Lose Yourself to Live

Exploring the value of doing the work in 8 Mile

I recently rewatched 8 Mile, and it became a solid reason to stay up past the time my phone now reminds me is our bedtime. You just don’t save the final 20 minutes of this movie for a later viewing.  You just don’t. The 2002 drama, directed by Curtis Hanson, follows the life of Jimmy Smith Jr., a young blue-collar guy in Detroit whose struggles and aspirations to make it in the world of rap music take inspiration from the pre-fame life of Eminem, who makes his film debut as the protagonist. Known as B. Rabbit in his circles, Jimmy faces a slew of hardships that threaten to kill his dream of making it big in the music industry. We watch as he carries on through each of these trials, all the while working at his craft of writing and rapping in pursuit of his dream. I won’t give away the ending now, but if you know anything about Eminem you can probably guess at the outcome of that hard work. 

In writing this essay, I made a choice that I’ve  formerly decided against: examining a medium that contains explicit material and language. I’ll leave the R rated content out of my translation, but you’re proceeding at your own risk if you watch the movie or start listening to Eminem lyrics with a careful ear. I honestly gained a lot from viewing and thinking about this film; not only do I think it works fine without any of the R content, I think the story is a necessary one to include on this site because of what it’s been for me at this point in time and because it could be a similar help to someone else who might read this. Somehow every time I write an essay, I seem to find something that adjusts my perspective in an area in which I’ve been struggling, and 8 Mile is helping me get through some particularly tough thoughts and feelings that have come up in the past month or so. 

The film opens on a close up of Rabbit in a dirty bathroom at the Shelter, the rap club where he's about to go on stage in a rap battle hosted by his buddy, Future. Though he has the ability to have earned a place on this stage, his mind and body have other plans for him. Rabbit vomits in the bathroom, overcome with anxiety, and he ultimately freezes on stage as his 45-second performance window ticks by with only the crowd’s jeering chant of “choke” as the lyrics to a beat that should be his. The bathroom scene and the encounters that follow it highlight the acute sense of disconnect he experiences throughout the opening minutes of the film. We meet him alone, in squalid conditions, betrayed by a body that forcibly empties itself and a mind that similarly empties itself of the words that are so much a part of his identity. When Rabbit exits the bathroom, the Shelter's bouncer tries to get rid of him, ignoring his stamped hand and protests, and only conceding when Future assures him that Rabbit is with him. Future having his friend's back here reflects the sense of belonging that Rabbit needs in his life but can’t accept as his because he's too weighed down by all the dirt on the walls of his mind. His shaken sense of worth solidifies into a truth in his mind when he hears all his greatest insecurities voiced with rhythm and rhyme by his opponent, Lil’ Tic, who has won the coin toss and chooses to go first. Lil’ Tic’s lines “they laugh ‘cause you white with a mic”, “you don’t belong” and “you’re a tourist”, among others, feed Rabbit’s growing sense of disbelonging in this particular circle; he makes Rabbit feel other on a stage that becomes a place of ridicule rather than a bridge of connection. This weight of disconnection and unworthiness robs him of words; he chokes because he believes he doesn’t belong and because he views the stage performance as the barometer of his worth. This belief causes him to discredit his own talent and right to be there, and when he hears the crowd chanting his worst fear, he abandons the stage and gives up his right to contend and have a voice. He's told he doesn't belong by multiple people before and during his performance, and these instances translate into a truth in his mind that he doesn’t deserve acceptance, success or respect in this circle. So he chokes and becomes incapable of doing the thing that is crucial to his sense of self: spinning words into a rhyme to create meaning and communicate his truth. 

