You Can't Manifest a Lightning Strike

On seasons of work and and my own personal internet doom loop

Cross-posted from LinkedIn—as always, apologies to double subscribers.

Warning: this one straddles the line between introspective and navel-gazing. Sometimes it crosses over.

I’m about four months into this new role, where part of my job is to create content and send it out into the vast expanse of the internet, sometimes to be judged, but more often to disappear into the digital void. It’s been an interesting shift, moving from a high-pressure state job to something that feels like its complete opposite. Here’s a reflection, and an essay that tries to capture my experience of the transition.

Seasons of Work

Clearly, I’m fascinated by the idea of time. My first two podcast episodes were conversations with mental health innovators who are reimagining how the field relates to it. This dimension of mental well-being is especially relevant in a world where instant access to emails, feedback, and the endless stream of professional milestones on LinkedIn has completely distorted our sense of time when it comes to career growth.

One perspective that’s helped me: thinking in terms of “seasons” rather than fixed units of time.

I started my new role with a whirlwind November: four trips in four weeks, packed with speaking engagements and meetings. It was exciting, energizing, and completely exhausting, so much so that I got sick. But I also felt fired up about the work ahead.

Then December came, and… nothing. No trips, no meetings, no invitations. For months. I spiraled. I was wondering if I’d made a huge mistake leaving my job. Then, as spring approached, I lined up some more commitments: five trips in six weeks. And, my perspective shifted. I realized that December through February wasn’t a failure, just a different season. A season for thinking and writing and reflecting. Now, I’m in a season for connection and conversation.

The challenge (much easier said than done) is learning to be fully present in the season you’re in, rather than anxiously anticipating the next one. As Oliver Burkeman puts it in his incredible book Meditations for Mortals:

“The past is gone, and the future hasn’t occurred yet, so right now is the only time that really exists. If instead, you take the other approach—if you see all of this as leading up to some future point when real life will begin, or when you can finally start enjoying yourself, or feeling good about yourself—then you’ll end up treating your actual life as something to ‘get through,’ until one day it will be over.”

I’m still figuring this out, but I’m trying to let each season be what it is, trusting that there is a reason for and a lesson in each.

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You Can’t Manifest a Lightning Strike

We all know the feeling of a compulsively repeated and semi-volitional online journey that feels like being stuck in a dream you are vaguely aware of but unable to wake up from. This feeling is so universal and familiar that there will soon be a catchy Dutch or German word for it, if there isn’t already. In our shamefully wordy English vernacular, they are called Internet Doom Loops.

The big 3 doom loops: the primary colors of internet hell

The minute but infinite variances of the algorithmic internet mean that no doom loop is quite the same, but if you squint, you can tease out a rough taxonomy:

First up is everyone’s old friend doomscrolling or, as it is also known: “unconstrained access to riveting evidence that the world is going to hell, mostly on X/Twitter.” My nadir of doomscrolling was on January 6th. I watched the siege of the capital unfold almost entirely on Twitter, with videos and pictures and opinions merging into an apocalyptic fever dream. I was probably online for 12 hours, non-stop. I finally recovered sometime in 2023.

Thankfully, just like our country has moved on from that day–with all the principals held properly accountable and permanently barred from power (HA!)–I have mostly moved on from this sort of doomscrolling. I relapse occasionally–mainly during Indianapolis Colts games, to bask in the communal relief of shared sports disappointment.

Next, we have the familiar and narcotic embrace of algorithmically optimized internet comfort food: primarily Tik Tok, although there are Instagram and YouTube versions as well. I never really got on IG or Tik Tok, so I mostly avoided this one by being a washed up dad by 2012.

An aside, and a warning: You know what is worse than being sucked into a comfort doom loop? Try seeking comfort in the wrong part of the internet. I have, in moments of high stress, turned to Twitter/X in search of this feeling. It does not go well. Ever.

Finally, we have the bête noire of The Anxious Generation crew: the comparison trap. The contours are familiar by now: undeniable increases in anxiety and depression–especially among youth–caused by the heavily curated and unattainable social media lives of peers, strangers and influencers. As they say, comparison is the thief of joy, and there is significant evidence that our youth are the victims of grand larceny.

