Hi, sunshine.
A few weeks ago, a ladybug magically appeared in the upstairs bathroom. I noticed it (her?) on a cold January day, the kind of New England day when the outside air slaps you straight across the face.
A few days later, I saw the ladybug
again—still in the bathroom, now loitering on the sunny windowsill. The ladybug is motionless—maybe dead—but then suddenly on the move, taking itself for a walk around the window screen.
I watched it (him?) for a few minutes. It's an incongruous scene: a ladybug—classic symbol of summer—strolling in the sun while just beyond it's deep winter: 16 degrees with two feet of snow on the ground.
This ladybug has decided my bathroom is Bug Boca Raton. And she (I've decided she's a she) is wintering here.
Where did you come from? How are you going to survive the winter? I ask her, interrogating her like a homeowners association compliance officer who's just noticed an unauthorized guest at the pool.
* * *
Things feel unsettled lately. In business, algorithms are shifting. AI is flooding the internet. The old playbooks don’t really work anymore, and it’s harder to break through with a clear signal—especially in a world wired to reward speed: fast responses, fast output, fast growth.
For many of us,
personally: It's hard to know what to trust. What is real? What is not? Signals are harder to hear. Focus feels fragile.
I read that 2026 is the Chinese Year of the Fire Horse, which I misread as "Year of the Fire Hose." And I think... yeah, "fire hose" sounds about right.
It makes me a little jumpy and panicky. How do we weather this
storm?
I don't think the solution is about better hacks and crushing my To-Do List or the secrets of The Perfect AI Prompt™. I don't think it's about this efficiency with this tool or that framework you need to have to thrive in this new climate.
The pressure is to move faster or fall behind.
But that's exactly backward:
When speed becomes cheap, judgment carries a premium.
* * *
I learn that ladybugs move indoors when the outside world becomes inhospitable. They're not confused or
lost, exactly, and they're not really hunkering down, either. They're adapting.
The ladybug doesn't know there's two feet of snow on the ground. The ladybug doesn't know it's just winter; she doesn't know spring will eventually come. All she knows is that conditions have changed.
In that way, she's not so different from us.
*
* *
When speed is cheap and volume is easy, generative AI can burp out 100 versions of a Facebook post. It can optimize the email subject line within an inch of its life. Everyone can make more things, faster. Speed alone is no longer an advantage.
So what's left? It's judgment. Taste. Context. Connection. Care for the long
term.
It's remembering why we're here at all.
* * *
Reddit tells me to leave out water on a soaked paper towel with a bit of dried fruit. I put them both inside a small plastic container and place it on the windowsill.
I've named her Dot. I hope you like raisins, I whisper to Dot.
* * *
Why are we here? Our work has never just been about "output."
Instead, good writing—and good marketing—is how ideas travel, how trust
is built, how people decide what to pay attention to and what to believe. It's about connecting with one person at one time, even if you're speaking to millions.
That work doesn't disappear just because technology gets faster and signals get louder. It becomes more important.
And in this season, it's strangely a little radical to pause the relentless
push forward long enough to ask better questions. That pause is how judgment re-enters the room:
Is this worth doing?
Is this actually helping someone?
Would I approach this differently if the platform/algorithm changed tomorrow?
* * *
Dot has made the little container her home. When the sun disappears below the horizon, she wedges herself into the groove in the plastic cover—she almost gave me a heart attack when I once adjusted the cover and nearly squished her.
I tell the housekeeper about Dot so she doesn't accidentally vacuum her up. I'm a little embarrassed to tell her—I see how crazy this probably looks. But whatever.
A few minutes later she comes downstairs. "So," she says. "I notice you put out food? For a bug?"
* * *
So where does this leave us? How do we do work we're proud of? How do we prioritize health and well-being in the Year of the Fire Hose?
Here are three places I'm choosing to pause on purpose:
What's one thing worth protecting right now because it actually compounds over time?
One relationship. One audience. One practice. One project.
For me, that's my daily analog-writing practice. It's also a more-recent weightlifting practice. Both are on my calendar every morning—non-negotiable, like a court date.
Where can technology remove drag—but (important but!) without eroding taste and judgment?
I'm not anti-AI. Tools are fine. But they are tools—they aren't YOU. Choose deliberately where to let them in. Saying no is a choice, too.
Where could a small pause deliver an outsized outcome?
Five minutes before hitting send. A breath before saying yes. A day before shipping the final. An analog
rough draft instead of one typed on a laptop. I've realized how reactive I am. I'm trying to change that.
Anyway... those are mine.
I don't know what your pause is. But I suspect you already do.
* * *
I watch Dot perch on a plump raisin that's 3 times her size.
Is this insane? What am I doing? Why do I care as much as I do?
I don't really know.
But maybe it's this: Caring about small things is how we care about bigger things.
Maybe this has occurred to you already... but suddenly I think... WAIT.
Is this a feature? Or is it... a bug?
* * *
This winter gives us a mental shift, a way of
clarifying what matters.
Conditions always change. What doesn't change is the choice we have of where we put our attention.
Maybe that's a feature. Maybe it's a bug. Maybe it's both.
* * *
Every morning I do a wellness check on Dot. Every evening I notice how she's climbed into a crevice. It's silly. It's routine now.
I make sure she's hydrated. I make sure she doesn't get vacuumed up. I'm getting her through the winter.
She has no idea how good what's coming next will be.
