IB Recruiting from a Non Target is Paradise

The Dream That Never Made the Cut

Back in high school, I was convinced I’d be the next Goldman Sachs prodigy—posing on yachts in the Hamptons, casually sipping $14 oat milk lattes, and calling interns “champ” by age 21.

Unfortunately, every Ivy League and target school had other plans. My applications were rejected so fast I thought my Wi-Fi glitched. One school actually mailed me a rejection before I applied. Another one just sent back a screenshot of my GPA with the subject line: “lol.”

So I found myself at a small Northeastern private school with a >50% acceptance rate and a career fair sponsored by local insurance agents. The campus “network” was a guy named Steve who once applied to BlackRock and didn’t hear back. Our biggest prestige event? Free pizza in the student lounge—extra cheese if you RSVP’d before 7 p.m. It was humbling. And lactose-heavy.

The Rise of the Night Owl

While normal students tanned on the quad, tossed frisbees, or filmed TikToks captioned “day in the life of a silly little marketing major,”

I power-walked past them like a man possessed—laptop in one hand, shattered dream in the other.

They saw a sleep-deprived gremlin in wrinkled khakis.

I saw a future investment banking god in the making, on his way to ritualistically sacrifice a freshman to the DCF model.

Sunscreen? Optional.

Sleep? Urban legend.

Netflix? Never heard of her.

My backpack was heavier than their student debt. My blue light glasses were permanently welded to my face. While they laughed about spring break, I was memorizing WACC formulas like sacred scripture.

And I’ll be honest—I looked down on them. All of them. Deep down, I knew they’d be broke forever. Destined for $65K salaries, open-plan offices, and “team-building retreats” in budget hotels. Meanwhile, I’d be a future master of the universe, telling interns to “circle back” and ordering Postmates from my iPad with one hand while formatting CIMs with the other.

I told myself that every day.

Lied to myself beautifully, like a Wall Street-themed fairy tale.

But it worked.

Because while they had serotonin, social lives, and vitamin D,

I had the dream.

And that’s all you need when you’re destined for greatness—or, at the very least, a mid-tier offer from a firm named after a rock.

The Delusional Optimist Phase

I scavenge through my school’s alumni on LinkedIn. Ten investment bankers. Ten. Out of a alumni network  of fourteen thousand, most of whom are now selling solar panels or doing “digital marketing” for their uncle’s vape shop, I found ten brave souls with “Analyst” next to their name. That was enough for me.

“I can make this work,” I whisper to myself like a war general rallying troops that don’t exist. I’m lying. I know I’m screwed. But the lie keeps me warm at night—well, that and my laptop’s overheating battery.

One of the ten works in DCM at a Canadian bank I can’t pronounce. Another left banking to open a kombucha startup. The rest haven’t been active since Obama’s second term. But that doesn’t stop me. I DM them anyway, opening with the classic:

“Hi First Name, I hope you’re doing well! I’m a current junior at sacred heart”

No reply.

Seen.

Blocked.

“Connection failed.”

My batting average? Lower than the GPA I had sophomore year when I thought “Intermediate Accounting” would be “just math with more words.”

Recruitment Season: My Super Bowl

While others are throwing on jerseys and pregaming for the tailgate, I’m pregaming for my 8th mock interview. My friends are shotgunning beers; I’m shotgunning WACC calculations. Someone yells, “YO, you coming out tonight?” I yell back, “Can’t—just found out what operating leverage is.”

At this point, my roommate thinks I’ve joined a cult. And honestly? He’s not wrong.

Every day I wake up, scroll LinkedIn, see “Thrilled to announce…” posts from kids at Wharton with names like Chadwick or Blake III, and I die a little inside. I tell myself, “They’re not better than me. They just have cousins at Evercore.”

Meanwhile, my own cousin just asked if investment banking is “like that show Suits.”

The Final Offer

Eventually, the email arrives:

“We are excited to offer you a 2025 Summer Analyst position at Granite Peak Capital.”

Tears stream down my face—not tears of joy, just sleep deprivation.

It’s not Goldman. It’s not Morgan. It’s not even Moelis. It’s Granite Peak. A firm that probably manages your grandma’s retirement plan out of a strip mall. Their logo looks like it was designed in Microsoft Paint. The “team” page is one guy, and his dog. The dog is listed as VP, Deal Barking.

But I said yes.

Because paradise isn’t a beach in the Maldives. It’s a folding chair in a WeWork next to an active construction site, where I can finally say, “I made it.”

While others tan in the grass, I walk briskly in khakis, earbuds in, whispering “synergies… synergies… synergies…” like a monk chanting in ancient Excel.

They laugh.

They play.

They touch grass.

But they’ll never know the joy of getting roasted by a VP for forgetting to bold the word “Adjusted.”

They’ll never understand the sweet chemical high of stale conference room bagels at 3 AM.

They’ll never live like us—because Granite Peak Capital is Paradise.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go triple-check a slide about plumbing supply market trends in Southern Indiana. Victory never sleeps. Neither do I. I'm a banker now.