The Internship That Made Me Brave

It was late summer when I started to feel it — that dull ache of not being picked. The kind that lives in your chest and grows heavier with each unanswered email, each silent rejection, each gutting reminder that a resume alone can't tell someone how hard you're trying. I was an undergraduate with a bursting portfolio, but no titles, no graduate degree to pad the trust fall.

I was starting to believe that maybe I just wasn't enough.

Then, one day, my inbox lit up. IBM. A chance. An interview. Then two names: my interviewer, and my soon-to-be manager. They didn't just review my application. They chose me — out of a sea of people who, on paper, were probably more qualified. They saw something in me when I was struggling to see it in myself. That moment cracked the door open, and behind it was a world I didn't even dare to imagine for myself.

Photo by Jordan Wozniak

Proving I Belonged

From the beginning, I felt the weight of having to prove I belonged. I wasn't just a new intern. I was the only undergrad on a team of seasoned professionals, many of them with master's degrees and years of experience. I told myself I had to run this like a marathon, not a sprint. But it still felt like I was racing against something invisible — the fear of being underestimated, of being too junior, too early, too small.

I told myself this internship might be the only shot I'd get, and I wasn't going to waste it. I set impossible standards for myself. Stayed up late perfecting deliverables. Rehearsed presentations until I could whisper them in my sleep. I didn't want to be good. I wanted to be undeniable. Not because anyone asked me to — but because I was afraid that if I slipped up even once, the illusion would shatter. The illusion that I belonged.

But here's what no one tells you: illusions don't hold up under pressure.

What held up was my work.

Not the degree. Not the years of experience I didn't have. Just my work. My attitude. My hunger to always deliver something better than what was expected. And slowly, I realized something — no one cared about the letters after my name. They cared about the impact I made. The kindness I brought. The curiosity I wore like a badge. I was wrong to think that a degree was the ticket. It's the work, the way you show up again and again with your sleeves rolled up and your heart in it, that really matters.

The Moment Everything Changed

One day, I was giving a session at IBM TechXchange.

After my first session, someone came up and said they wanted to see me present again. That they saw something in me. That they'd be back.

The second time, I stood on that virtual stage as the only intern presenting.

I didn't think about titles. I didn't think about the weight of "undergraduate." I just talked — about the work I cared about, the things I built, the people I collaborated with. I remember logging off and sitting in silence afterward, unsure of what I was supposed to feel. Pride? Relief? Disbelief?

Maybe all three.

And then the unthinkable happened: I got a full-time offer. I was invited to come back. I, the once-desperate undergrad, was now being asked to stay — not just as an intern, but as a peer. The kind that felt like the final scene in a movie — except this wasn't an ending. It was a beginning I never dared to imagine for myself. A door I thought was locked to people like me — younger, less decorated, still figuring it out.

But the thing that stayed with me most wasn't the offer. It was the people.

They didn't treat me like a temporary visitor. They celebrated me. Encouraged me. Told me they wanted to help me become a "star" — their word, not mine (Thank you, Neil!). They gave me compliments without hesitation. They offered mentorship without conditions. They talked to me like someone whose voice mattered. And for a moment — a precious, fleeting moment — I believed them.

I still do, sometimes.

One day, I found myself talking to second-year undergrad students — just like I had once been — sharing my story, answering their questions, laughing about imposter syndrome. That conversation, simple as it was, opened up new connections and new confidence. I could see a future version of myself in those questions, and I could feel the bridge between who I was and who I was becoming.

I think about that version of me — the one who almost gave up. The one who wondered if all this effort was worth it. I want to go back to her, sit beside her in that quiet loneliness, and say, You'll make it. You'll be okay. Someone's going to see you. Just hold on a little longer.

But I also want to tell her: You're going to keep running.

The Hunger That Doesn't Let Me Sleep

There's this thing people don't talk about enough — the fear that comes after the "yes."

I got the full-time offer. The validation. The praise. The outcome I'd been hoping for all along. And yet, I didn't feel the stillness I thought I would. I didn't feel full. I didn't feel done. What I felt, instead, was the slow tug of ambition — steady, unrelenting.

Every night, my mind starts running again.

What's next? What tools should I be learning? Should I pick up a new framework, take another course, build something cool on the side? What will my next Medium article be? What role should I grow into next? Should I do a Master's? Who should I be learning from? Who do I want to become?

It never stops.

The hedonic treadmill is real.

Ambition used to feel like hope. Now it sometimes feels like pressure. Like if I don't move fast enough, I'll fall behind — even if no one's chasing me. And I don't want to be someone who only does well when there's a finish line in sight. I want to do well when no one's looking. I want to do well because that's who I am.

I want to grow. Technically. Personally. As a teammate. As a builder. As a human.

And yet, I'm scared. Of burnout. Of never feeling enough. Of ambition hollowing me out until it forgets to leave space for joy.

But this is where I have to pause — and tell you something else. Something more private.

Finding Myself

I don't think I could've done any of this — not the internship, not the marathon pace, not the growth — if I hadn't finally been diagnosed with ADHD.

Before treatment, I was a pile of ideas and no movement. I was sadness pressed into the shape of a person. I had all the motivation in the world trapped behind a foggy pane of glass. I could see the things I wanted to do, I just couldn't get to them. I'd lie on the floor, watching the hours pass, knowing I was capable of so much and doing none of it. It broke me in quiet ways.

Now, it's different. The fog clears more often. The ideas have legs.

I still get overwhelmed. But I move. I create. I contribute. I grow.

I feel like me.

And maybe that's the best part of this whole story — not just that I got the job, or proved I belonged, or spoke at events — but that I finally came home to who I am, with all my hunger and heart intact.

To You, Who's Still Waiting

So if you're reading this and you're still in the dark place — still waiting for the callback, still wondering if anyone will see you — I want you to know this:

You are not invisible. You are not behind. You are not too early.

You're just waiting for the right door to open.

And when it does, I hope you run through it with your whole heart. I hope you take up space. I hope you trust that you were never the problem — you just hadn't been seen in the right light yet.

You'll be okay. You'll be more than okay.

Just hold on a little longer.

Someone's going to believe in you.

Just like they believed in me.