✉️ Dear 2024: A Letter

Welcome new ‘doh readers! Catch up on a few favorite posts by going for a serendipity signage walk with an inquiry in mind, seeing how many criteria you fit on the “do what you love” requirements, making your own business owner to-do list 😭 and preparing an emoji balance sheet. Rolling in Doh started six months ago after losing my Favorite (Former) Client, flipping my world upside down. Today, I’m writing a letter to the year ahead. But first, a meme:

✍️ December 31, 2023

Dear New Year,

Oh, 2024. You’re the guest I’m not sure I want. But I know you’re on your way. You texted when your plane landed, and now you’re in the taxi, winding home through holiday traffic.

That means I have an hour for finishing touches around the house: tidying up, reading and clearing out old newspapers, wiping the kitchen counters clean, filing the messy pile of papers at my desk, vacuuming all the dust and dog hair, and rearranging the books spilling out of overstuffed shelves.

Is something magical supposed to happen on the evening of your arrival?

FYI: I probably won’t get out all my nicest finery or fancy clothes to ring you in. In fact, I’ll be asleep when you arrive, but please do make yourself at home.

I’d rather wake up fully rested when I greet you, and I’d be overcome with FOMO if I miss out on my blissfully quiet New Year’s morning: my five a.m., still dark out, dog sleeping nearby on his back snoring lightly, drinking my first and second cups of piping hot black coffee, and reading in peace before the world wakes up.

Am I supposed to be excited for your arrival?

I can’t say I’m that excited, but I am grateful for one thing: not having to write “2023” again. 2023 with its ridiculous string of events, crashing down the hill like an avalanche, and me trying to outrun it all.

Part of me wishes you would go a little easier on us than your previous-year friends. Another part of me knows you won’t.

I’m trying not to become cynical or misanthropic, but sometimes I can’t help myself. I want to be hopeful and buoyant and excited and committed and curious and accepting and surrendering.

I want to be those things.

I’m just a little tired. I’m a little tired of trying to keep up with your friends, and now I’m wondering how to entertain you once you arrive.

Maybe I shouldn’t entertain you at all. Just let you be. Do your own thing.

Image via The New York Times: Opening panel from Mira Jacob’s Things I Thought Made Sense Just Don’t Anymore Op-Art.

Although I am excited to welcome you, 2024, I am tired of getting my hopes up. I lifted them so high when your friend 2020 arrived—so high!

I was determined: 2020 was going to be the tipping point for my second book Pivot, lifting my business along with it to a point of seamless stability, raking in royalties and new licensing deals. A big break was surely around the corner!

Instead, trickster chaos-bringer that it was, 2020 only tipped my business canoe upside down—for me and so many others. And we were the lucky ones: we are still here to greet you, 2024, no matter how tired our arms are.

Hindsight is 2020?! Well, 2020 is seared in my memory as a bad house guest, one that WILL NOT be invited back.

You see, after 2020 overstayed its welcome, I put pressure on 2021, and 2022, and 2023 when they arrived. I wanted them to be something they weren’t ready (or willing) to be: an ebullient bouncing back of abundant business. They were in their own small ways, but I thought for sure “““the””” “““economy””” would turn around in 2023—not just for the biggest companies, but for us smaller ones too.

In hindsight, I watched 2023 sail off to sea while I was left standing on the shore, stranded on Struggle Island. But I digress, and I’m mixing metaphors now. Where did my canoe go?!

Bottom line: I feel mixed about your arrival.

I am afraid to ask much of you, 2024, because I don’t know how much more disappointment I can take. I am afraid to set any goals like I did with 2020 and 2021 and 2022, because I’d rather not have them play out in ironic twists of fate.

“Make plans and God laughs.” So why does everyone make so many plans this time of year?!

I am afraid to conjure any hopes and dreams about the business turning around, trying new things, and then feeling defeated and resigned all over again. The last few years have been tricky that way.

Lately, hope makes me flinch. I hate to say it, but I am still afraid of falling shoes. And yet, I know that no matter what, one (I) must accept reality as it is, and find the joy and gratitude within it regardless.

Okay, okay—I feel a tiny little flicker of possibility at your arrival. What gifts will you bring? What conversation starters? What stories? What inspiration, new memories, and moments of connection?

I know, for sure, that you will bring unwanted gifts too. And I know that we will just have to metabolize those, as always. Serenity prayer and whatnot.

I see that you checked a cumbersome bag with the presidential election in it; I dread all the media shenanigans that will ensue when you unpack that one. How can any of us find peace when chaos is engineered to get us to the polls?

By Emily Bernstein for The New Yorker: Daily Cartoon from January 16, 2023

If I could be so bold as to ask for anything at all, 2024: could you bring just a little more career and business clarity?

2023 was pretty withholding on that front, although it was still pretty good about sharing signs. I would be grateful for a few if it’s not too much to ask.

What can I ask of you 2024? I guess that question is irrelevant. I must not ask anything, I will only ask it of myself. You’re our guest, after all.

As we head into this first week of your arrival, I will close by saying thank you. Thank you for being you, whoever you turn out to be, and for the opportunity to hang out.

New year, new you! they say. Although I mostly disagree, we are each a new you because we are one year older. Wiser? Who knows.

We can say this: by the time you arrive, each of us will have added one more ring to our personal history tree trunks, with one more year of experiences encoded—the ones we want to hold on to and the ones we’d rather forget.

So, 2024, I suppose you are bringing a new you—and a new(er) me too. I won’t get my hopes up for too much more than that.

Much Love,
❤️ Jenny

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