On Failing a Job Interview
Not passing hurts. Especially when you know you were ready. But sometimes it's not about that one moment. It's about what you take from it.
A few weeks ago, I failed the final round of interviews for a company I had been aiming at for months.
It was the kind of place that looked like everything I wanted—good people, great vision, the kind of role I could see myself growing in for years. I prepared seriously: rewrote my CV, spent hours on LeetCode, practiced speaking clearly so I wouldn't freeze under pressure.
The first rounds went well. Better than well.
In the second technical interview, I solved the exercise perfectly. They even gave me an extra one to fill the remaining time and I nailed that too. The feedback was extremely positive.
I felt ready. Determined.
This was it.
The Final Round
The on-site interviews were scheduled a few weeks later: one technical, two behavioral.
But life doesn't always wait for your plans. It was a difficult period for me personally and mentally I wasn't at my best. I told myself I could push through it, that I was prepared enough to make it work.
When I sat down for that technical interview, emotion hit me harder than I expected.
I didn't go silent, but I couldn't think straight. The problem wasn't even that hard, yet I felt… blocked.
I watched the time slip away, hoping for a moment to recover, something that could turn it around. It didn't happen.
When it was over, I walked out trying to convince myself it hadn't been that bad.
I replayed the interview in my head, picking out the few things I had done right, telling myself they might see potential anyway.
But deep down, I knew.
I knew that I hadn't shown what I was capable of. I knew that all the preparation I had done for months had been lost in those few moments of hesitation.
The behavioral interviews that followed went well. Really well, actually. But it didn't matter. I already felt the weight of that first failure pulling everything else down.
A few days later, the answer came. I hadn't passed.
Aftermath
I cried.
Not just for the rejection, but for what it meant to me. For the months I had prepared, for the feeling that I had failed not because I wasn't ready, but because I couldn't show what I was capable of in that one moment.
I questioned everything: my skills, my choices, even my path as a developer. When you give everything to something and fall short, it shakes you.
For a while, I was angry. My mind even tried to look for someone to blame. But the truth is, it was my responsibility. That moment was mine to seize and I didn't.
A Thought on the Process
Still, I can't help thinking about how we evaluate people in this industry.
In my career, I've built real systems: complex, living things that solve problems for real users. Things that require more than just algorithms: design decisions, trade-offs, communication, the kind of work that doesn't fit neatly into a 45-minute whiteboard session.
But interviews rarely look at that. They focus on a snapshot, a single technical challenge, as if that's the best measure of what someone can bring. Maybe that's what the industry wants. Or maybe it will change.
I don't know.
What I do know is that, for me, this is just one moment. It doesn't define everything I've done, or everything I'll do.
I'll keep building. I'll keep learning.
And when the next moment comes, I'll be ready.