A Job Interview So Bad I Had to Send a Complaint

I've had many job interviews in my life, especially in the last four years. And, if I'm honest, I still carry a quiet fear with me into every interview. Not about my skills, but about my nationality. Coming from what some might call a geopolitically inconvenient country, you get used to imagining raised eyebrows before they even raise. You brace for the moment someone tries to politely imply your background is a liability.

But that moment never came. A dozen of interviews. Not once did anyone treat my international experience as a problem. Until this one.

The role itself wasn't perfect: not the highest salary, not the best benefits. But it had something I couldn't ignore: a niche that intrigued me, and a place I could picture myself walking into every morning without resenting the commute. The online interview reinforced that impression: solid people, thoughtful questions. Well, almost, apart from one slightly snappy person I dismissed as "probably having a bad Zoom day." So when the final, in-person interview was scheduled, I was happy to not see that person's name in the panel members list.

I arrived an hour early, long enough to walk around the building, listen to the students, and quietly judge the vibe, which, in academia, is often more honest than the prospectus. And the vibe was good: warm, human, real. Right on time, I was escorted into a boardroom with the Head of Department, the Dean, and the BSc program lead, all people I was genuinely happy to see again. And then I noticed another chair right next to mine. It was occupied by someone who wasn't in the HR email.

Colin. The same Colin from the online interview, except this time, he wasn't filtered by Wi-Fi distortion. And within minutes, I realized the issue wasn't the internet connection. He wasn't just snappy. He was determined.

The shift was immediate: interruptions that sliced through answers mid-sentence, exasperated sighs people usually reserve for malfunctioning printers, and a laptop that was opened, slammed shut, and then opened again like a prop in a school play about "How to Show Your Contempt Through Objects." Each time he did it, the rest of the panel visibly tensed. Someone even tried calming him down...twice. And then came a comment so casually dismissive it took me a second to realize I hadn't misheard it:

"You are describing experiences from Russia. You do know you are applying for a job in the UK?"

As if my years of international academic experience were somehow irrelevant because "this is a UK job." I calmly clarified that I was asked to describe student engagement activities I was most proud of, and that is what I did. I continued answering questions. He wasn't playing with his laptop anymore, he was carefully listening, waiting for a moment at the very end of an answer to stab me with a "Where was this, in which country?", attempting to undermine my experience. He did this two more times, before I finally had enough. I turned to him, paused, and asked with a tortured smile, "Why is that important?" He repeated himself, "You DO know you are applying for a job in the UK?" With an even bigger smile, I said, "Yes. AND?" There was a long uncomfortable pause before the interview was awkwardly picked up again by the Dean.

When the interview was finished, he kept sitting in his place with a sour expression, while others were shaking my hand goodbye. There it was. The thing I'd been bracing for all those years. When it was over, I didn't feel rejected. I felt unclean.

What made it worse was the contrast. Everyone else was engaged, curious, direct in a good way. And then there was Colin, who acted like my mere presence was a personal inconvenience. No single action was horrific. It was the accumulation: interruptions, micro-aggressions, visible annoyance, performative laptop choreography, all woven together with the quiet, uncomfortable reactions of everyone else in the room.

I walked out thinking two things at the same time: I might still get this job and I don't know if I even want it now.

I could have kept quiet and waited for a decision. But I was buzzing from the inside wanting to do something that would make me feel better. I had the burning desire to let people know what had happened. And yes, I justified it in all the sensible ways: 

Maybe it would help future candidates? Maybe his colleagues needed a formal reason to address behaviour they'd tolerated too long? Maybe this would quietly improve the team culture?

But there was also the less flattering part, the tiny, human instinct to make sure he felt at least a fraction of the discomfort he'd handed out so casually. Not revenge exactly, just the refusal to let something so unnecessary slide without acknowledgement. 

At the same time, I knew I didn't want to turn a stranger into an enemy. He was simply someone who behaved badly in a room I happened to be sitting in. Or was he? And that's when I faced a question candidates almost never ask aloud:

Do you send negative feedback while the decision is still pending? And if you do, does it automatically kill your chances? If you send it after the decision, would it just make you look petty and dramatic?

I decided to wait and see how I felt about it later. And eight hours later, I still felt dirty. So I wrote the panel a letter titled "Feedback on the interview process". Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just honest. I described what happened. I explained how it felt. I said I wouldn't be comfortable working in an environment where that behaviour was acceptable. I didn't cc him. I didn't accuse anyone of anything I couldn't stand behind. I simply refused to pretend it hadn't happened.

And, honestly, I thought that would be the end of it, maybe a polite "thank you for your feedback" the following week. Instead, on Monday, I received a letter from their HR team:

"Your experience did not meet the standards we strive to uphold. Would you be open to a call?"

During the call, their HR team didn't minimize anything. They didn't deflect. They didn't blame stress or a busy day. They told me they were already aware. The line manager had spoken to him immediately after my interview. They asked for details because they wanted to address it properly. They apologized without excuses and made clear that Colin had no business questioning the relevance of my international experience. And then they asked if I was still interested in the position.

I found that giving the people who wronged you the opportunity to make it up could be as therapeutic as getting an apology, which I got as well, even though I didn't expect to. I clearly realize that if I hadn't written that email on the same day in that exact mix of clarity, irritation, and disbelief I wouldn't have written it at all. Not the next morning. Not after the decision. Not "when I had time." It would've dissolved into the category of interview stories we retell once and then forget.

And as for what happened next… I'll skip that part. Not to be mysterious, just because it easily could have gone either way. What really matters for me in this story is this: I'm genuinely glad I wrote that feedback when I did. Not because it changed the world, but because I know not saying anything back then is what I would've regretted today.