This Is the Story I’m Ready to Help Write

A Theory of Change Through Story

If there’s one thread that’s run through all the work I’ve done, from philanthropy to social justice, from climate to culture, it’s this: stories move people.

Not policies. Not facts. Not white papers or slide decks or toolkits. People are moved by stories — by what they feel, what they see in someone else’s experience, what they remember about their own. We are narrative beings. We make meaning through story. And in moments of disorientation, grief, or transformation, we return to story to make sense of what’s happening and what might happen next.

For me, storytelling is no longer an “approach” to this work. It is the work.

I believe we are living through a profound crisis of disconnection: from one another, from the past, from what’s possible. That crisis shows up in many forms — in politics, in media, in identity, in economics — but at its root, it is a crisis of narrative. Who gets to tell the story? Who is left out? Which memories are preserved, and which are erased? What futures are we allowed to imagine?

We are constantly bombarded by narratives that narrow our sense of the possible. That flatten our humanity. That tell us this is just the way things are. But beneath that noise, there are deeper stories, stories of resistance, resilience, repair. Stories that live in our bodies, our communities, our histories. Stories that help us feel our way toward liberation.

I want to be in service to those stories.
The real stories of real people.
Told with care. Told with courage.
Told not just to entertain, but to remember, to disrupt, to heal, and to imagine.

Past. Present. Future.

The best stories aren’t linear, they are layered. They don’t live in a single moment; they hold tension between memory and possibility. And that’s how I understand the purpose of narrative work: it is about reconnecting our past, present, and future.

Story as memory.
Storytelling allows us to reclaim what has been forgotten or deliberately buried. It’s a tool for cultural memory — reviving suppressed histories, elevating generational wisdom, and honoring the people and movements who’ve fought for justice long before us. We don’t need to reinvent the wheel; we need to remember how our ancestors survived, organized, resisted, and loved in the face of enormous odds. Story grounds us in lineage.

Story as mirror.
We need stories that reflect the truth of our present — not just the headlines, but the emotional realities of people’s lives. Who is struggling? Who is thriving? What does joy look like in a broken system? What does resistance feel like in a quiet moment? Narrative work makes the invisible visible. It helps us see the structures at play, but also see ourselves within those structures — flawed, brilliant, complicit, courageous. Story helps us be honest.

Story as portal.
Most importantly, I believe story is a gateway to the future. We can’t build what we can’t imagine. And our imaginations have been deeply constrained. By capitalism, by white supremacy, by a culture of cynicism and scarcity. Story is how we reopen those imaginative channels. Not with utopias, but with blueprints. With questions. With what-ifs. It’s how we create space for more just, joyful, collective futures. Then walk toward them, together.

Narrative as Strategy and Infrastructure

It’s tempting to think of storytelling as an artform alone. But I’ve come to understand it as strategy and infrastructure. In the same way we talk about legal infrastructure, policy infrastructure, or organizing infrastructure. Narrative infrastructure is what shapes the cultural conditions around all of those things.

If we want to change systems, we have to change the stories that keep them intact.

That’s why I believe narrative work should be resourced, not just celebrated. Creators need more than applause. They need trust, time, support, and space to take creative and political risks. Organizers and movement leaders need narrative collaborators, not just media consultants. And funders need to stop treating narrative as an “add-on” and start recognizing it as a central strategy for long-term change.

This isn’t just about storytelling as a communications tool. It’s about storytelling as a form of power. Because those who control the narrative control the stakes. They define what’s normal, what’s possible, and what’s worthy of attention. If we’re not actively shaping the narrative, then we’re living inside someone else’s story — and chances are, that story wasn’t written for us.

So I’m interested in narrative power that is collective, not top-down. Messy, not polished. Grounded in relationship, not just distribution. That could look like a multi-part audio documentary or a kitchen-table storytelling circle. It could be a fiction series with subversive themes or a community mural project. What matters is the impact, the integrity, and the invitation it offers to others.

This Is the Work I Want to Grow

I’ve spent much of my career advising funders, nonprofits, and leaders on how to align values with action. And now, more than ever, I believe that alignment must include narrative.

I want to work with creators who are telling hard truths through compelling stories. With movements that understand the importance of shifting the story, not just the policy. With funders who are ready to invest in narrative ecosystems, not just campaigns. And with communities who want to tell their own stories, on their own terms, in their own voices.

I don’t think we’ll change the world through story alone. But I don’t think we’ll change it without story either.

Final Word

To tell stories — real, honest, powerful stories — is to insist that we are still here. That we’ve been here. That we remember. And that we are imagining something better.

And that’s the work I’m committed to:
Telling the stories that connect.
Holding space for stories that disrupt.
Building the infrastructure for stories that transform.

This is my theory of change.
This is the heart of my work.
And this is the story I’m ready to help write.