0 for 2000

Over the last six months, I’ve applied to over 2,000 jobs. Not a joke, that's an actual, trackable number.

I have received no offers.
No interviews.
No feedback, even. Just silence.

But this isn’t a post about how broken the job market is. I already wrote that one.

This is a post about what’s left when the system fails you. What you learn — not about hiring, but about yourself — when no one opens the door. What gets uncovered when all the usual forms of validation disappear.

And what kind of person you become when you keep showing up anyway.

The Illusion of Motion

In the early stages, I did what everyone does: I polished my resume, opened up LinkedIn, and started smashing that blue "Easy Apply" button like it owed me money. It felt like movement. Progress. I even built a tidy little application tracking spreadsheet, complete with fields for date applied, source, status, and more. I wanted to see it. It felt productive.

It wasn't.

I was job searching, but what I was really doing was cosplaying productivity. Checking boxes, not making progress. It took me far too long to realize that a 0.1% response rate doesn’t get fixed with more volume. I was treating my time like an infinite resource, spending hours micromanaging, tracking data that had zero bearing on outcomes.

Here's something I wish I had asked myself sooner: is this important, or just urgent? Because spraying out applications felt urgent. Learning didn’t. Building a platform didn’t. Writing didn’t. I knew those were important things, but when framed against "I need a job now", they kept getting backburnered.

If I had used an Eisenhower Matrix back then, my whole first month would have landed squarely in the lower-left quadrant: not important, not ultimately productive, but just pressing enough to feel like the right thing.

The lesson: working urgent but unimportant tasks are the best way to burn six weeks and end up exactly where you started.

What Do You Do When Nothing Works?

Eventually, the stats stopped meaning anything. 100 applications became 200, 500, 1000. And this is before you begin factoring in automated closure messages.

Hello. Thank you for your interest in a career at CompanyName. We know it takes time and energy to apply. We appreciate you considering us.

The hiring manager has chosen to move forward with another candidate.
Unfortunately, the position has been cancelled.
We've been overwhelmed by how many amazing people have applied.
The position has been filled. By someone else.
We are unable to move forward with your application.
It's not you. It's us.
We will not be moving forward with your candidacy.

Hugs and kisses,
The ATS at CompanyName

So I pivoted. It wasn't just about how many total applications I had sent out, it was about maintaining a number of open applications. I was running on a treadmill, and I just needed to keep the speed up. Maybe even increase the speed!

After a certain point, the spreadsheet becomes a monument to futility. Because here's the thing about treadmills: it doesn't matter how fast the belt turns, you still don't actually go anywhere.

In that moment, contemplating the absurdity of it all, you start asking deeper questions. Not about the system, but about yourself.

Why am I doing this? What am I even good at? What do I love? What can I bring into the world that’s meaningful, even if nobody else sees it yet?

Here's the thing: silence is uncomfortable. Maddening. Possibly devastating. Because even when you know your value, the human brain is wired to seek feedback. We're visual creatures, we expect to see movement. We crave affirmation. Without it, you drift. You begin to wonder if you’re broken, if you missed some memo everyone else got. The lack of response isn’t just rejection — it’s erasure. It feels like you're invisible. Worse, it feels like everyone can see you, but is pretending like you don't exist.

But if you can hold on long enough, something shifts. That silence becomes a mirror.

Building a Compass

My personal turning point didn’t come from a phone screen or a job lead. It came when I stopped trying to beat the system and started focusing on understanding myself.

I stopped tracking every application like it mattered. I stopped chasing the dopamine loop of fake progress. And I started investing in things that actually built momentum:

• I remembered I needed to Start With Why. I've been a believer in Simon Sinek for nearly a decade now, and yet I had forgotten the most fundamental of his ideas. I'd forgotten why I do things, and in a sense, that meant I had forgotten who I was as well.
• I realized I needed to start building things again. In one sense, it doesn't matter what they are, because although I do value meaning and purpose in everything I do, the point was to re-engage that builder's mentality for myself.
• I started building things that mattered to me. I built a personal management platform, because I needed a space to keep track of everything (what I'm thinking about, capturing ideas and insights, what I want to do with them). I built a public platform, because I needed a place to write. I think out loud, and I wanted to give those words permanence and reach. I wanted other people to be able to see what's on my mind, and so I started publishing what mattered to me.

And you know what? When I remembered who I was — and why I am who I am — I had an immediate sense of validation. I'm happier today than I was six months ago, even though I'm no closer to employment, because now I'm aligning effort with purpose again.

And for the first time in years, I'm confident I'm pointed in the right direction.

Not just at job searching. At everything. I've became more creative. More disciplined. More capable.

We Can Rebuild Him, We Have The Technology

I am objectively more valuable to an employer now than I was six months ago. I'm much more capable than I was. Not just at job searching, at everything.

I've become more disciplined.
I've learned so many new skills I don't even think I can count them all.
I've developed personal systems that allow me to do more, and do it better.
I've kickstarted my creative process.
I've re-engaged my builder's mentality.

I used to believe getting hired would make me whole again. That validation would fix the ache. Now I understand that who I became while I waited is more important than who I might have been if I got lucky earlier.

I look back at the version of me from six months ago — hopeful, yes, but reactive, frantically trying to game a system that doesn't care.

I don’t even recognize that guy anymore.
And I liked him.
But I like who I’m becoming more.

The Next 2000

I have a confession to make: I lied about knowing exactly how many jobs I've applied to.

It's because I stopped counting.

It's not because I don't care, and it's not because I've stopped trying, stopped applying. Rather, it's because I’m more focused on building value, even if the system hasn’t acknowledged it yet. And frankly, I don't have time for the trivia anymore. Who cares how many applications I sent in today? Check out what I built!

And maybe that’s the point. It's not about winning the game, but to keep becoming the kind of person who plays it well. To build something that lasts, even if no one is looking. To stop measuring your worth in replies.

Because eventually, the silence will break. And when it does, I’ll be ready.
I already am.