Close encounters: how I almost landed a job in intelligence.

And what a life shattering failure taught me about success.

👋🏼 Hey, I’m Anna! Welcome to my weekly newsletter, where I share insights and ideas across career, business, personal development, creativity, productivity..and everything in between.

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The year was 2012.

I was in my last year of studying a double degree in Business and International Relations, and while my fellow Commerce grads were applying for jobs at the banks or Big 4 consulting firms, I’d secretly applied to one of Australia’s top intelligence outfits.

Becoming a spy had been a long held dream of mine, inspired by a formative trip to Egypt as part of an international peace delegation only a few years earlier. I was just 17 when I was selected as the only Australian to go to Cairo. I met 50 teens from every corner of the globe, including twins from Iraq whose parents hadn’t survived the war, political enemies from Palestine and Israel full of anger, and Americans who struggled to make sense of their country’s impact in the region. That trip changed my worldview and I fell in love with Islamic culture and tradition.

On the flight home I made the decision that my life’s goal was to work in intelligence. Naively, I thought I could help prevent the global conflicts I’d just learned about from young people who’d been directly affected. I saw it as my ticket to an exciting, adventure filled life full of interesting characters in far off places, and so when I got back home I applied straight away. I promised myself that studying and partying would take a back seat and committed myself to making it through process, whatever it took. To my surprise, within just a few days I’d received an email asking me to participate in the next phase of the application, an 8 hour exam-like session at a dingy hotel in the city.

And so it began.

The next week I made my way to the exam, heart pounding in my chest, my palms sweaty with the anticipation of what was to come. On arrival, my phone was taken away and I was escorted to a desk with a thick spiral binder and a single black pen resting on its cover. I was instructed to spend the day answering each question that lay within. I was not to rush. I was to take my time and answer thoroughly, accurately, and honestly. The most important thing, the instructor emphasised, was my integrity. Minimise my answers and it would be discovered. Lie and I would be found out. When (not if) I was found out, I would be kicked out.

As I flicked through the pages a sense of discomfort landed heavily on my shoulders. I was asked about the names and details of every person I’d been with. I had to share detailed information about my drinking habits, whether I’d taken drugs, and if so, when, how many times, how much, and who with. I had to recall every country I’d been to along with dates and names of people I’d met along the way. I had to share the names of my best friends and worst enemies. I was asked to share my darkest secrets and deepest regrets. What was the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to me? What makes me feel shame? Have I ever betrayed someone? What’s the biggest thing I’ve lied about? By the end of the day I was exhausted, not only from the questions, but from racking my brain for details out of fear I’d misremember and be caught out and kicked out.

I felt uneasy and paranoid, alongside the rush of excitement that I could potentially become an International Woman of Mystery.

The next week I found out I passed the exam and entered the next round of assessment. Round two led to round three, which led to rounds four, five and six. The following months were a blur of more written exams, activities and psychological tests. There were background checks on my family. There were tasks designed to trip me up. Conversations designed to make me stumble. At one stage I was convinced they’d tapped my phone, questions popping up shrouded in context that only existed in my Facebook messages. The process was gruelling. I felt uneasy and paranoid, alongside the rush of excitement that I could potentially become an International Woman of Mystery.

The final stage.

At last I reached the final stage of the process - a large group assessment. By this time it had been almost ten months since I first pressed submit on my application form. So much time, energy and emotion had been poured into the process, and I was all in.

I arrived to a room of 30 strangers bound together in a shared experience we couldn’t discuss. What followed was four days of intense scrutiny, our conversations and movements monitored from the second we got up to the moment our heads hit the pillow. Our leadership, critical thinking, social skills and ability to think and act on our feet were put to the test.

Then it came time for the final interview.

I’d been given no detail as to what to expect, and like every candidate I went in completely blind, entering into what I later realised was a full on interrogation. An interviewers began by throwing a thick black booklet onto the table in front of me. It landed with a loud thud. I immediately recognised it as the binder I’d written in all those months earlier, although now it was covered in red pen, post it notes and yellow highlighter.

They’d clearly done some research. And they had questions. Lots of questions.

Why was my second cousin living overseas? Was he really a business man? What kind of business did he run? Had I really only had one serious relationship? What about so and so? Am I sure I’ve never expressed this opinion? Why had I gone to Egypt? Why did I fly there alone? Was I certain that the person who picked me up from the airport was who he said he was? Who did I become friends with? Had I spoken with them since?

Question upon question piled up and were delivered in a rapidly more accusatory way. My mind raced, trying to recall what I’d written all those months earlier. I knew they were trying to trip me up, testing me to see how I coped under pressure. A single bead of sweat dripped down my back as I tried to stay calm. After what felt like a lifetime, I was finally told to leave. I slowly stood up from my chair, my legs shaking beneath me. As I exited the door I breathed a sign of relief.

It was over.

Shattered dreams.

A few weeks later I heard the ping of an email landing in the inbox. My heart racing, I rushed over to the computer. It was from the Department. I opened it with a sense of excitement, fully expecting to be greeted with a ‘Congratulations, you’ve made it!’.

Instead…

‘You have not been successful. Thank you for your time, we wish you all the best.’ I read it again, thinking that surely there was some sort of mistake. I scanned up and down desperately hoping to see something different, or at least an explanation of where I went wrong. But there was no feedback, no clue. I’d sacrificed over ten months of my life and in that instant I realised my dream was never going to be.

Slowly, painfully, eventually…I picked myself up off the ground. Life moved on. I carved out a different pathway in business and the media. Since then, I’ve done things I never could have had I landed that job in intelligence. I’ve formed deep, meaningful relationships. I’ve been around to see my two beautiful nephews grow up. I write and work for myself. I have a voice. I share my stories.

And I’ve learned that every inch of my current success is a direct result of that shattering failure. And that my future success will be the result of my next one 💪🏼.

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✍🏼 Next week’s post

A bold life is created though small choices: a lesson from MECCA’s founder, Jo Horgan.

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