Dear Meeting Room,

It’s been some years since I had my first day at my first job. But I still remember the night before. Lying in bed, fully dressed in self-doubt and silent rehearsals. I must’ve run through a hundred scenarios in my head. Everything from what to say when I entered the room, to how loudly I should laugh if someone made a joke. Not too loud, not too quiet. Engaged, but not overeager. Friendly, but not desperate. You know, the usual performance manual for being normal.

My first day of work in the adult world was at a trading company. I had been there once before for a pre-boarding lunch, a warm-up round, I suppose. I remember walking into a sea of suits and self-assurance. The guys were cocky, polished, energetic. Not unkind, to be fair. But the vibe was clear: this was not an arena for hesitations.

I tried to hang. I brought football into the conversation, I thought, as a safe topic. I had played at a decent level, and it usually worked as a form of soft currency in male spaces. That is, until two of them casually mentioned their near-pro careers. Ah. Okay. So I’m the junior here, on and off the field.

By the time the real first day came, the mental gymnastics had only intensified. I kept asking myself questions no one else seemed to be losing sleep over. What time do I go in? What should I wear? How do I greet people — handshake, nod, casual “hey”? Is it weird to bring lunch? Is it weird not to bring lunch?

Thankfully, my manager had told me what time to show up, and I had picked up some cues about the dress code during that lunch. Still, I checked three times in the mirror before leaving. Not to admire myself, but to make sure I didn’t look too junior. Too fresh. Too anything.

The day itself? It went… well. Nothing spectacular. No disasters. Which, in itself, felt like a small win.

They had breakfast ready in the kitchen, a kind of casual buffet with bread, cheese, cold cuts. I remember standing there with a plate, pretending to deliberate between rye and white bread while actually scanning the room for an opening. A place to sit. A tone to match.

Then came the practicalities. Laptop, phone, login access. A quick tour of the office, a rundown of systems I barely remembered by the afternoon. I nodded a lot. Smiled a lot. Said “cool” more times than anyone should in one day.

I met the rest of the floor. Names I forgot almost instantly but pretended to remember. Everyone was friendly in that efficient, professional way — quick eye contact, polite banter, a slight lean back in their chairs as they shook my hand. I couldn’t tell if I was being welcomed or catalogued.

The hours passed. Slowly at first, then all at once. I kept trying to read the room: how long do people take for lunch? Can I check my phone? Should I have asked more questions? Should I have asked fewer?

The worst part was the stretches where I didn’t have anything to do. No one really expects anything from you, and therefore, no one checks in with you. So I had these long pockets of time where I had nothing to do. To be fair, this happened a lot in the first 2-3 months. So I tried to look busy by studying the website, internal systems, and ERP. And if I have to be honest, I understood nothing of the systems, but it felt like a safe way to look engaged and avoid looking lazy. So I just did it.

By the time I left that afternoon, I was exhausted, not from the workload, but from the sheer effort of being perceptive. Of trying to exist in a way that would leave no bad impression. Not invisible, but not too much. Not too junior, but not arrogant either. Not too eager, not too cold.

I don’t remember much of what I actually did that day. But I remember how I felt: like I had just completed a full day’s worth of emotional cardio, quietly sweating under my business-casual armor.