The Time I Walked Into an Investment Banking Recruiting Event in a Vest and Blue Jeans

This actually happened.

It was the fall of my sophomore year of college. I had just moved from Denver to Washington, D.C., and it was my first time being away from home. I’ll admit it now, but I was lost. But I was taking every moment day by day.

At the time, I really didn’t know much about high finance, let alone Investment Banking. It wasn’t an industry that I was necessarily exposed to. I come from a family of engineers and self-made entrepreneurs, not Investment Bankers.

I remember the day clearly. A few from my university were invited to a boutique investment bank to learn and network. When I got the invitation, I assumed it was another college mixer. I was wrong.

There are certain moments in your life where you realize you misunderstood the assignment so profoundly that all you can do is commit to the bid.

I love fashion and getting ready on theme, but this was the only time I felt out of place. In the midst of moving, I thought I looked fine—not perfect, but presentable. I wore dark-wash Everlane jeans, a striped button-down, a forest-green Patagonia vest, and confidence born of ignorance about being underdressed.

I walked in thinking West Coast business casual. Everyone else walked in thinking they were future Managing Directors at Goldman Sachs.

The room was aggressively corporate in classic finance recruiting style: navy suits, polished loafers, tailored blazers, conversations steeped in technical jargon, and familiar firms. There was a clear uniform, and I realized I wasn’t wearing it.

I remember standing there with my botegga dupe, looking around, and having the slow, creeping realization that I had made a mistake. It also didn’t help that I was seated in the front row.

Not only was I completely underdressed. I was also completely underprepared. Everywhere I looked, people had notepads, resumés printed and ready to hand out, and prepared questions. It almost felt like a whiplash. “How many M&A analysts does the firm hire?” “What differentiates successful analysts?” “What is the timeline for superday interviews?” “Would you be willing to put me in contact with other analysts and associates from this group?”

I suppose you can say that this was also the first time in my life, to an extent, I felt out of place. Imposter Syndrome, if you will. Even though I was the only one from my University at this exclusive invite-only event. I felt extremely out of place. Like, I didn’t belong there. Like everyone, there was someone better than me, and I didn’t know anything.

After the presentation, the networking event convened. It kept making me feel even worse. It was my first time in an environment where everyone around me was just as ambitious as me, if not more so.

The line to meet professionals was long. It felt like everyone was trying to get ahead, leveraging their networks. I was a naïve twenty-year-old, googling finance terminology. Champagne, oysters, and caviar catering only made it more intimidating.

When it would be my turn. I would ask the most basic questions: “What are some of the best books to prepare for IB recruiting?” “I am not a finance major, is that okay for getting into finance?” “I am not from a target school. Can I still break into this industry?”

I learned my lesson quickly. Since then, I’ve attended more networking events, and those intimidating environments have become normal. You learn professional small talk, what “business professional” means, the typical questions, and stop overthinking where to stand with your drink.

After an hour and a half, I left. In the most humiliating way, I had learned my lesson. Nobody pointed at me or asked me to leave; I learned from the event. In elite spaces, feeling out of place happens through subtle contrast, not direct humiliation.

You notice it in the ways people carry themselves. The way they already seem to understand the rules of the room. The way everyone appears fluent in a language you are still trying to translate in real time. And suddenly, you become hyperaware of yourself. Through your outfit, handshake, the way you introduce yourself, or whether you sound polished enough. Smart enough or polished enough.

I realized discomfort was less about clothing and more about unfamiliarity. My outfit symbolized something bigger: I was in a space whose social codes I hadn’t learned yet.

What I learned is that belonging in elite spaces is not a matter of being handed a guide or being born knowing the rules. The expectations are cultural, invisible, and absorbed through exposure. Most people learn to navigate these rooms by observing, adapting, and turning small humiliations into fluency.

Looking back, I am glad it happened. Belonging is just familiarity, repeated until it feels normal.

Here’s what I wish someone had told me: comfort comes from confidence, not credentials—something I got right that night.