422 Days

But who's counting? Mom. She is.

It has been 422 days since I last had a job, which means I've been unemployed for more than a year—longer than some people have had jobs.

But who's counting?

Mom is definitely counting.

Shortly after my “303 Days” piece, Mom knew something definitely was up when I was without an automobile for the two months my car was stolen, and I wasn’t buying matching Teslas for my mother and myself.

“Are… you working?”¹

“I’m not, ma. How did you know?”

“Mothers know if something is going on with their children. Especially their sons. Also, you’re here at my house at noon on a Tuesday, and I don’t have a doctor’s appointment today.”

And then, a pause. “Well… I guess I will cook dinner for us then. You mentioned hiring an aide for me; no need. We need to save money.”

“Ma, YOU KNOW that’s not the same as—”

She waves me off and fuck me, right? The conversation is over. Mom's patented conversation-ender: a wave that somehow contains all the Chinese-Jewish guilt of the Old Testament packed into one arthritic hand movement. She's already pulling ingredients from the fridge, mentally adjusting her grocery budget to accommodate her failure of a son, who—let's be honest—is one rejected job application away from asking to move back into his childhood bedroom.

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I've started introducing myself as a "consultant" at social gatherings. On the one hand, I did buy a course on becoming an AI Consultant for a LOT of money, so I should at least have the confidence to throw that weight around with my increasing debt. I also know it's the socially acceptable way of saying “unemployed, but make it fancy.”

The trick is to say it confidently enough that nobody asks, “Consulting in what?” because then I tell them it’s AI Consulting.

Here’s the interesting thing about telling people you’re an AI Consultant: people either respond with how AI is really Skynet and how it’s all a lie like antibiotics, 9/11, and the moon, or they roll their eyes and judge you because they just sold their third AI start-up to some VC firm and, hey, no offense here, but they could consult the fuck out of you. That’s one angle I can go to, and I think I’d be okay once I completely commit to it. All I need to do is to convince myself that’s the option to go in.

The identity crisis hits hardest in the morning. There's this brief, beautiful moment when I first wake up where I don't remember that I don't have a job. Then reality crashes in like an unwelcome houseguest, and I'm left staring at the ceiling, contemplating whether today's the day I finally start episode two of that podcast everyone says I should do. (Narrator: It wasn't.)

Here's what nobody tells you about long-term unemployment: it's the slow erosion of your professional identity that fucks with you. At 303 days, I was still a "tech professional on sabbatical." At 422 days, I'm wondering if I can list “kept houseplants alive” as a transferable skill.

I mean, seriously, your identity isn't just paused—it is fundamentally questioned. When someone asks, "What do you do?" The answer used to be obvious. Now, it's a minefield.

I've been testing different responses besides “I’m a consultant”:

• “I'm between opportunities.” (Too LinkedIn)

• “I used to work in tech.” (Depressing past tense)

• “I'm exploring my options.” (Vague and suspicious)

• “I'm a writer.” (Technically true, but feels fraudulent)

• "I'm professionally unemployed." (Too flippant, confuses people)

The one that seems to work best is: "I'm working on some projects while figuring out my next move." This gives me about 45 seconds before they ask, "What kind of projects?" At that point, I describe this newsletter in just enough technical detail that their eyes glaze over.

I've developed a system, though. A framework for maintaining sanity in this extended limbo:

1. Set three achievable tasks each day. And I mean ACHIEVABLE. Like, “take a shower” level achievable. Cross them off a list. Feel the tiniest of dopamine hits.

2. Create an artificial structure. I wake up at 7:30 AM because that's what employed people do. I wear something other than pajamas because that's what employed people do. So I’m basically the guy with the suit from The Full Monty.

3. Limit job application time to 2 hours a day, max. After that, diminishing returns set in, and I started applying to jobs I was wildly unqualified for out of desperation. Nobody needs that.

4. Learn to distinguish between real deadlines and fake ones. That job application doesn't actually need to be submitted at midnight. Your brain is manufacturing urgency because it misses having real deadlines.

5. Remember that my bank account balance is not a moral indictment.

The last one is the hardest.

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I used to think there would be some neat resolution to this story. A moment where I'd get to write, “And then I got a job offer that was perfect, and everything made sense, and the previous 422 days were just preparation for this amazing opportunity.”

I no longer think this.

Instead, I'm learning to measure progress differently.

Last week, I used Cursor and had AI build an Obsidian plugin at about ten times the speed I would have developed without it.

The night after that, I used Claude to help a friend’s dad with his construction resume because he was terrified of AI, and the phrase “fix my friend’s dad’s resume” wasn’t going to be typed into ChatGPT by itself.

Yesterday, I read on YouTube how to patch a chest-sized hole in the drywall that leads to my bathroom shower.

These are small victories in a war of attrition.

422 days in, I'm neither a success story nor a cautionary tale. I'm just a guy trying to redefine what value means when nobody's paying me for my time.

And if you're in this boat too—this shitty, rudderless boat that keeps going in circles—know that you're not alone.

We can at least wave to each other as we pass by.

1. Mandarin in italics.