A letter I wrote you from the bathtub.
A painfully tender, earnest, account of life a year after the death of your life's work.
Hello, friends! I have a big announcement: as of today, I’m funemployed. I have some time between my last day and the beginning of my next chapter, so I’m taking a little vacation and working from LA for a week or two. (Speaking of, Angelenos: are there people, brands, or cafés I simply can’t not get to know while I’m in town?)
I can already feel new brain space/bandwidth and mojo knowing that I get to recharge for a bit, so if you’re working on a start-up or project where I can be helpful or I might plug in, shoot me a note. I’m hungry again. It feels good.
I am not ready yet to divulge in great and vulnerable detail where I will work next, though I can say I’m excited and nervous, as one should be. I will be back in the operator seat at a consumer brand(s). The decision took a long time and I spent months really understanding the opportunity before there even was really an opportunity, in the literal job sense. Having that kind of time to get to know a business is a really delicious luxury in an economy like this one, and one I’m grateful for.
I have an oddly specific framework for finding and applying to jobs that I’ve addressed briefly here, but am always happy to revisit with readers who feel stuck.
Speaking of stuck, I was doing some Substack housekeeping and found an insanely vulnerable letter I wrote around the holidays last year. I quite enjoyed the holidays— I wrote a manifesto on being festive that was one of your favorite letters ever— but this letter was deeply, darkly sad and bummeresque. Sort of the ramblings of an unhinged woman who used to be ambitious, used to feel close to greatness, one whose worst fear would be an average or inconsequential life and career. I wrote it in a hotel room when I felt very unseen and a little heartbroken over what felt like an incredibly hard voyage to absolutely nowhere. I could not see how the puzzle pieces were going to fit together or how I would ever remake myself into something I wanted to be.
It felt too raw to hit send on at the time, I wisely considered sleeping on it. But in rediscovering it just now, I felt such a retroactive sense of delight— it did work out. I did figure it out. I always will.
I’ve met so many people since I started writing First Rodeo, and we’ve had so many conversations about feeling exactly this way— bad, lost, a fuck up, a failure. Today, with the gift of a few short months of hindsight and hard work, I can share this. If you feel this way… it will all work out. You will figure it out. You always do. ♥️
Dear reader,