Rabbit's life circumstances really put whatever I stress about on a daily basis into a clearer perspective. He's just choked on the one opportunity he cares deeply about; he's broke and working a job as a punch press operator that he doesn't care about or feel respected at; he hauls around his life possessions in a trash bag because he's recently broken up with his girlfriend and left her his car; and he's forced to move back into his mother's trailer, which has now also become the residence of her new man - a pretty mean guy who's closer to Rabbit's age than hers and clearly doesn't like or respect her son. He feels that he doesn't belong in any of these places - the circles of the rap world, his job or the place he's supposed to call home - and this sense of disconnect dictates his sense of self worth. Rabbit’s problems are pretty dismal, and they may be more difficult than mine in many ways. It didn’t assure me that I’m OK because my life isn’t in a trash bag, but it did remind me that everyone has their share of trials and blessings, and it's on us to choose to work through the trials and hold onto the blessings. Rabbit's trajectory from his first rap battle to the final showdown of this film show how he's able to do that and how anyone with even the smallest reason why can do the same. 

Nietzsche has a quote that translates "those who have a why to live for can bear almost any how," and once we have that Why, that reason for living, that's worth any pain and discomfort to pursue, we can find that same motivation to keep pursuing our passion through anything beyond our control. Our Why changes over time; it definitely does for Rabbit, who initially seems most intent on using his skills as a writer/rapper to free himself from his life on 8 Mile Road. His Why is escape through fame, and fame depends on his success on stage to advance. Because of this perspective, he feels the immense pressure to have the approval of the crowd at the Shelter. The stage becomes the barometer of his worth because it determines how the crowd views him and therefore how close he has come to fame. If our Why looks like a result rather than a practice, we too can give our stages the power to determine our worth. Rabbit's rap battle at the Shelter functions as his stage; it stands above the normal plane of reality in the sense that it's the performative representation of who he's becoming in reality. It's obviously part of his reality, but it's a setting apart from his routine that’s set up for an audience viewing. Rabbit's stage is a space for him to showcase his passion and demonstrate the work that he puts into writing and developing lyrics to fit a rhyme and beat. 

We all have our varieties of stage - those occasions on which we step outside our norm with all the skills we practice and hone on a daily basis. These stages aren't the final performances of our lives, even if we place that kind of weight on them; nor do they determine our worth in that sense. They’re meant to function more as benchmarks of our progress in being and becoming the kind of person we're meant to be. Any stage for our life pursuits can function as a measure in this way of how we’re doing in becoming that person. I’m particularly passionate about writing and running, and sometimes I let the stages that give a spotlight to those practices hold the power to determine my own worth. I could say it’s because I care so much about those pursuits, but I think it’s more about needing some kind of assurance in my worth. As I thought about 8 Mile, it struck me that I give the same weight to things such as races or publishing an essay that Rabbit gives to his performance at the Shelter in the opening scene. I entertain this self-indulgent thought that I’m only a good runner or a good writer if I achieve a certain kind of success in races or if my writing changes something about my life circumstances. That’s not why I run or write, but I allow that thought to occupy space in my mind from time to time, and it takes away from my ability to be present in these pursuits for the sake of them and for myself. That same thought also warps into the thought that I must be a failure and a fraud if I don’t run far or fast enough or if I can’t write an essay that says something worthwhile to someone reading it. I let the fear of failure keep me from sharing how I really feel about my running and writing, because sometimes I’d rather fail quietly with only myself to disappoint than let anyone else know how badly I want to do well in these areas. Our stages - whether they’re actual stage performances or races, championship games or art shows, anniversaries of life milestones or final exams, etc. - are occasions that happen once in a spotlight of sorts and can repeat with variations in the future after another period of growth. We need to view them as reflections of where we're at and evaluations of what we need to work on rather than measures of our worth as a human being. Our worth lies in all the practice and work, the unglamorous grind that takes place off the stage and continues when the spotlight ends. 

