The applications are always due at midnight, which is when the house is finally quiet and the only one awake to witness your professional ambitions is the dog, who has seen you cry in three different lighting scenarios and still believes you are the best thing in the world.
You reach down to pet the dog, but he is asleep with his head hanging off the side of his foam bed.
The form wants your résumé in two formats: upload and manual entry, as if the algorithm enjoys watching you perform the act of remembering yourself.
– Name. Address. City. State.
You type carefully. You have learned that moving too fast flags you as “not leadership material.”
Are you able to lift 50 pounds?
– Yes.
You have lifted your child when sleep turned their limbs to water and their head fell against your shoulder with the full, sacred weight of trust. You have lifted grocery bags, wet laundry, countless dioramas that were put together the night before they were due, and a mood that had settled over the house like slime mold. Once, you lifted an entire Wednesday by yourself.
There is no field for that.
Are you willing to work evenings, weekends, and holidays?
You laugh out loud and the dog opens one eye, determines there are no snacks forthcoming, and goes back to sleep.
Your reality is that you haven’t had any kind of holiday in four years. You once attended a Zoom interview from a hospital corridor while a vending machine tried to eat your debit card. The recruiter said they admired your commitment to time management. You were not hired.
You check Yes.
The next page wants a personality assessment.
When a coworker is upset, you:
- Offer solutions
- Listen actively
- Redirect to company goals
- Experience a small, private nervous breakdown in the restroom and then bring them tea
You select B because there is no checkbox for having been the coworker, the restroom, and possibly the tea.
The system times out while you are looking for your dates of employment from a job that ended when your father died and you forgot to return after bereavement because grief is a full-time position with no onboarding and terrible management.
You log back in.
Your password must contain: one uppercase letter, one symbol, one number, one measurable achievement.
You stall at the last requirement.
In the reflection of the laptop screen you look both older and more authoritative — your hair has achieved a senior leadership position and your bra is performing structural engineering at a level that should qualify for continuing education credits.
The next section asks for a cover letter.
You write:
I am applying for this role because I am very good at keeping things from falling apart while appearing calm. I have experience in de-escalation, logistics, inventory management, and the delicate art of pretending I am not afraid. I can learn any software if given thirty uninterrupted minutes, which is a theoretical construct, but I am optimistic.
You delete it and replace it with:
I am excited about the opportunity to contribute to your dynamic team.
You upload it.
The site asks you to record a short video. You angle the camera carefully — you once read that confidence lives in the clavicle, and also because if you hunch, the pain between your shoulder blades will send up a flare visible from space.
“Hello,” you say, in your professional voice, the one that sounds like a person who sleeps regularly and has matching socks. “I’m… a dedicated professional with strong multitasking skills.”
Upload successful.
The confirmation screen thanks you for your interest and invites you to create a job alert, as if there is a warehouse somewhere stacking positions like unused coffins.
Three days later, at 3:03 a.m.:
We were impressed by your qualifications. Unfortunately, we have decided to move forward with candidates whose experience more closely aligns with our needs.
You picture them: the chosen ones, the mythical creatures who have never had to mute themselves during a staff meeting to ask a pharmacist about drug interactions.
You apply to another job. And another.
The forms repeat questions they already know the answers to. The autofill hesitates over your name, as if unsure you are still the same person.
Do you have reliable transportation?
– Yes. It is a late-model SUV with a rubber duck hanging from the mirror, Cheerios crushed into the floor mats of both back seats, and – every so often – a Lego under the brake pedal.
– I have managed not to crash it, even when the Lego is present.
What is your desired salary?
Enough to hire someone to sit with your child so you can sit with yourself.
You type a number that feels like a joke told at a funeral.
* * *
Profile Completion: 99%
Please upload proof of current employment.
You stare at it.
In another room, you hear one of your children stirring, and you wait for the inevitable request for water, a story, a heavier blanket, or a hug.
You release a relieved breath when the house returns to silence.
You select Upload Document. For a moment you consider sending a photograph: the calendar of PTA responsibilities, sporting events, and dance recitals; the dog’s trail of muddy pawprints on your freshly-mopped floor; your own face reflected in the dark window at 2 a.m., lit by the holy blue glow of other people’s requirements.
Instead you upload a blank file.
The system accepts it.
Thank you. Your experience has been verified.
You wait for the next page, the next demand.
Nothing happens.
The dog wakes and leaves his bed, crossing the room to rest his blocky head on your knee with the satisfied rumble of a being that has never had to justify its existence to a dropdown menu.
On the screen, in small, almost tender font:
Are you able to care for yourself?
Y / N
The cursor blinks.
You rest your hands — capable, competent, faintly trembling — on the keyboard.
Outside, the world continues not hiring you.
Inside, you consider the radical possibility of selecting Yes.