The First Job

Young man in wheelchair working IT Dept.
My first break — the job that finally said yes.

The plan had been followed. Skills learned. Years spent as a student. The year closed, and this time it meant something different: a small holiday, then the hunt for that first job. A CV prepared. The web and newspaper scanned daily for that elusive opportunity. One question nagged — how should I present the fact that I’m in a wheelchair? Should I even mention it? Conscience searched. Decision made. I placed it clearly in my personal information. Applications submitted. Daily travel to Auckland began.

At first, I felt hopeful. Interviews came, and I believed doors would open. But weeks stretched into months. The train rides grew heavy, the waiting rooms colder. Some interviews went well, others left me uncertain, and a few felt like I was only there so they could tick a box. Friends were moving on, starting their lives. Four months gone, and my drive began to crumble. Doubt crept in. Despair settled like a weight I couldn’t shake.

Then — a dream job appeared. Corporate, polished, everything I imagined. I asked my Aunt to help me look my best. By now, interviews didn’t scare me, but this one mattered. Inside, I connected with two of the three interviewers. The third, the boss, seemed fixed on my wheelchair. Still, I hoped. I wanted this job with all my heart.

Two hours later, the recruiter called. “They thought you would have been good for the job, but… you weren’t dressed well enough.” The words cut deep. Hurt didn’t begin to describe it. My heart broke, my hope collapsed. The recruiter added that he had removed mention of my wheelchair from my CV. I stopped applying. I stopped believing. I wanted to disappear.

One last interview remained, already scheduled. I went, heavy-hearted. Ten minutes in, I knew it wasn’t the job for me. The boss was kind, showed me around, introduced me to people. I left resigned, certain this was the end.

Two weeks later, another rejection letter arrived. Final confirmation. I resolved to tell my family I had failed.

But then — 9am the next morning — the phone rang. It was that last boss. “Would you be interested in a three-month trial?” They had reshaped a role, one they couldn’t fill, and they were offering it to me. Joy flooded in, sudden and overwhelming. After months of despair, the light broke through. I accepted, trembling with nerves and excitement. In a week, I moved to Auckland.