Because Rabbit perceives his stage as a measure of his worth, he lets the messages of disbelonging that he receives prior to and during his stage time cripple his ability to perform and influence his view of himself and his worth. It’s hard to shake that low self-worth when he flees the stage to gather his trash bag of clothes and heads to his mom’s trailer. Hardly a triumphant exit. The feeling of not belonging so permeates every aspect of his life that he can’t see his worth. I relate a lot. Last year, I left a job that I thought was going to be my life career and that I felt was a respectable profession even if I didn’t feel happy doing it. I don’t love what I do now, and I honestly still don’t feel that I’m doing something that makes me a valuable member of society at that job, and that discontent can make it seem all the more crucial for me to do well in other things, e.g. running or writing. Certain thoughts intrude with the message that if I’m not worth anything in my career, I should at least try to be someone on the stages of these pursuits. So I can see how Rabbit’s stage performance weighs so heavily on him and his view of his worth. He needs it to be someone because he doesn’t feel like anyone when he goes back to reality.

But even in his dire circumstances, he has small reasons - all in the form of connection - to keep going. Future and the other guys in his circle believe in his ability as a rapper. They brush off his choke as a one-time fluke and assure him of their continued faith in his talent. His little sister, Lily, clearly worships him and welcomes him home with enthusiasm when he arrives at the trailer park. And his writing gives him a taste of something meaningful and true; it provides him with a channel to connect with and access his true self, the one fighting for life despite the anxiety and oppression he experiences in his circles. For now, these are enough for him to not give up on his dream and to keep showing up at even the places where he feels he doesn’t truly belong. He may not want to show up, but he knows he has to. We all have access to these reasons if we look for them. Sometimes they’re in plain sight (like Lily or Future), and sometimes we have to chase them down or look for them. 

When Rabbit moves back in with his mother, Stephanie, he feels he’s hit a low. Stephanie’s main concern seems to be her new boyfriend, but she lets him stay without hesitation or question. Rabbit’s unhappiness denies him the feeling of gratefulness for her acceptance. To him, the only obvious sense of welcome he receives is from Lily, who asks him to sing to her as he carries her to her bed. This request not only assures him that someone wants him there, but it also gives him space to cultivate his musical connection, singing to communicate his feelings and connect with his sister. It’s nothing particularly profound, but the song he gives her conveys love; it expresses what he needs to say and what she needs to hear, touching on their less than ideal living situation in a light way rather than lamenting it. Just as Future did at the Shelter when he said that Rabbit was “with me”, Lily gives him a small reminder that he does belong and has something of worth to contribute through his song. In a later scene, Future prompts him in a similar way as Rabbit works on his car by improvising the lyrics to the song playing on his car’s radio. Rabbit follows Future’s lead and launches into “Sweet Home Alabama”, the Rabbit-lives-at-home-in-a-trailer remix. Just as with Lily, Future’s prompting helps Rabbit spin a negative situation into an opportunity to create and communicate through song. Neither song fixes the circumstance weighing on Rabbit, but both situations give him the space to connect and engage in his passion as he does so. 

At these early points in the film, Rabbit is still bent on his dream of achieving stardom and escaping 8 Mile Road on the saving wings of fame. Another trailer park resident, Wink, who keeps promising him a free demo with his connection to a record label producer, feeds him the delusion that fame can come easily and quickly with the right connections, a promise that Rabbit clings onto in the same way any of us do when we see an easier way out of the current state of our mess. He also develops a relationship with Brittany Murphy’s character, Alex, an attractive young woman similarly bent on getting herself out of 8 Mile. Alex gives Rabbit the sexual attention that can often moonlight as the true connection of love, and he falls into the thinking that if he can just have this woman who’s not only attractive but believes in his talent, then he’ll be OK. His relationships with Wink and Alex let him hold onto his dream of taking one giant leap from 8 Mile to stardom. His dream isn’t a bad one or even completely out of reach, given his talent, but he uses this dream and the people who feed it as reason not to accept and embrace his current undesirable life. 

Rabbit’s dream of success feels like my own desire to be in a place where I feel that I’m finally experiencing the promises that the AA book says are a thing for those who work the program. It’s not as specific as Rabbit’s because I don’t have an exact vision of what that particular brand of success looks like, but I know it’s not what I see right now. I’m truly grateful for where I’m at today, but it’s hard some days. I don’t think I’m alone in that. My 8 Mile Road is the mess I made while in addiction and the work I need to do to clean it up, both in my mind and in the world. I do trust that I’m on the right path and know it will take time for things to sort out. But it’s also so tempting to believe that certain opportunities or people can do something to expedite the process of wading through the chaos that I sometimes feel is my life. I also know that if I’m patient and do the work, I’ll find myself in a place that’s all the better because of the work that went into it. 

