

The work I’ve done hasn’t always come with a case study video or a trophy. But it has meant late nights trying to find the perfect line that makes someone feel something. It’s meant sitting quietly in rooms full of louder voices, then offering the sentence that ties the whole idea together. It’s meant writing copy that moves the needle, and sometimes writing just to keep the momentum going when no one else knows what to say.

The fact of the matter is, I’ve never worked for a creative director or agency that didn’t have their own distinct way of building a deck. At MBAStack, it was always some version of “We’re going to get [DEMOGRAPHIC] to [DO THE THING] by [DOING THIS THING].” At Groupon, “surprise and delight” had to be woven into tactics, even if it was just an email reminder to save 20% on experiences before the promo period ended. And in my current freelance role, my CDs flinch at any phrasing that starts with “Let’s show” or “Let’s remind.”

My job as a writer is to listen, to take that style guidance and make it sing. To pivot quickly when needed. My years of freelance have sharpened that skill to a fine point, and I consider it one of my greatest strengths.

What I bring is storytelling, not as a gimmick or a tactic, but as a way of working, of connecting, of seeing. I believe in stories that unfold with care. That meet the moment. That make people pause, smile, think, and if I do it well–act. That kind of storytelling belongs in award decks. It also belongs in pitch decks, in brand books, in emails, and everywhere in between.

And I would love nothing more than to do that kind of work with this team.

In no uncertain terms, I want this job.

Thanks again for everything. I know how competitive the landscape is right now, and I imagine this isn’t an easy decision. Regardless of the outcome, I want you to know that this has been one of the best interview experiences I’ve had. I truly appreciate the thoughtfulness and care you and [BIG BOSS] brought to the process. And if this role isn’t the right fit right now, I’d love to be considered for future opportunities.

In most hiring conversations, the power tilts firmly in one direction. The employer speaks first. You follow. The roles are understood. You learn not to interrupt the order of things.

To step outside of that is to risk something. To speak without being prompted. To show more of yourself than the situation seems to ask for. It can be misread. It can be ignored. It can be condescended to.

And still, I did it. I said what I wanted. Not because I was sure it would work, but because I needed to know I had tried. Not as a résumé. Not as a brand. But as a person who knows what they are capable of and just needed someone to look back across the table and see it.

A few hours later I received the following reply:

This…this is a remarkable email. Kudos.

No further updates just yet; standby, back in touch ASAP.

And then nothing.

Wednesday passed. Then Thursday. Then Friday. The weekend settled in with its usual silence, except now it had weight. Five days. No update. Just the hum of static where I had let myself expect something more.

I told myself it was fine. That this, too, was part of it. I have learned how to read the absence of a reply like a form letter. By Sunday night I had folded the possibility into the growing pile of things that didn’t quite work out.

I reminded myself, again, that if you try, there is always the chance you might lose. But if you don’t try, you will never win. It is not a revelation. Just a fact. One I have carried through this year like a small stone in my pocket. The absence of a reply became its own kind of answer. Another job I would not be filling. Another risk taken, and this time, not returned. But I had tried. That mattered. It still matters.

And then, this morning, an email requesting a phone call.

I assumed it was a formality. A polite note delivered in real time, maybe because my follow-up thank you note had been too much to ignore. I practiced the usual lines. Thank you for the opportunity. I appreciate you letting me know. I understand. Please consider me for future roles.

I put on my most cheerful voice.

He asked if I had any concerns that hadn’t been included in my email. We made a little small talk first. The kind that feels both necessary and awkward when neither person is entirely sure what kind of conversation this will turn out to be. I laughed and told him no. That the only thing I had really worried over was my inability to show proof that I could write the kind of deck copy they might need. That had been the fear. Not the ideas, not the thinking, just the packaging.

Then he asked if I was still interested in the role.

I told him yes. I was still interested. I would love the opportunity to meet the larger team. I said it with care. With steadiness. Not too much.

“No need,” he said. “I'd like to offer you the role. [BIG BOSS] was very impressed with you and the conversation you two had. I shared your email with her, I hope that was okay. She was really enthusiastic about you.”

And then the conversation shifted. After all of it: the waiting, the silence, the breath held too long. It shifted. Not because I was careful, or measured, or did everything the way you're supposed to. But because I wasn’t. Because I tried something different this time. It wasn’t what you’re supposed to do. It wasn’t cool. But it was real.

I said yes immediately. Not out of desperation, although I won’t pretend there hasn’t been some of that, but because I had already crossed the line I’d spent the last year standing behind. I had asked for something in my own voice, without apology or packaging. That was the real shift. Not that they said yes, but that I had asked them to.

I had spent so long editing myself it felt odd to be read correctly. It’s strange, how uneasy it feels to be yourself on purpose.

I signed the offer letter and took the dogs out to pee.