Published on: 2025-04-27
Description: Reflections on my first job after college at a hedge fund, the mistakes I made, and the lessons I learned
Written by: Fadi Atieh
This post documents the journey through my first job after college—a prestigious, lucrative position at a quantitative hedge fund. I’ll walk you through my three-year rollercoaster ride, from survival to success to eventual departure, and share the hard-won wisdom I gained along the way.
This reflection is based solely on my personal experience. I’ve intentionally omitted names and specific details about my colleagues—many of whom were exceptional professionals—to preserve their privacy.
Fresh out of MIT, I chose the path that promised the highest salary and most impressive credentials: a glamorous hedge fund. The compensation package outshined what any of my peers were offered, providing a substantial ego boost. Immigration constraints also factored heavily into my decision. Navigating the precarious U.S. immigration system while unable to return to my home country of Syria—with its devastated economy and uncertain future—made securing a green card my top priority. In retrospect, given today’s immigration climate, this was strategically sound.
My first year was dominated by anxiety. Despite being hired as an engineer, engineering hadn’t been my strong suit in college. While I excelled in math and physics, consistently ranking in top percentiles, my only B came from a programming class—an experience that shattered my confidence and made me feel like an impostor among the coding elite. This insecurity followed me to my new workplace, where I anticipated being measured against those same “cracked” engineers.
My inaugural project only intensified these fears: a complex systems-level project in C++, far outside my comfort zone. As a newcomer lacking the authority to decline assignments, I compensated for my perceived inadequacy by working grueling hours under immense pressure, simply hoping to survive.
I did survive, but I was far from thriving. Lacking confidence, I avoided taking ownership of the product I was supposedly responsible for—a fact I’m not proud of. To be candid, excellence wasn’t my primary goal; securing my immigration status was. I cynically assumed many colleagues shared my mercenary motivations, though this may have been projection to rationalize my own approach.
Everything changed in my second year when I was assigned to a project that aligned with my strengths in scientific computing and modeling. This shift brought me closer to work that resonated with my identity and sparked genuine career aspirations. My engagement deepened, my confidence grew, and my stress levels decreased. Most importantly, I began to sense that my colleagues valued my contributions, trusted my judgment, and enjoyed our collaboration. I finally belonged.
This was my peak performance period. I delivered exceptional results and built a reputation as someone who could bridge the gap between engineering and research—a translator who could understand quants and transform their insights into robust engineering solutions. At year’s end, I wrote a bold self-evaluation expressing my desire to steer my career in a more quantitative direction.
Deep down, I wanted to become a quant, or at least be mentored by one. I craved guidance from an expert in statistical modeling. As my engineering team was firmly positioned within the engineering organization, my growing fascination with research and mathematical modeling gradually distanced me from my teammates. It pained me when I was asked to omit research details from presentations to accommodate my team’s background. While I didn’t explicitly state all this in my evaluation—partly due to lingering shyness and fear of jeopardizing my green card prospects—I hoped that expressing my desire to move in a more quantitative direction would initiate a meaningful conversation.
At the beginning of my third year, I hit a wall. Not only was my request for a more quantitative role ignored, but discussions instead centered on increasing my engineering responsibilities. My intuition told me I was being contained rather than supported—conditionally valued as long as I followed the organization’s preferred path. The dismissal of my career aspirations stung deeply. This was the moment I began to lose faith in my long-term prospects at the firm, concluding that the opportunity cost was too high to remain in this situation. Disillusionment, resentment, and disengagement followed.
I started counting down—first to receiving my green card in April, then to securing my year-end bonus. My strategy was simple: wait it out, then exit. Gradually, my engagement waned and my productivity declined—a change I noticed even if others didn’t immediately. I began pursuing side projects outside work, convincing myself this arrangement was sustainable since my performance remained adequate. Ironically, this period produced one of my best collaborations ever with a quant who had a reputation for being difficult but proved to be remarkably forgiving and respectful. I deeply admired my colleagues, which made my diminishing commitment all the more painful.