Rabbit’s shift in perspective takes time, and we see the beginnings of that process symbolized in a scene in which he and his friends do something a little rash. They impulsively decide to burn down an abandoned house in which a terrible crime was committed after DJ Iz comments that it wouldn’t still be standing if the crime had happened on the other side of 8 Mile. 

After dousing the place with gasoline, his friends cheer as the eyesore burns; but Rabbit stands watching the flames with a thoughtful, almost mournful expression. He says to Alex that he used to want to live in a house like that when he was a kid. It’s a beautifully sad scene as he watches an old dream die, and I think it’s place at this point in the film represents the dying of his dream-focused mentality. His old self has begun to die, and he knows it, even if he’s not entirely ready to accept its death as necessary for him to take the steps in achieving his true potential. We all have situations like this when we’re doing the work of recovery. We have to recognize the delusional aspect of our old way of living, whatever that is, and let that part of ourselves die. That’s often the part of ourselves that needs to believe that we can drink in the same way as everyone else and that we can find happiness without having to say goodbye to the detrimental habits and character defects that will ultimately burn our lives to the ground if we don’t remove them. We might have imagined our life looking a certain way and need to accept that it can never be that way. Once we can accept the dream for what it is - something we used to think we wanted - then we can begin to make room for the kind of life that comes as a reward of doing the real work we were born to do. 

In another way, this house-burning scene represents Rabbit’s letting go of his dream of fame as his main motivator in life. It’s not that his dream itself is a problem; nor are any dreams we might have of achieving the things in life that we believe will make us happy. It’s not wrong for anyone to want to make a lot of money, to be famous for something they love, or to find their soulmate and live happily ever after. But there is harm in living entirely fixated on that dream and expecting it to manifest without looking at our current selves and making the changes necessary to be the kind of person for whom that dream might become a reality. I recently spent some time with my grandpa and he said something to me about working through hardship and trauma as essential experiences in living well. He said “the climb is more important than the peak” - there’s a lot in that metaphor that he didn’t expound on, but he didn’t need to. The climb is where we become the kind of people who endure through discomfort who trust in higher ground, and who keep going through every trial that the trail has in store for us. We spend more time on the climb than at the peak, which holds the briefly rewarding result of all that the climb contains. The peak experience is greatly diminished without the climb, but the climb holds a lot of worth in itself. In recovery, we’re constantly living in the climb. We experience the rewards of that process along with the trials, but we’re never really done working the program of recovery if we’re doing it right. This particular climb contains multiple peaks where we might pause and celebrate the progress we’ve made before readying ourselves to continue the trail to the next one. 

Rabbit seems to grasp this concept in his own way. In one of the following scenes, he’s getting a ride from his buddy Sol, and he asks his friend, “When you gotta stop living up here and start living down here?” To which Sol replies, “It’s 7:30, dog.” Not everyone’s ready for the hard questions before 8am on a weekday. I originally assumed that Rabbit was talking about giving up on his dreams and just accepting that he’ll never go anywhere beyond 8 Mile, but I think that he means something similar to what my grandpa said. He sees that going through life with the dream of being a great rapper far from 8 Mile is taking away from his ability to do the many steps it takes to get from his current circumstances to a higher place. He needs to accept his circumstances and do the work he needs to do today, while living on 8 Mile, to become truly great. 

We see him doing that work in the scenes when he writes lyrics for his demo while riding the bus to work and later when he sits in the trailer working on those lyrics as Lily colors beside him. He’s fully immersed in his writing in both scenes, and instead of ignoring his reality, he uses these less than ideal circumstances as fuel for his words. His story becomes the songs that fans of Eminem know as some of his greatest work. Writing becomes more than a means to escape 8 Mile in these scenes; we see that it’s Rabbit’s life force. He writes to feel purpose and direction in a life that seems to be going nowhere; he takes hold of his feelings of disconnection, of not being enough, and of desperation, and he spins them into lyrics with structure and power to both express his unique story and connect with other stories that hold those same feelings. He chooses to make the climb his story rather than living on the peak, and this shift allows him to engage in the work that ultimately changes his way of living in his world. 

