On the loop

Phil Connors—Bill Murray in the 1993 film Groundhog Day—was trapped reliving the same day for something like 12,400 of them, by one popular estimate. By my count, I'm only 222 days into this latest stretch of unemployment. But the monotony of the last few months is real.

And, like the movie, there are lessons in it.

I don't manipulate the day for selfish gain the way Phil did—at least I don't think I do. But I have an ego, like most of us, and I can always lean further into empathy. Lately that's looked like prepping food at a local kitchen, playing with the kitties at an animal shelter, picking up trash on organized cleanup days and unorganized ones. Irregularly. But it counts.

It's also given me room to ask what I actually want to do. Most of that asking keeps landing in the same place—work that ties commercial success to community success, the way it did years ago at D.C. United, where I led community relations and founded its nonprofit arm. It's part of why I trained as a coach—to help connect others with their purpose. I carry seven clients now.

And I've never valued the present moment more. The times I wallow are the times I trap myself in the mental loop of routine. When I remember to actually be here, the ordinary turns almost magical. Teaching two yoga classes a week, carrying two private clients, subbing when I can—that helps. It puts me in the room.

I love Phil's line: "Well, what if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today!"

So what would I do differently, if there were no tomorrow? Would I spend all of today applying for jobs? No. But I wouldn't not, either. Because what if there is a tomorrow—fingers crossed there is—and I do need to work, after all. Maybe I'd make breakfast and savour every bite. Tune into each footfall on the trail. Offer to help a friend. Answer the call. Stop and smell the roses, if I'm being honest about the cliché.

Because here's what the guilt does. If I spend an hour on something that isn't the search, am I wasting time? If I spend a dollar on something that isn't a bill, am I being loose with money? Are rest and pleasure just advances I'll pay back—with interest—once I'm employed again?

But this is time I won't get back. Unrequested, unpaid, unstructured. What a gift, if I could invest it right. Am I too busy policing it to be in it?

Patanjali set two words side by side for exactly this—abhyāsa and vairāgya (sutra 1.12). Practice and letting go. Keep showing up; hold the outcome loosely. You need both, or neither takes.

So I've taken some control. I've blocked one full day each working week where the search isn't allowed—time to luxuriate in rest and pleasure with no apology. I've blocked two hours to be creative: write an article, audition for voiceovers, look into being an extra in a movie shooting around town. And I'm still buckling down—reconnecting with my network, hunting the next thing, holding it to my own terms: meaning, purpose, leadership worth following.

I don't know if the loop breaks when I get the job or when I stop counting the days. Maybe both. Maybe neither. For now, I'm making the breakfast.