Other common variations are versions or hybrids of the big three. Consider the political echo chamber spiral, which is a hybrid of doomscrolling and comfort food. Or excessively neurotic helicopter parenting, which is doomscrolling with a pinch of comparison.

Doom Loop, Pro Edition

I’ve delayed enough. Time to confess.

Gmail. Outlook. LinkedIn. That is my doom loop of choice. Fairly tame on the surface. It might be a loop, but “doom” seems like a stretch.Yet, this is me, while driving (I know): Gmail. Outlook. LinkedIn. Eating dinner with my family–an agreed upon phone free zone: Gmail. Outlook. LinkedIn. Helping my daughter rehearse for play practice, or listening to a new beat my son made: Gmail. Outlook. LinkedIn.

I am not in control of this pattern, and I miss important moments that deserve my full presence. If that isn’t a doom loop, what is?

But why? What is my motivation? What am I looking for?

I didn’t really know, for a while. Or maybe I did, and didn’t want to face it, because it is so self-serving and obnoxious.

I’m looking for a Career Lightning Strike, which is about 75% comparison trap; 25% dream-scrolling, which is doomscrolling in search of toxic positives. I traverse this loop in hopes of seeing a message that goes something like this:

“Hi Jay (Can I call you Jay?). I am the booking agent for Ezra Klein, Joe Rogan, and Call Her Daddy, as well as the managing editor of The New York Times, The Washington Post, and The Atlantic. (I’ve done quite well for myself, I know). Your work combines the prose of David Foster Wallace with the pop culture savvy of Chuck Klosterman with the incisive policy analysis of Matt Yglesias and the bravery of prime Christopher Hitchens, wrapped up in the popular accessibility of Malcolm Gladwell. I want to make you a leading public intellectual of our time.”

Or something less dramatic, but in that vein.

You know the childhood fantasy where something mildly dangerous happens and you step up to be the hero that saves the day, resulting in universal acclaim at school and special acknowledgement from the unattainable popular girl who barely registered your presence before? This is the professional and grown-up version of that.

I know how silly this is. But, every time I complete the loop and the impossible doesn’t happen, I feel a tiny pang of disappointment. You know what happens next. Gmail. Outlook. LinkedIn.

This is colossally stupid for at least five reasons.

First, what a dull fantasy. It's like in The Office when Dwight’s ultimate professional fantasy is being the assistant manager of a bed and breakfast in Hell, managed by Satan. His salary? $80,000! And, in an era of AI-generated content and total media fragmentation, the idea of a singular, career-defining moment of discovery is even more ridiculous. There’s no monoculture left to be "discovered" by.

Second, I have experienced major professional triumphs. Some of them were even publicly and universally acclaimed, in certain circles. The satisfaction lasts about 10 seconds. The hedonic treadmill is undefeated, no matter the scope of your victory.

Third, even if this impossible thing were possible, it is entirely outside of my control. You cannot manifest a lightning strike.

Fourth, I already have a really good job. I get to build and create and talk to and work with smart, interesting people on issues that matter to me, without the stress of the rat race. Easily a top 1% job. Maybe even top .001%. You should be jealous of me.

Most importantly, cycling through this loop countless times a day makes it much harder to appreciate the truly incredible joys of an already pretty damn good life.

What's next? One day at a time.

I’d love to wrap this up with a grand solution: a triumphant declaration that I’ve broken free and now spend my days basking in the present moment, untouched by the siren song of Gmail, Outlook, LinkedIn. But that would be a lie.

Breaking the loop isn’t about a single, dramatic shift. It’s about recognizing the pattern and pulling myself out, one decision at a time. It’s about remembering that gratitude and mindfulness are only real antidote to this kind of restless ambition, and that those skills take constant work. There's a reason they call it a "practice."

Look, we can’t put the tech genie back in the bottle. Humans will always feel the pull of some sort of doom loop. People have always craved recognition; mostly men, mostly to a fault. Napoleon put it best: “Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever.” Now, for the first time in history, we have a machine that dangles the possibility of external validation 24/7, just waiting to be checked.

I will always feel the impulse to keep checking, hoping for that lightning strike. The challenge is learning to put the phone down anyway.