Rabbit also learns that he can’t rely on someone other than himself to become the person he wants to be. When he discovers that Wink and Alex are hooking up behind his back, he feels the sting of betrayal but realizes an important truth. He doesn’t realize this truth right away, of course; he beats up Wink in the record studio first. But he ultimately recognizes that he can’t use other people to get to where he wants to be or to do the work he was born to do. Wink’s assurance of a free demo and Alex’s romantic interest and conviction in him are false promises of a quicker, easier way to reach his dream of belonging and being someone. Their betrayal solidifies his understanding that he has to put in the work himself to become the kind of person who deserves a record deal. It takes him time to accept and even embrace and accept that reality, just as it takes time for him to let go of who he needed these people to be for him. He undergoes a similar kind of loss and revelation with his mother, who struggles with her own issues of alcoholism and codependency. He expects her to be a loving mother figure who chooses him and provides for him, but she continuously chooses other men over her own son and cannot provide for him and Lily in the way he needs her to. Wink, Alex and Stephanie may appear in the wrong since we’re largely seeing their actions through Rabbit’s eyes, but just as Rabbit has been doing for much of his life, they’re acting more out of self-preservation than with intention to harm him. I’m not justifying what any of them do, but I think he’s hurt in part because he has selfish expectations of each of them. He expects Wink to get him a free demo and fast track him to fame; he expects Alex to fill the role of faithful girlfriend when she’s got her own dreams in mind, and he expects Stephanie to be a mother when she’s very much in the grip of several overpowering addictions that don’t let her be the mother than she wants to be. He may not fully comprehend their reasons for acting as they do, but he does recognize the folly in having these kinds of expectations and learns to move on without holding onto resentments. 

The culminating scene of all this emotional turmoil and loss arrives when Rabbit is bringing his little sister back to their trailer after she’s spent the day with a neighbor. His rap rivals, the Leaders of the Free World, show up with Wink (who sports a beaten up face, courtesy of Rabbit) to exact street justice. Rabbit knows their intent, and rather than make excuses or hide, he tells Lily to go inside and lock the door. Then he waits for his beating. He doesn’t fight back as they brutally attack him and even threaten him with a gun. His lack of fight is the total surrender we have to experience when we realize that we cannot manage our lives or control the circumstances we face. He may not have any faith in a Higher Power saving him at this point, but he gives up. His exhaustion and emotionally drained self give him the experience of complete despair and readiness to die that lets him truly lose himself. He loses the fear of not being enough, the expectations he sets on others and himself, the need for respect, the discontent with his life, and even his dreams. This is his emotional and physical low - facing death and letting go of his self reliance. He loses every hope and fear of a future outcome and accepts the outcome; I don’t think he wants to die, but he doesn’t try to save himself because a small part of him trusts that some power that’s not him will not allow for him to die. And even so, he accepts death as a possibility, not flinching or begging for his life when Papa Doc puts a gun to his head.

He’s been working on a demo of the lyrics we know as “Lose Yourself” for much of this film, but he hasn’t truly experienced what it is to lose self until this great low that all the other low moments in his life so far have led to. He literally gives up himself to guys who want him hurt or even dead, and in doing so he frees himself of every ounce of self reliance that has held him back from greatness. He emerges from this abyss broken and black-eyed, having died to his old self and risen to recover his true self.  We might not all lose ourselves with the same breaking and bruising, but we too have to find a way to die to our former selves if we’re going to truly live and recover. We have to lose the selfish pieces, the parts of our mind that remain convinced that we can play every role in the theater production of life, the ego that tells us we’re at the center of everything and deserving of reward without trial. This requires the complete surrender that the first step in recovery involves. 

