AN IDIOT'S GUIDE TO KEEPING YOUR NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS: A PHILANTHROPIST'S STORY

AN IDIOT'S GUIDE TO KEEPING YOUR NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS:

A PHILANTHROPIST'S STORY

INTRODUCTION

I'm Benjamin Franklin Brown. Ben Brown. Yes, named after that Benjamin Franklin. My mother's idea. She had high hopes.

I'm a philanthropist worth about $400 million. Made my fortune as a self-help guru. Over the past twenty-five years, I've made exactly four New Year's resolutions each year and kept zero. But I've helped thousands achieve their goals — addiction recovery, job training, financial literacy — with a documented success rate of 73%.

My success rate? 0%.

I even wrote The Goal Achiever's Handbook — or rather, paid a ghostwriter. Full disclosure: I haven't read it yet.

But this year would be different.

On December 31st, at our foundation gala, I announced my resolutions:

Be more "hands-on" with charitable work

Live more simply and connect with "regular people"

Stop writing checks and start showing up

Get my hands dirty (whatever that means)

The applause exploded. Someone filmed my speech and posted it to our foundation's social media. I woke up January 1st with a hangover, ten thousand likes, and an overwhelming sense of dread.

The comments were troubling:

"Finally, a philanthropist who GETS it!"

"This is what real leadership looks like!"

I had accidentally committed to personal transformation in front of almost a million people. The video went viral overnight. There was no backing out.

So, I did what any rational person would do: I decided to turn my failure into content.

WARNING: This guide is based on firsthand experience failing at personal improvement. Your results may vary.

STEP 1

The first principle of goal achievement is accountability. I teach this in every seminar: "Public commitment creates positive pressure." So, at 9 AM on January 2nd, I posted my four resolutions to Twitter with a gala photo. Caption: "Walk the talk in '26. No more absentee checkbook. Time to get hands dirty." #RealChange #HandsOnPhilanthropy

I felt inspired!

SOCIAL MEDIA RESPONSE (FIRST 24 HOURS):

10:30 AM – 5,000 likes, trending

2:00 PM – 50,000 likes, Good Morning America calls

4:00 PM – Board members panicking

7:00 PM – Board chair calls emergency Zoom meeting

I had no plan. The resolutions were aspirational, theoretical, not methodical — the kind of thing you announce after too much Dom Pérignon.

I teach a five-step methodology for goal achievement:

Step 1: Define specific, measurable objectives

Step 2: Identify needed resources

Step 3: Create timeline

Step 4: Execute with accountability

Step 5: Recalibrate

I was on Step 0: Panic.

Yes, I'm aware my four resolutions don't map neatly onto my five-step methodology. Consistency has never been my strong suit.

I had completely ignored my own advice. I'd said, "get my hands dirty" and "connect with regular people." These were general goals, not the specific actions required to achieve them. They weren't measurable; they were just wishes.

My book quotes Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: "A goal without a plan is just a wish."

I had made four wishes in front of a million people.

STEP 2

I started on Resolution #1: "Be more hands-on." That meant visiting Harbor House, a refuge for battered women and children I've funded for years but never visited.

My handbook says, "Act Like a Professional" — coordinate with stakeholders, identify your role, understand existing systems before changing them.

I skipped that part.

On January 2nd, my chauffeur took me to Harbor House, and I walked in unannounced, ready to help with lunch service.

Everyone looked startled. It took me a minute to understand why.

The manager reluctantly agreed after I explained. But first, Harbor House's "system": hairnet, rubber gloves, ice-cream scoop-size portions, and no seconds on dessert.

I nodded, even though everything went in one ear and out the other, before I took my place on the service line.

The steam trays held meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and string beans. No ketchup. (I'm a fan of ketchup.)

After asking, the manager indicated the refrigerator and gestured at me to get it. I found a bottle of red sauce. Perfect.

Guests moved through the line, mothers helping children. They went to the dining room and began eating.

That's when the shrieking began.

First, I heard "Oh, no," then "My God," followed by a mother practically screaming at her daughter, "Spit it out, spit it out!" and then a loud cry: "Bring water... lots of water!"

