I had an interview for a sales manager position. Toward the end, the interviewer slid a pen across the table and said:
“Sell this to us.”
It wasn’t my first time that day. In fact, it was the third time someone had handed me a pen and waited for magic. And by then, I had run out of slick pitches. I was tired. Worn down. Frustrated. So I looked at the pen—an expensive-looking marker with gold trim—and said:
“You know what? This pen is worthless—until you have a reason to write.”
Both interviewers looked up from their notes. One of them—a man in a gray blazer—raised his eyebrows. The other, still scrolling through something on his phone, froze.
I took a breath and continued:
“Maybe your daughter just got accepted to college, and you need to write her a check. Or maybe you’re signing the papers for your first home, the place you’ve been dreaming of for years.
Maybe you’re writing ‘I’m sorry’ to someone you hurt a long time ago but finally got the courage to face.This pen doesn’t sell itself. Life does. The moment sells the pen.”
There was a long silence. The man in the blazer finally smiled and said:
“Okay. That’s… not the pitch I was expecting.”
I forced a smile, shook their hands, and walked out feeling like I’d just given a TED Talk to two mannequins.
The truth is, that day was rough. I’d been unemployed for seven months. Not fun-unemployed. Not “finding myself” or “taking a break” unemployed.
I mean broke-unemployed. Selling-my-furniture-on-Facebook broke. Dodging calls from the electric company broke.
I used to have a decent job—a mid-level sales role for a regional paper supply chain. It wasn’t glamorous, but I was good at it. I knew the numbers, knew how to talk to people, knew how to close deals without making customers feel like they’d been cornered.
And then, overnight, the company folded. No warning. One day I was leading a team meeting; the next, I was packing my desk into a cardboard box.
I told myself I’d land on my feet. I was hardworking, reliable, a show-up-early, stay-late kind of guy. I thought that mattered.
But month after month, rejection emails trickled in—if I was lucky enough to get a reply at all. I sent out over 90 resumes and got back maybe ten polite “we’ll keep you on file” messages.
I’d sit at my kitchen table, staring at the job boards on my laptop, wondering if the best years of my career had already passed me by.
That pen interview? It was one of six I had that week. And when I left that room, I didn’t feel clever. I felt defeated.
The next morning, though, something unexpected happened.
I got a call—not from that company, but from a small startup I had completely forgotten I’d applied to weeks earlier.
The HR manager on the line sounded young and nervous. She said they liked my resume and wanted me to come in for an interview. The role wasn’t sales. It was something called a “Client Experience Liaison.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I said yes immediately.
I wore the same suit I’d worn to the pen interview. The lining was coming loose at the cuff, but it was all I had.
When I arrived, I realized this wasn’t a typical office. It was a converted warehouse, with bright murals on the walls and mismatched furniture. There were even three dogs wandering around, looking like they owned the place.
The founder—a woman named Charita, with long dreadlocks and kind but sharp eyes—sat me down and didn’t ask me to sell her a pen.
She asked me:
“How would you handle a customer who calls at 10 p.m., furious because a shipment didn’t arrive?”
I didn’t give her a rehearsed line. I told her the truth:
“I’d apologize. Even if it wasn’t our fault. I’d listen first and fix second. Because people want to feel heard before they want to be helped.”
Charita nodded slowly. Then she said they could offer me a 60-day probationary contract. It paid $23 an hour—not great, but more than zero. I shook her hand and said yes.
I started on Monday.
It didn’t change my life overnight.
I was still anxious about bills, still haunted by self-doubt. But little by little, something started to shift.
I remembered who I was before the layoff—before the debt, before the sleepless nights staring at the ceiling wondering if I’d failed my family and myself.
I stayed late again. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I helped fix their help desk system using an old spreadsheet trick I’d learned in my previous job. I coached the interns on writing better emails. One Wednesday, I organized a potluck lunch just to lift morale. It became a monthly tradition.
Then one night, about three weeks in, Charita came to my desk.
