In 2012, I was a fresh international graduate in Canada, full of hope and armed with a Canadian Master’s degree, yet still caught in the all-too-familiar loop: “We’re looking for candidates with Canadian work experience.” I used to wonder, was anyone born with it?
Through a headhunter, I managed a few temp jobs, but what I needed was a steady role to qualify for permanent residency under the Canadian Experience Class. I was determined.
The day I was flying out to the Netherlands for my wedding, I squeezed in a job interview. It went well, and I told the interviewers upfront that I’d only be available to resume in two weeks. Just days before the wedding, I received the offer. I accepted joyfully and sent in all the required documents. This job would be my lifeline, not just professionally, but for my immigration journey.
I returned to Canada newlywed and ready. The job was straightforward, and my team seemed okay. As a contractor, I reported to two bosses: one in Mexico and the other in Calgary. A week into the role, my Mexican boss called and casually remarked, “We had great resumes, but picked you for diversity.” That stung. But I stayed silent. I was on probation, and this job was too important.
Despite my qualifications, a Canadian Master’s degree, certifications, and international experience, I found myself having to prove my worth beyond what was on paper.
One colleague, who joined the same day I did, took a strange interest in my work. He even took exams the company paid for just to meet audit requirements. Soon, he began hovering, supervising me unofficially, questioning my competence. I found it intrusive and undermining. Still, I stayed calm. I was dealing with infertility treatments and a cocktail of medications that left me exhausted and covered in sores. But I kept going.
One day during an important fertility clinic appointment, this same colleague, who was on call, insisted I take the emergency work phone during my lunch hour. I explained I couldn’t take any calls, I wasn’t even going to eat, just meet my husband for an appointment at the Regional Fertility Center. He wouldn’t back down. He accused me of avoiding work. I snapped.
I walked him to our supervisor’s desk and asked, “Is he supposed to be supervising me?” I stormed off, visibly upset, to my appointment.
Later, I had to sit down with my supervisors to explain what happened. I acknowledged that I was under immense pressure, hormonally sensitive from treatment, and emotionally drained. It wasn’t my finest moment, but it was real.
To their credit, they listened. Apologies were exchanged. Something shifted after that. I passed my probation and began thriving. A colleague went on bed rest, and I took over her responsibilities. I documented reporting processes, created manuals, and started leading weekly presentations. I enjoyed my work again. The team gelled. I had found my rhythm.
That rough patch taught me more than any training ever could. It reminded me that sometimes, the only way to break through is to stand up, even if your voice shakes. I learned to recognize my worth and protect my peace. Not every system will look like what you’re used to, and not every colleague will play fair. But you can rise, learn, and even flourish in uncomfortable spaces.
To anyone navigating the immigrant job market or struggling through their probation period, hold your head up. Do your best. And when people try to minimize your contributions because of race, gender, or accent, remember who you are and what you bring to the table.
Never let anyone mess with your confidence again.
