Like many new immigrants, I moved to Canada with big dreams. With an MBA and a rising career in advertising working with international brands, I was confident of making it big in Canada. After all, I had moved countries and lived on different continents before; succeeding in a new place was not a new thing. The prospect of starting from scratch and making it big excited me. It’s not necessarily a guy thing-well, actually, yes. It’s a guy thing. I was in for an adventure, for sure.
It was not long before my enthusiasm and options started to run out. Despite the headwinds I was facing, I sent my applications to every advertising agency in town. I started getting lots of mail over the next few weeks brimming with lovely politeness that all ended in no. Many agencies didn’t bother to write back because they figured we both just kind of knew.
With no luck from advertising agencies, I decided to spread the net wider. I thought the skills and experience I gained on the agency side would be an asset for any client. Unfortunately, most recruiters could not see beyond my lack of Canadian experience. My dream job in Canada seemed a distant possibility when even after 4 months I couldn’t get a decent break. Desperate to get back into the workforce I decided to take up survival jobs to stop the bleeding on my bank account. When I mentioned this to some of my closest friends they looked at me like I was proposing to remove my own liver. Working the graveyard shifts on factory floors, however, turned out to be a bigger nightmare than I imagined. While it helped pay the bills; tasks like scrubbing store signs at -5 degrees, picking hot automotive parts from burning furnaces, and carrying heavy boxes across warehouse floors were definitely not my idea of work. It taught me important lessons in humility and the dignity of labour. I began to question the value of my education, knowledge, and experience. There seemed no light at the end of this proverbial tunnel.