“I know this isn’t in your job description,” she said, “but… can you help me run through my pitch deck for an investor meeting tomorrow?”
She admitted she hated public speaking. She was nervous, fumbling her words. I stopped her mid-sentence and said:
“Forget the slides. Just tell me what problem you’re solving—and why you care about it.”
She stared at me for a moment. Then she did.
We stayed two hours after everyone left, just talking. About her startup. About her family. About how she used to work in customer service for an airline and promised herself she’d never build a company that treated people like numbers.
I listened. I asked questions. I took notes.
The next morning, she nailed the pitch.
At the end of my 60-day contract, Charita called me into her office.
I thought she was going to thank me and tell me they couldn’t keep me on.
Instead, she slid a piece of paper across the table. It was a full-time offer. Higher pay than my last job. Better title. Benefits.
And in the margin, written in blue pen, she’d scribbled:
“Thanks for helping me write the next chapter.”
I almost cried right there.
From that moment, everything changed.
Six months later, I was promoted to Head of Client Strategy. I hired three people who had been rejected as many times as I had.
One of them, a quiet guy named Marwan, once pulled me aside and confessed he’d been turned down for 22 jobs in a row. I looked him in the eye and said, “I know exactly how that feels. I was you.”
We built a team that wasn’t just good at what we did—we understood people.
We even made mugs for the holidays with a little phrase I’d started saying around the office:
“Life sells the pen.”
And then, almost a year into my new role, I got a LinkedIn message.
It was from the man in the gray blazer from the pen interview.
“Hi—I don’t know if you remember me, but I interviewed you last year at Prestique Group.
Just wanted to say I think about what you said about the pen a lot. You probably didn’t know, but the company was shutting down at the time, and we were told to keep interviewing candidates anyway—to ‘maintain market optics.’ Total nonsense.But your pitch stuck with me. I hope you’re doing well.”
I stared at the screen, feeling a swirl of emotions—shock, validation, maybe a little anger. But mostly, I felt… calm.
I wrote back:
“Thanks for saying that. That day, I felt like I was talking to a wall. But honestly, losing that job was the best thing that never happened to me.”
He replied a few hours later. Said he’d left Prestique shortly after that. Started his own consultancy.
And here’s the kicker:
He asked if I’d be willing to consult for one of his clients.
Me.
The guy who used to rehearse elevator pitches in the bathroom mirror at 2 a.m.
Now being asked for my expertise.
I said yes.
It wasn’t a huge project. Just three Zoom calls over a month. But it paid well. And it led to more.
Word spread. Suddenly, other founders were reaching out, asking me to help refine their customer outreach, build pitch decks, and train new hires on empathy-based communication.
One gig turned into a board advisory role. Another flew me to Austin to speak at a small business summit.
I didn’t wear a suit. I wore sneakers and a denim jacket. But I opened that talk with the pen story.
People laughed. A few teared up.
Because they got it.
We’ve all been there—at rock bottom, invisible, wondering if the best parts of us will ever be needed again.
But here’s what I’ve learned:
Sometimes, rejection is just redirection.
Sometimes, the thing you think you need—that job, that call, that nod of approval—is just the decoy before the real door opens.
And sometimes, your lowest point becomes the story that saves someone else down the line.
A few weeks ago, we hired a new graduate. Bright kid, full of potential. But on his first week, I noticed him fiddling with his hands during a meeting.
I asked if he was okay.
He said:
“Honestly… I feel like I don’t belong here. Everyone’s so experienced. I’m just trying not to screw up.”
I leaned in, smiled, and said:
“Let me tell you about a pen.”
That one flubbed interview—the one I walked out of thinking I’d ruined my last chance?
It gave me everything.
A job. A mentor. A second career. A side hustle.
But most of all, it gave me back my own voice.
So if you’re reading this and feeling stuck, invisible, or behind—
It’s not over.
You’re not done.
You’re just getting shaped.
You’re not selling a pen.
You’re selling your story.
And trust me—someone out there needs to hear it.