Meanwhile, competition within my team intensified with the hiring of “cracked” engineers—individuals more invested and skilled in engineering than I was. I had no motivation to compete with them since engineering excellence wasn’t my goal. Yet my ego wouldn’t allow me to disengage completely. I found myself trapped in a game I hadn’t chosen, watching my standing in the team gradually erode.
Everything collapsed when I was assigned a massive engineering deliverable after the research phase ended. Already checked out and burnt out, I faced a complex, high-stakes, highly visible implementation without collaborators who truly understood its complexity. The pressure was overwhelming, and I struggled to communicate the scope of work required. Insecurity led me to over-promise and under-deliver on deadlines, creating tension with my team and stakeholders. Simultaneously, I began interviewing at other firms, further reducing my working hours—sometimes arriving at 1 PM and leaving by 4. The situation became untenable.
The disconnect between my spirit and my work grew so vast that I finally decided to quit before my reputation was irreparably damaged. I valued preserving the respect of colleagues I admired more than waiting for a year-end bonus that might be reduced if my performance continued to deteriorate.
When I informed my manager of my decision, I was shocked by their surprise. I had assumed my disengagement was obvious, but many were caught off guard. Management attempted to retain me by offering to reassign me to a quant team—exactly what I had wanted all along. It was unfortunate that this offer came too late, and even more unfortunate that it took my resignation to prompt it.
After declining the initial retention offer, I considered the second, more concrete proposal carefully. Unfortunately, after being promised, the offer was rescinded, leaving me no choice but to proceed with my resignation.
In retrospect, this story is a tragedy. The people I worked with, including my management chain, were good people whom I admired and even loved. While I was disappointed by some at certain points, I truly believe everyone wanted a different outcome. Though not entirely my fault, I made critical mistakes that shaped this journey.
In college, I was consistently rewarded for academic excellence, which taught me to value technical competence above all else. The real world operates differently. Being capable doesn’t guarantee success—you must also leverage that capability to create the outcomes you want.
Success means reliably moving in a direction of your own choosing, not just excelling at assigned tasks. You can’t depend on others to notice your talents and align their interests with yours. Everyone is optimizing for their own trajectories; your responsibility is to optimize for yours.
This doesn’t imply any moral judgment on any player in this game. It’s simply how complex organizations function. You can either embrace this reality or deny it at your own peril.
I no longer view shyness and excessive politeness as virtues. While kindness remains essential—the kind colleagues I encountered made my experience worthwhile—politeness motivated by fear and conflict avoidance deteriorates communication and breeds resentment.
The key difference between kindness and mere politeness is that kindness comes from a place of strength, while politeness often stems from fear and complacency. In business as in life, when you want something, articulate it clearly and directly.
My agreeable tendencies, reinforced by upbringing, made my professional life unnecessarily difficult. I wasn’t assertive enough to request what I deserved, didn’t ask for additional resources when projects legitimately required them, and failed to communicate effectively with management as situations deteriorated. My immigration vulnerability compounded these issues. Moving forward, I’ll strive to be kind while avoiding unnecessary politeness that comes at everyone’s expense.
One of my biggest miscalculations was the gap between my perception and objective reality. In my mind, my disengagement was obvious and my departure expected. In reality, people were surprised and upset when I resigned.
A negative mental model fed on itself, biasing my interpretation of signals around me. I never reached out to colleagues for perspective checks or to gauge how things appeared from their viewpoint. Many stakeholders had numerous priorities besides me—the world didn’t revolve around my situation. Had I sought external input, I might have eased some of the pressure I placed on myself.
Going forward, I’ll gather multiple external signals, weigh them appropriately, and make more balanced judgments.
While I wish I had navigated this situation more wisely—I certainly disappointed people who depended on me—I believe leaving was ultimately the right decision. I’m young, opportunity costs are high, and I want to give myself a chance to create something uniquely expressive of my talents and passions.
My first job after college, despite its prestige, compensation, and brilliant colleagues, was likely not my last. If my new path doesn’t succeed, I can always recalibrate. But for now, I choose to keep pursuing what feels authentic to me.
Sometimes the most valuable lessons come from our most challenging experiences. This journey taught me about organizational dynamics, self-advocacy, and the importance of clear communication—wisdom I’ll carry forward into whatever comes next.