When Rabbit stops focusing on how others view him or what they can do for him, he begins to experience the love and respect he felt were so lacking in his life before. He focuses on being a brother to his sister and showing up at his home even after his mother kicked him out. I think he knows she was acting from a place of hurt in that moment, so he doesn’t stay away. The morning after his Free World beating, Stephanie shows up at the trailer with a bag of groceries and tells her son to come inside so she can make him food. She doesn’t exactly apologize, but she asks him, “do you want the fuckin pancakes or not?”, and that’s pretty close. He even earns the trust and respect of Manny, the site manager. Early in the film, a coworker tells Rabbit to “just shut up and do your work”, a piece of advice Rabbit listens to. And by the time he shows up at work with a black eye but on time and with no excuses for his appearance, Manny acknowledges Rabbit’s improved work and offers him the extra shifts he asked for before, which he takes even when he knows he’ll miss the rap battle to do so. This choice reflects his shifted priorities; he wants to do the work he needs to do to provide for his family while working on his music and paying his way to his own demo. When Stephanie asks him about the opportunity with Wink (she doesn’t know what went down), he tells her, “I’m gonna do it on my own.” He doesn’t view the loss of his connection with Wink as a reason to quit; rather, he determines to forge ahead on his own because he knows that he’s the only one who can do this work for himself. Similarly, in really any of our pursuits in life (recovery included), we have to be the ones to put in the effort on a daily basis. Others may encourage, guide and help in their various ways, but it ultimately comes down to the work and time we’re willing to put in that determines our progress. 

The rap battle that Rabbit decides to miss when he takes a shift at work isn’t one he wanted to do in the first place. Future had signed him up without telling him, and Rabbit cursed him out for doing so, convinced that he didn’t need to revisit that shameful site of his failure when he was on track to get a free demo ticket out of 8 Mile without it. But circumstances allow him to leave work when friend and coworker covers for him, and he shows up at the Shelter to redeem himself by facing his rivals on stage again for the film’s final scene. Before taking the stage, he seeks out some privacy with his friend in the same place we find him at the start of the film. No longer alone and raced with nerves (mom’s spaghetti doesn’t make a return), he apologizes to Future, recognizing that his friend was only trying to help keep him on the right track, the one that involves the guaranteed reward of hard work. He sees that Future believes in him and is able to accept that confidence because he’s finally in a place where he’s let go of the need for approval and the insecurity of feeling he doesn’t belong. When Future steps out to start the rap battle, Rabbit is left with his thoughts but doesn’t let them rob him of his worth or ability as he did the last time he performed at the Shelter. He knows that he belongs regardless of how his performance goes because he has the ability to connect with himself and others through something that no Free World Leaders can beat out of him.

This final scene echoes the first: same stage and same crew of opponents. The first round has Rabbit against Lyckety Split, and it threatens to be a repeat of his infamous choke. The coin toss goes to L.C., who decides to “go first again this choke artist,” and uses his 45 seconds rapping trash about Rabbit, mentioning every major source of shame and source of disbelonging that weighed on Rabbit’s self worth at the beginning of the film. His words echo those of Lil’ Tic, and the crowd expects a similar response from Rabbit, who waits in deathly silence for a few seconds into his turn to begin speaking.Even when he begins, somewhat haltingly, the crowd jeers at him, telling him to get off the stage and crying out that he’s choking again. Rabbit’s changed in ways that aren’t all as obvious as the black eye. When he really gets going, he accepts every insult thrown his way as part of who he is and turns the script around on Lyckety Split and his crew, and the crowd erupts. They feel something in his words and the style with which he delivers them that results in roaring applause that unanimously sends Rabbit to the next round as the winner of this matchup. 

