The Grey Interview

"How much is enough?"

A question that clings to my thoughts like ivy on crumbling stone — persistent, quiet, but impossible to ignore.

Today, that question has anchored itself deep within me. The interview didn’t go as I had hoped. Not even close. When we prepare for interviews, we expect a binary outcome — either we crash and burn or we emerge victorious. For me, I was bracing for the former. I’ve always had a tempestuous relationship with interviews. Once, I grew so anxious that I forgot foundational terms from my own profession.

That memory still burns.
The interviewer, expression unreadable, had said, “Ma’am, if you do hear from us, it will be solely based on your stellar CV. The person described there and the one who sat here today are worlds apart.”

Two years have passed, yet I recall every detail — especially because, in a 20-minute interview, all I managed to say was: “I don’t know, Sir.”
Not “I don’t recall,” but the raw, unfiltered, and utterly unforgivable: “I don’t know.”

I didn’t hear back. Not a call, not even a formal rejection. In hindsight, the silence felt deserved. I had wasted the time of seasoned professionals — perhaps even protégés of giants in their field.

Since then, interviews have haunted me like specters from Hades' underworld — relics of past stumbles waiting to be replayed. It feels like history poised to echo itself. Why this fear grips me, I still don’t know. Maybe we all dread being judged. Maybe it’s the fear of unraveling under scrutiny, the terror of becoming a cautionary tale.

But today’s experience didn’t fit that binary. It sat somewhere in between — unclear, unsettling, and strangely illuminating.

I had prepared diligently, revising notes until fatigue blurred the lines between confidence and delusion. The interview began well. Two panelists: one clearly seasoned — his grey hair speaking of experience and perhaps the weight of many battles won; the other, younger, curious-eyed, still learning the choreography of power.

The ice broke early. Questions started flowing, and I answered with calm clarity. Initially, I leaned into detailed responses — building my answers brick by brick with logic and references. The senior interviewer remained unmoved. His expression, stone-faced like a Delphic oracle, betrayed nothing. Reading the room, I pivoted to more succinct answers.

Then came a question I couldn’t recall. I stayed honest — a lesson burned into me from past failures — and said I didn’t remember. To my relief, the junior interviewer responded kindly, reassured me, and encouraged me to continue. Perhaps I looked visibly shaken, because he added that I was doing well and should stay calm.

The senior interviewer resumed his inquiry. I answered as best I could, and eventually, I asked if my responses were satisfactory. He didn’t respond directly — simply moved on to the next question. Again, his demeanor seemed to indicate disappointment. My confidence wavered.

Tentatively, I asked if I had answered incorrectly. He confirmed that I had, and suggested I revisit the topic. I accepted the feedback without protest and thanked him.

The interview began to wrap up. We exchanged polite thank-yous. Yet something in me — perhaps a stubborn flicker of hope — compelled me to ask for feedback. The younger panelist spoke first: “Your communication skills are excellent. But tell me — how would you rate yourself out of ten?”

I hesitated, then offered a smile. “Sir, despite missing a few answers, I would rate myself an 8 out of 10. My CV reflects a body of work, and the topics I faltered on may be due to my recent projects focusing on a different domain — one in which my understanding runs far deeper.”

He smiled, seemingly reassured.

Then, the older panelist interjected. His tone, crisp and clinical: “Your knowledge of the subject is weak. If this is your specialization, you should have displayed mastery.” I nodded and responded that I would revisit and strengthen my understanding. He added, “Knowledge is essential if you hope to train the next generation.”

That struck a chord. The idea of passing on wisdom — of being a mentor rather than just a technician — resonated. I agreed sincerely.

I briefly considered adding that field exposure might sharpen one’s grasp of subtle concepts. But I held my tongue. Speaking out would risk sounding defensive or, worse, disrespectful. And when seated before a gatekeeper, even silence is strategic.

Still, his feedback didn’t feel constructive — it felt like a verdict. Less a mentor’s guidance than a sentry’s rebuke.

After the call ended, I walked into the next room and told my husband, “I bombed it.”
He asked me what questions were asked. Having helped me prepare, he recognized them. Together, we reviewed my notes. And to my astonishment, my answers — the very ones dismissed by the senior interviewer — were accurate.

That monologue about lacking depth?
That warning about not being fit to guide others?
A performance — one dressed in gravitas, but hollow beneath. Pure HYPOCRISY! 

I won’t speak of his résumé or right to judge. But I do wonder — should seniority alone, the greyness of hair, be the sole credential for wielding such authority? If he’s part of upper management, what culture trickles down from that peak?

For a moment, I wanted to write back — not to fight for the role, but to reclaim the truth. But this wasn’t a job I had set my heart on. My family wisely advised me to let it go.

And so I have.

But I’ve come away with a new classification.
There are interviews you bomb.
There are interviews you ace.
And then there are interviews that sit in that hazy in-between — where truth and perception part ways.

A grey area — eponymous to the interviewer himself.

From now on, I’ll call such moments exactly what they are:
The Grey Interview.