The manager came over, explaining that the red sauce was sriracha. It had been donated by mistake months ago and was waiting to be returned — still sitting in the refrigerator, still looking exactly like ketchup. He looked at the chaos in the dining room — mothers comforting crying children, people gulping water, napkins everywhere. "Perhaps you could help clean the floor instead?"

I nodded. Cleaning seemed easier.

I walked over to the floor buffer. It looked like it hadn't been used in years. The frayed cord should have been a clue. The manager announced there was enough meatloaf to refill their plates. Guests lined up again as I began buffing.

Tiny sparks started flying. They were beautiful. Then they grew bigger.

The motor gave out, and the buffer fell apart. Cleaning solution sprayed everywhere — on the floor, tables, chairs, all over the guests' newly refilled plates.

I looked at mothers comforting children, plates covered in cleaning solution, complete chaos.

"I'll order pizza," I announced.

The manager blinked. "Pizza?"

"How many people?"

"Forty-seven guests and six staff."

"Eighteen large pizzas," I ordered on my phone.

Thirty minutes later, the pizza arrived. The guests relaxed. I saw happy kids and relieved mothers.

The manager approached. "Perhaps you could write a check: the floor buffer, the cleaning costs, a new dishwasher?"

"Of course. How much?"

"$15,000."

I wrote the check. Then I added $5,000 for emotional distress.

He suggested I call ahead next time.

I went outside and called my chauffeur.

Through the window, I watched as everyone enjoyed the pizza. My suit was stained with cleaning solution; my confidence — shattered.

The town car arrived. I got in, thinking about Resolution #1: "Be more hands-on with charitable work."

I'd been hands-on, all right. Spectacularly, catastrophically hands-on.

The cost: $20,000, and whatever remained of my dignity.

STEP 3

I had a meeting with my publisher in Tribeca. Normally, my chauffeur drove me, but Resolution #2 was "Live more simply and connect with regular people," so I took the subway.

My chauffeur asked if he could drive me to the station. I declined.

"How hard can it be? Millions of people do it every day."

I walked over to "my" station at 72nd & Broadway. The Dakota, where I've lived for twenty years, is half a block away — and I'd never been down those stairs.

I stood in front of the machine. Touch screen. Multiple options. I stared. What's the fare: $2? $5? No idea.

"Just do $20," the frustrated woman behind me said.

I typed in $100 since money was no object.

Under her breath, she muttered something I won't repeat.

Sweating, I finally swiped my card and went through the turnstile. A train arrived. I got on.

At 96th Street I realized I was going uptown, not downtown.

The train was crowded. I grabbed the pole, lost my balance, and reached for the shoulder of the guy next to me.

He turned around. "Hey, aren't you the sriracha millionaire from Twitter?"

Everyone stared.

Someone filmed it and posted "Millionaire discovers public transportation" to Instagram.

It went viral within an hour. By dinnertime, #SubwayPhilanthropist was trending.

I got off at 125th Street, completely disoriented, and hailed a cab to Tribeca.

#

Not having succeeded yet with Resolution #2, I decided to do one of the things regular people do regularly: food shopping.

Normally, I'd have the maid call Whole Foods with my grocery order or send the chauffeur to Zabar's to pick up some of my favorite things.

But those days were over.

I walked to Trader Joe's on Broadway. I'd never been inside. Why would I? The maid did groceries. I was immediately assailed by noise and general confusion as folks maneuvered too many carts in too small a space. The smell hit first — coffee, overripe bananas, fish, damp umbrellas.

I grabbed a basket. "Milk" was first on my list. The choices — bottles/cartons; fat content from skimmed to heavy cream; organic or not; goat's milk; plant milk. My head spun.

My basket became uncomfortably heavy as I realized that I don't carry things — especially heavy things like milk and spaghetti sauce, or fragile things like eggs. I should have gotten a cart instead of a basket but was too upset to switch. I paid, then walked out with only half the things on my list.