That’s how these rap battles are determined: by the response of the crowd. It’s not judged on certain predetermined criteria, but rather on each rapper’s ability to connect with the crowd through his presence and his words. Rabbit’s performance, in which he stands up for himself, embracing his supposed defects and stripping the other rapper of his qualification to be judging anyone, touches a chord in them. He’s able to accept himself for who he is and make it part of his art, boldly putting his opponent down a notch for only knowing how to insult and not how to see himself or his crew as flawed in their own way. Offstage, the same bouncer who tried to kick Rabbit out of the club about a month ago gives him a fist bump. Rabbit not only has the respect and support of the crowd for his act; he’s also shown this guy that he deserves his place in the club because he’s more than his appearance or background. It’s nice to have that respect, and it even fuels him into the next round, but he doesn’t need it or cling onto it. He continues into round two against Free World’s Lotto in the same manner that he went up against L.C. He lets the other guy go first, and Lotto’s words follow the same tune as his predecessor’s. His main theme seems to be that Rabbit has no chance of connecting with the crowd because of what he looks like, even calling him the dude from “Leave it to Beaver”, a blow Rabbit later admits got to him. However, Rabbit recognizes the lack of uniqueness in another man trying to take away his worth by targeting his insecurities. If anything, it fuels a performance that his crew calls “genius” and that makes the crowd ultimately cheer in his favor to push him to the championship round against Papa Doc. Rabbit earns these wins because he’s able to embrace his weaknesses and turn them into something that speaks to the crowd. They cheer for him because he gets them. He gets what it is to be called not whatever enough because of where you live, what past mistakes you’ve made or what you look like, and he spins that injustice into lyrics that reflect his conviction in the fact that he is enough even with all that. His reasons for not being enough may not be the same as theirs, but his rage and even amusement at the person who’s decided to use them against him are the same ones they feel rising in them because of their own weaknesses. The honesty and emotion in his performance, as well as the strength he shows despite his broken, beat up beanie-wearing and black-eyed appearance. 

I’ve always been drawn to this same raw honesty and emotion in Eminem’s work. The old stuff especially. There’s a quality to this hip-hop/rap genre in particular that makes the music feel familiar when we listen, even if for the first time, because we expect the rhyme and the beat. Listen to ‘8 Mile’ or ‘Lose Yourself’, both leading anthems introduced as part of the film’s soundtrack, and you’ll feel that sense of knowing what’s coming next right from the start. We expect the rhyme; the words are the surprise. And even the unexpected diction Eminem uses to fit his rhymes feels right and familiar because of the rhyme factor. This might be a stretch, but it’s almost like when someone’s telling their story and even though it’s a story unique to another person who may be from an entirely different background and a different age than you, you can still connect and still somehow feel that they’re telling your story. It’s the rhyme factor. It rhymes with ours because the feelings are the same. 

The final showdown against Papa Doc showcases this connection beautifully. Rabbit has his minute and a half first, and he starts by getting the crowd to put their hands up and move to the beat with him. He runs through everything that he knows Papa Doc can say about him, but calls attention to the fact that his opponent knows next to nothing about who Rabbit is or the life he’s lived. At the end, even as the beat stops, Rabbit takes a bit of a risk in expressing that he doesn’t care about the competition or even what the crowd thinks (he uses more colorful language if you want to use your imaginations). The crowd erupts at these lines, not insulted by his words but connecting with them on every level. Rabbit isn’t saying he hates the competition or the crowd; he’s saying he doesn’t need them to know his worth, and that’s the truth that silences Papa Doc and wins him the competition. 

He puts the stage where it belongs in his life: as mere structure that holds a brief and temporary space before he gets back to the work of life. He’s able to do that because of all that hardship through which we see him persevere. He rode the bus, and made it a space to write. He made the trailer park his home because that’s where his people were, not because it loved him back. He shut up and showed up to work. And he wrote through it all and because of it all, not instead of it all. He makes his writing and music an extension of his life rather than an escape or a pipe dream, and that’s what the crowd sees. They see someone whose art reflects his work and worth rather than determining it. 

