“So why do you think you are the best person for the job?” asked the interviewer.
I hate that question. If they ask it, it’s usually at the end of your interview. It means you have to (#1) have a sober estimation of yourself, and (#2), brag a little.
I’m not very good at the first (who is?) and the second tastes like vinegar.
But I answer the question—walking a tightrope between honesty and pride—to prove I’m worthy. Sometimes the interviewer agrees with me (I get the job) and sometimes they don’t (I never hear back from them again).
Why are job interviews so nerve wracking? Why is it so hard to ask that girl or guy out on a date? Why is it so terrifying to present that business proposal?
It’s the “R” word.
For a co-dependent like me, I’d rather walk across hot coals, get water-boarded, or have my fingernails pulled off. Give me a root canal without Novocain or let me have a baby without an epidural.
Rejection is why I could never be a telemarketer or a door-to-door salesman. I have a really hard time separating the rejection of my product, my proposal, or my profession from the rejection of me.
Sure, in my head I know they aren’t rejecting me. They like blonds and I’m a brunette, or my business plan is out of their budget, or they need someone with a certification I don’t have.
But there’s this default recording that plays in my head, “You’re not good enough”—
—and it makes me want to walk into the interviewer’s office, tell off that potential date, or call back that investor and prove—prove beyond any reasonable doubt—that I am worthy.
Some of you are thinking, “Man, is she whacked.” Others are thinking, “How did she get inside my head?”
This is the deep stuff, the stuff you wish you could carve out of yourself with a spoon. The stuff that doesn’t go away just because you want it to. The stuff that controls how you feel about yourself no matter how many awards you win, promotions you get, or accolades you receive.
Yeah, it probably comes from your dysfunctional parents. Who got it from their dysfunctional parents and so on back generation after generation. Dysfunction is the gift that keeps on giving.
But I look at my beautiful children, thinking, “Not for them.” And know this has to change in me.
I don’t need to prove that I’m worthy of love.
The only way it will change is for me to remember over and over and over again that God made me worthy a long time ago one dark and lonely day when he hung on a tree. God made me worthy without my help and in spite of the warped and misguided tapes that continually play in my head. God made me worthy purely and simply because he loves me.
So when you hear, “Why do you think you are the best person for the job?”, sigh, smile, and respond. But remember, whatever the outcome, it doesn’t matter.
You’re already worthy.