In the parking lot my right hand buckled. Items crashed onto the asphalt, creating a Salvador Dalí-esque still life. Startled, I jerked, banging into the Subaru in front of me and setting off the alarm. The security guard ran over, reaching for his phone and his gun. Then he recognized me as the "sriracha guy" and started filming instead.

The video had 2 million views by the time I got home.

Resolution #2 wasn't going well, but I wasn't ready to give up yet.

STEP 4

Two days later, I got an email from the director of the after-school program I've supported for years, asking if I could cover for an employee who'd called in sick. She hadn't seen the videos yet — they were still making their way through the social media outlets.

I arrived at 3 PM. Kids like games, so I said, "Let's play a game."

"What game?"

"What games do you know?"

"Tag. Hide and seek. Catch."

I hadn't played those in decades. "What about Monopoly or Checkers?"

Blank stares. "We play video games."

I cajoled them into "I Spy," and they picked the letter W.

"I spy a window."

"Willow," said another, looking outside.

"Water."

"I spy a watch. My mom saw your watch on the video and said it costs more than her car!"

"Where'd you get it?" asked another.

"What?"

"Where'd you get it?"

"It was a gift."

"From who?"

"I gave it to myself. For my birthday."

"Weird."

Can't argue with that.

After 15 minutes of I Spy, someone asked, "When's snack time?"

I looked at the schedule: 3:30. It was now 3:25.

"Five minutes."

"What's the snack?"

I opened the refrigerator: applesauce and chocolate pudding cups, juice boxes, string cheese.

Simple enough.

As I was handing out snacks, one kid asked, "Have you ever been in a food fight?"

"No. Why?"

She grinned, showing a missing front tooth. "Just wondering."

That should have been a warning.

The applesauce hit the wall with a resounding slap. Then the pudding cups — chocolate sailing through the air in slow motion, landing on the whiteboard, the windows, my shirt and face. The smell: sweet, sticky, overwhelming. Kids shrieking with laughter. Applesauce dripping from the ceiling. A juice box hitting the wall just behind me, sprinkling droplets that made me feel juicy again.

Then the director walked in. He didn't ask "What happened?" Just got the Easy Wipes and each kid's emergency bag of spare clothes.

As we cleaned up, he said, "I'll have to call the Chairman of the Board."

I jumped in. "Maybe I can make it up to you."

"How?"

"An interior decorator? New refrigerator? Laptops for the kids?"

"Well, maybe I could look the other way."

I wrote the check. $32,000 for the decorator, a new fridge, and eight iPads.

Just then Susie, the kid with the missing front tooth, said, "Mister, you're weird, but you're funny."

That was the first time anyone had ever called me funny and meant it as a compliment.

If she liked me, if they liked me, maybe I could like myself.

I wasn't going to stop being rich. But I could have a big pocketbook and a big heart.

CONCLUSION

It's January 31st and I've failed — spectacularly.

SCORECARD:

Resolution 1 (hands-on): Failed — catastrophically

Resolution 2 (live simply): Failed. Chauffeur and maid staying

Resolution 3 (stop writing checks): Failed. Wrote $52,000 worth

Resolution 4 (get hands dirty): Succeeded? If pudding counts

BUT:

Harbor House still calls when appliances break. The subway video raised $2 million for access to public transit. The kids asked Susie to make me a card: "Loved the food fight. You're fun for an old guy." It's on my desk, framed.

I look at it every day.

I've been trying to figure out why.

Susie drew it in crayon. Me — wearing a purple and green suit. She gave me a smile with a missing tooth, same as hers. In my purple and green suit, we look like two peas in a pod.

I've funded after-school programs for years. Never once visited. Wrote checks, got tax receipts, felt good about myself.

No pudding involved. No real flesh-and-bone children.

Benjamin Franklin — the original — kept a notebook of thirteen virtues he worked on his entire life. Never mastered a single one perfectly. Each day he kept on trying.

Maybe my mother was onto something.

THE REAL WISDOM:

You may not keep your resolutions, but you can do good by trying.

The point isn't perfection — it's showing up. Even covered in pudding. Especially covered in pudding.

Good luck. You'll need it.