Last December, I graduated from Stanford with both a bachelor’s and a master’s in English. I imagined that the hard part—earning the degrees—was over. Instead, more than 100 job applications later, I’m juggling three part-time jobs, living in one of the most expensive regions in the U.S., and constantly questioning what comes next.
I started applying three months before graduation, targeting project management, marketing, UX, and writing roles—even entry-level positions at big tech companies. I tailored nearly every résumé, wrote cover letters, researched companies, and spent hours preparing for the few interviews I landed.
Nothing worked.
Being an international student only made things harder. I’m in the U.S. on a post-grad work authorization called Optional Practical Training (OPT), which lets me work for one year without sponsorship—but I must find a job within 60 days of my OPT start date, or risk being sent home. Two months after graduation, I could feel the 60-day unemployment clock ticking, and the panic setting in.
Then a friend casually showed me their company’s website, an AI startup. I scanned the copy and joked, “I could write better than this.” That joke became my pitch. A week and two interviews later, I was their first marketing intern.
Those three months were a blur of learning the language of tech—AI, B2B, CRM—an alphabet soup that often left me frustrated. I kept applying for jobs, knowing the startup couldn’t hire me full-time despite my manager’s verbal reassurances. I was right.
Back to square one.
I allowed myself one day to cry before starting over. I subscribed to countless job boards, followed Gen Z career influencers on LinkedIn, and reached out to senior tech writers for advice. I repeated their mantra in my head: The economy is bad. This is not your fault.
One career blog suggested I “create in public,” so I did. I started a TikTok account as a “non-techie in tech,” sharing my job search journey. On LinkedIn, one vulnerable post about my struggles even went mildly viral.
Today, my three part-time jobs barely keep me afloat—but they maintain my legal status, for now. I tutor students on college essays, edit for an edtech company, and write copy for another AI startup. Meanwhile, rent devours my savings, my health insurance has lapsed, and I feel the weight of time slipping away: in six months, I’ll need visa sponsorship to stay.
The hardest part is updating my family. I give them small wins, never the full picture—the quiet shame, the exhaustion, the creeping fear that the past eight years in the U.S. might lead me home empty-handed.
I joke about unemployment online and commiserate with other Stanford grads in similar limbo, but I’ve stopped applying for jobs altogether. I know I need to start again, yet I can’t bring myself to open another application portal.
Somewhere amid the panic about money, visas, and the future, I forgot why I pursued English in the first place: to read critically, to write with care, to create and tell stories, to build community. Slowly, I’m trying to return to that love for stories—even in this uncertain chapter of my own.