615 Days

I’ve Already Rejected Myself on Your Behalf

I don’t remember when I stopped looking for jobs.

That’s the weird part. You’d think there’d be a moment, right? Some dramatic breaking point where you slam your laptop shut and declare, “I’M DONE WITH THIS SHIT.” But no. It was quieter than that. Pathetic, even.

I think I was just writing notes in Obsidian one day—somewhere between notes from the ghostwriting course and notes from the consulting Zoom—when I looked at an older entry and realized: Oh shit. I’ve been looking for jobs.

Past tense. Have been.

As in, not anymore.

It had been three weeks—maybe more.

I honestly don’t know.

Time does this fucked-up thing when you have ADHD called time blindness. And when you’re unemployed skews any concept of time you ever had, where days feel like weeks and weeks feel like hours, and suddenly it’s been 615 days since you had a regular paycheck, and you’re not entirely sure what you’ve been doing with your life.

615 days, by the way. That’s where we are.

That’s the number.

I wish I could say I’ve been on some transformative journey of self-discovery, but mostly I’ve just been really good at applying to things 90% of the way before bailing at the eleventh hour.

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Here’s what I have been doing: spending money on programs that are supposed to turn me into a consultant. That’s the rule, right? Make it work somehow? Not working is not an option. And if I am forced to become a freelancer and/or consultant again, I may as well come with more training attached.

The first one costs $300 a month.

Maybe more. I’ve stopped checking because that way I don’t have to think about the math of how much I’ve spent to learn skills I’m not using.

I’ve taken detailed notes on my service matrix, my consulting menu, and how to niche down. I even made a list of 50 potential clients, an assortment of individuals I’ve met over the years, including some former college classmates.

I sent messages to three of them. One responded.

And that’s where we are.

You know what’s great about online programs with no real accountability?

You can just... stop. No one checks on you.

No one asks why you disappeared.

You’re just quietly failing in your own little corner of the internet while the course modules pile up in your inbox, like digital tumbleweeds.

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I spent even more money on a second online entrepreneurial program.

An embarrassingly large amount of money, given you know, everything.

I’m aware of how stupid this sounds. But you have to spend money to make money, right? That’s what they say.

They also say “there’s no such thing as a stupid question,” but we all know that’s a lie, so maybe we shouldn’t trust “they” about anything.

This second program is different, though: There’s actual accountability.

A human touchpoint.

Someone — actually, multiple people — check in to make sure you’re not just paying monthly fees to feel like you’re doing something.

The creator is a guy I follow on social media who seems smarter than I am (a low bar, admittedly), and he has a whole philosophy about sales and selling that makes it seem almost... not disgusting? Or that he’s gamed it somehow. And he has an entire course on writing with AI, and I’m all, “you asshole, you totally beat me to the punch on that one.”

Which is good. Because I need to believe that reaching out to people isn’t inherently slimy, that asking someone to pay you for your skills isn’t the professional equivalent of standing on a street corner with a cardboard sign.

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Here’s what happens when I try to reach out to a potential client:

I draft a message. Then I delete it because it sounds too corporate. I draft another one. Delete it because it sounds too casual. Draft another. Too desperate. Too confident. Too something.

I have 20 versions of messages I’ve never sent. They live in my drafts folder like little monuments to my cowardice.

The process always ends differently—sometimes I get distracted by something on my phone, sometimes it’s the ADHD pulling my attention to literally anything else, sometimes it’s just whatever’s happening outside my window—but there’s always this moment right before I abandon ship.

It’s a flash. A thought. Quick and gross, but not lasting long enough to really examine: Eh, it’s fine. They’d probably go with someone else anyway. Because they are them, and, well, you are you.

And then I close the tab.

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It’s not like I’m doing nothing, for the record.

I post on LinkedIn. I write about my plight, which, let’s be honest, is a very generous way to describe “I document my spiral on the internet for an audience of like 12 people.” There’s something to be said about procrastination masquerading as productivity. Writing about consulting instead of actually doing consulting. Talking about finding clients instead of finding clients.

I’ve even started building portfolio projects. Getting testimonials. You know, the catch-22 of “how could anyone trust hiring you if they don’t know your work,” which requires doing work that needs someone to trust you enough to hire you in the first place.

However, it means I need to wrap up those projects and find real work soon.

Which... I will.

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Look, I know what this sounds like. It sounds like I’m lazy. Or scared. Or self-sabotaging in some extremely obvious and annoying way. And yeah. All of that. Sure.

But here’s the thing I’m trying to figure out: What do you do when the thing stopping you isn’t external? When you’ve completed the courses, created the lists, and drafted the messages, but you’re still convinced that the fundamental problem is just... you existing in the transaction?

I can’t optimize my way out of being me. I can’t workshop myself into being the kind of person clients actually want to work with. And I can’t exactly lead with “Hey, I know I seem unemployable, but what if I told you I have detailed notes on my service matrix?” in a cold email.

So I’ve been stuck. Day 615 of being stuck, to be specific.

Still writing notes in Obsidian. Still taking courses and implementing the easy parts—the portfolio building, the testimonial gathering, the LinkedIn posting about my journey. Still carefully avoiding the one thing that actually matters: drafting messages and hitting send.

Except... wait.

I just wrote 1,500 words about how I can’t reach out to people, and I’m about to publish it on the internet where strangers—and worse, people I actually know—will read it. I’ve essentially cold-emailed the entire world with “Hey, I’m a mess, hire me maybe?”

And I’ve been doing this… every Thursday… for the past year, give or take. So either I’ve accidentally stumbled into the world’s worst marketing strategy, or I’ve been capable of pressing send this whole time.

I’m not sure which is more terrifying.