That’s the relationship I’m trying to actualize with my own pursuits. It’s not as easy as seeing the right answer and having this huge shift in perspective and way of being. I’m getting there though. The empty house is burning in a sense, and I’m working through what it means to live without the idea that something or someone will show up and let me skip to the top step without all the effort of climbing one step at a time. I have a race coming up that has been a real source of fear for me, and it’s still kind of terrifying when the intrusive thoughts of failure show up. But I can also see what it can be and hopefully will be: an experience that shows me something about myself and helps me move onto the next climb. The writing is a little different, and it’s weird to admit this fear about writing in writing, but I’m trying to follow Rabbit’s example here so don’t hate me. Or do. See, I still care a bit about what you think if you’ve read this far. I’m afraid that these words don’t mean anything to anyone but me, that if I try to do something more with writing, it’ll go nowhere, that I’ll still be here, haunted by the same not-enoughs and putting in time for something that means nothing, that this sentence is too long and that someone somewhere is going to point that out. A big part of me fears that I’ll keep putting in this work and never see the promises of recovery as I’ve imagined them, but I was recently reminded that I already do have so much more than I could have imagined at the onset of this journey, and if I just listen to the people in my life or look with a clear mind at the quality of life I’m living, I can see that I have a lot to more to be grateful for than to fear. The fears may be legitimate, but I don’t need to entertain them. That’s a quote I heard recently: “I’m not a fearless guy. I have fears, but I don't entertain them.” I loved that, because I have a lot of fears, and I’ve been trying to make them go away to no avail. I’m seeing now that I can just be a neglectful host to them and focus on my more worthy guests, because I have a lot of those, and I haven’t been as gracious to them as I can and want to be. 

When Rabbit wins the championship, he experiences the triumphant joy of the crowd and his friends. They’re celebrating the win, but more so they’re celebrating the journey that led to that win. Our stages are nothing without that offstage work. And the ending to this film emphasizes that truth brilliantly. His friends want to go out and party, but Rabbit isn’t going with them. When they ask where he’s off to, he responds, “back to work,” meaning back to the punch press shift, but also giving us an idea of how he views the win in the larger scope of his life. It’s one of the most profound lines in the movie because it encompasses what he’s come to value and how he’s decided to live his life. His performances against Free World demonstrate skill and resilience, but he knows that winning the crowd’s approval on one night’s competition doesn’t mean he’s achieved greatness. He feels that greatness even while returning to the job that’s necessary to pay the rent and save up for a demo because his music has become a reflection of that life. He sees the value in working for something - for a better life for him and his family, for a life that means something and that lets him be true to himself and be enough for that, and a life not defined by others’ perception of his abilities. That’s how we have to live in recovery, with a work-focused mindset. We’ll experience milestones, get through the steps, even begin to experience the promises outlined in the Big Book; we should celebrate these things and be grateful for them, but the best way to practice gratitude for any of them is to continue to do the work that brought us these gifts in the first place. We have to lose ourselves in the work for these rewards to come. 

The song “Lose Yourself” has a line that speaks to this whole process: lose yourself in the music, the moment, you own it…you only get one shot. That one shot may seem to refer to the limited time on stage, but it’s also just life - the one shot we have to make something of ourselves that stands above the power of anyone else to judge. When we lose ourselves, we let go of our self reliance and the walls that keep us from our potential and from achieving true connection with ourselves and with others. When Rabbit loses himself, he’s able to rap about his life without fear and to form a connection with an audience who finally sees him as someone with more depth and genuine character than the silent, brooding guy who looks and talks differently from his opponents.

When you lose yourself, your work becomes something more than a task we do. It’s something we are. It’s the work, the grind, the climb, the journey - however you want to put it. Losing ourselves lets us be in our work in a way we aren’t able to engage when we let our fears, insecurities, delusions and resentments obstruct it. Rabbit wins but doesn’t let it go to his head; he understands that the success, though worthy of pride and celebration, can only mean something if he goes back to work. He returns not only to the obligation of his job, but he snaps back to the reality of the work and life that exists beyond the stage. We can celebrate our wins and grieve our losses, but when it’s over, it’s back to the lab again to keep moving forward. We need to leave the stage where it belongs and go back to work when our time on it is through.