You ever go through a hiring process that feels like you’re applying to launch a rover on Mars, only to find out the compensation package is mostly vibes and a handshake that says, “We’re a family here,” in cursive?
Because that was me. I interviewed for a role titled Assistant to the CEO. Not Executive Assistant. Not Office Coordinator. Not “Administrative Ninja Unicorn of Scheduling.” No. Assistant. To. The. CEO. A title so aggressively important it briefly restored my parents’ faith that all those years of me “writing on LinkedIn” might actually be a career and not a cry for help with Wi-Fi.
And honestly? It started normal. Innocent. Almost sweet.
Recruiter screen. Hiring manager. Then a panel interview with five people who asked the same question in slightly different fonts, like the company’s entire culture is built on rewording the same concern and calling it “alignment.”
Then came the take-home assignment.
A take-home assignment.
For an assistant role.
Which is always the moment I realize I’m not applying for a job anymore. I’m auditioning for a role in a corporate remake of Interstellar, except instead of time dilation, it’s calendar management, and instead of black holes, it’s “quick asks” that somehow swallow your entire week.
The assignment wanted me to draft communications, prioritize executive calendars, solve hypothetical crises, and demonstrate the ability to run the company if everyone vanished into a team-building retreat and never returned. There was definitely a question that sounded like, “If the CEO, the board, and time itself were on fire, who do you save first and why?” and I’m pretty sure the correct answer was “culture.”
So I did it. I spent hours. I color-coded. I proofread like I was submitting a brief to the Supreme Court. I treated it like unpaid consulting, because apparently I enjoy character development.
Then came the final final interview. The one where everyone smiles a little too much and says things like, “We’re really excited about you,” and “You’d be such a culture add,” and “This role is critical to the success of the organization,” while I sit there nodding, imagining my future, mentally budgeting for groceries with confidence.
And then… salary.
Sixty thousand dollars. Not a range. Not “starting at.” Not “depending on experience.” A firm, confident, chest-out $60,000—delivered like they were handing me the keys to a Lexus, not asking me to pilot a company on a Honda Civic budget.
That’s when my soul briefly left my body, checked the job market, and came back tired.
Because listen—$60k is real money. Bills get paid. Lights stay on. But you cannot audition me like I’m joining the Avengers and then compensate me like I’m an intern with ambition and a Costco membership.
And this is where the comedy turns into performance art: nobody mentioned the pay until the end. Like it was a plot twist. Like the hiring process was a Netflix series and the finale was, “Surprise! Your reward is… financial resilience.”
The Interview Process That Thought It Was a Security Clearance
The recruiter screen was normal enough. The usual warm-up routine where someone asks you to “walk them through your resume” while clearly reading your resume, as if the goal is to confirm you are the same person listed under your own name.
Then came the hiring manager interview—aka the emotional compatibility test where you have to convince a person who hasn’t taken a real lunch since 2019 that you will not be “too much,” “too quiet,” “too experienced,” or the most dangerous category of all: “too self-aware.”
And then… the panel.
Five people.
Five human beings on one call, each asking a slightly modified version of the same question like it’s a corporate echo chamber with a benefits package.
One asked, “How do you handle competing priorities?”
Another asked, “How do you manage urgency with multiple stakeholders?”
Another asked, “Tell us about a time you supported an executive through ambiguity.”
And somewhere in there someone asked, “How do you stay organized?” while staring at the chaos behind their own eyes.
And the whole time, you can feel it: they are testing for more than competence. They’re testing for the rare candidate who is simultaneously:
- calm but hungry
- proactive but not threatening
- organized but not rigid
- confident but grateful
- competent but willing to accept whatever they offer because “it’s a great opportunity”
So you perform. You smile. You tell polished stories about solving crises that were technically caused by other people. You use words like “stakeholders” and “alignment” and “triage,” like you’re not describing calendar invites but battlefield medicine.
And by the end of it, you’re emotionally dehydrated, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and you have the distinct feeling you’ve been evaluated by a committee that may or may not be authorized to launch satellites.
The Take-Home Assignment (Or: Unpaid Labor, But Make It A Personality Test)
Take-home assignments are fascinating because they’re always presented as “just a small exercise,” which is corporate for “please donate several hours of your life so we can judge you in private.”
And the best part is how they frame it like it’s for your benefit.
“This helps us see how you think.”
No. This helps you see how little you respect my time.
Because once you agree, the assignment isn’t a task anymore. It becomes a stage. A full production. A Broadway show where you play all roles: assistant, strategist, crisis manager, communications lead, executive whisperer, and part-time therapist to a CEO who doesn’t exist yet but is already exhausting.
You draft the email that calms the board.
You reorganize the calendar like a surgeon.
You prioritize “urgent” vs “important,” even though everything is urgent because the CEO is apparently allergic to planning.
And you do it well, because you’re not just competing against other candidates. You’re competing against the fantasy of the perfect employee: someone who can do the work of three people, quietly, flawlessly, forever, without ever needing a raise, a boundary, or a moment to blink.
You turn it in, you feel proud, and then immediately you feel stupid for feeling proud because you realize you just did free labor for people who haven’t told you the pay yet.
But you tell yourself, “It’s fine. This is just how it works now.”
Which is also what people say before they accept a job that costs them their sanity.
The Salary Reveal (Or: Congratulations, You’ve Won… A Budget)
The final interview is always the same energy: soft lighting, enthusiastic nodding, and the corporate equivalent of a romantic montage where they start talking about your future together.
“We can really see you in this role.”
“We think you’d thrive here.”
“You’d be a huge asset.”
“This position is critical.”
Critical.
CRITICAL.
As in: if you don’t do it, the CEO will drift into the void, lost, alone, without a properly formatted calendar invite.
So you’re leaning in. You’re thinking, okay—high responsibility, high expectations, high compensation. That’s the bargain, right?
And then they drop the number.
$60,000.
Again—solid money. But not “right hand to the CEO through time and space” money.
Not “panel of five plus unpaid assignment” money.
Not “you will be the firewall between the CEO and reality” money.
And this is the moment where your brain does that thing where it tries to stay polite while your spirit starts writing a resignation letter to the entire concept of employment.
Because you suddenly understand the strategy: they waited until the end because they wanted you fully invested. They wanted sunk-cost desperation. They wanted you to look at all the hours you spent and think, “Well… I might as well.”
They wanted gratitude.
They wanted you to say, “I’m just grateful for the opportunity,” while quietly calculating how many side hustles it takes to afford groceries and self-respect in the same month.
But here’s the truth: if the role is “Assistant to the CEO,” and the process is “NASA clearance,” and the expectations are “run the company if everyone disappears,” then the pay can’t be “best we can do is vibes.”
That’s not an offer. That’s a test of how little you value your own time.
And I passed the test by failing it gloriously.
Final Thoughts: Titles Don’t Pay Bills, and Optimism Isn’t Direct Deposit
I’m not mad at the money. I’m mad at the mismatch.
I’m mad at the theatrical production of importance, the dramatic build-up, the careful language, the “culture add” speeches, the multi-round audition… all leading to a number that says, “We want executive-level output with mid-level pricing.”
Because this is the part of job searching no one prepares you for: the moment when you realize the title is a costume, the process is a performance, and the offer is hoping you’re too tired to advocate for yourself.
So yes—I survived the interviews. I survived the assignment. I survived the reveal.
And I walked away with clarity, caffeine, and the reminder that some titles are just fancy fonts for unpaid expectations.
Assistant to the CEO? Absolutely.
Assistant to unrealistic expectations for $60k? Hard pass.
