Hi friends,

I told you how this year was an emotional curveball for me, right? How, the more volatile and destabilizing things became in politics and advocacy, the less I actually felt able to match that energy or tap into my own intensity or rage. I was definitely in debrief mode, wanting to reflect on what our workforce might have done or missed to contribute to the tenor of the moment, but when it came to actually engaging with our work or the world, none of the knee-jerk emotional tricks and triggers resonated with me, not remotely. It just wasn’t what my soul wanted. Instead, I was craving sweetness. Light. A reconnection to the good in everyone — so I could stay committed to seeking and driving work that creates good for everyone.

So I asked you all: can we focus, for a moment, on the moments in this work that have worked? For the communities we serve, but also for us?

A half-dozen of you responded to the call, sharing your own moments of assurance, expansion, connection, and alignment that whispered, “This isn’t pointless. You’re not nuts. This work matters and, little by little, it helps.”

I’ve gathered the lovely memories you shared with the Space below. Revisit them now, and tuck them away for when you need a little Something Sweet.

In community,

“It was my last door knock of the day on a presidential campaign. I was canvassing alone — not exactly advised, but I was 22, trying to prove myself, and determined to hit my quota. I was deep in rural New Hampshire, where showing up with New York plates to tell people how to vote wasn’t exactly welcomed with open arms.

Conscious of all that, I pulled up to a house in the middle of nowhere, spotted two men outside, put on my brightest smile… and immediately realized I had locked my keys, wallet, phone, and jacket in the car.

Do I tell them? Does it make me look vulnerable? Do I even have another option?

In a moment of surrender, I confessed mid-campaign spiel. Turns out, Ronnie and Fletcher weren’t even the people on my list. They had just bought the house. And — in a twist I couldn’t have made up — they were locked out too, waiting on someone to bring their keys.

They could’ve easily brushed me off. I was a stranger, an outsider, and I had nothing to offer but awkwardness and a clipboard. But instead, they called their daughter and 3-year-old grandson over to put me at ease. And when AAA gave me a long wait time, they phoned their friend from the local auto shop. He showed up with a coat hanger, worked his magic, and popped my car open.

As the sun started to set, Ronnie quite literally gave me the flannel shirt off his back to keep warm. And yes, they even humored my campaign script. They got the info on registering to vote at their new address, and promised they would vote. 

This all could have gone very differently. I carry privilege as a white woman, and that shapes how I move through the world and social impact work.

Still, I often go back to this story. I had become laser-focused on meeting a quota, but instead I was smacked in the face with the most fundamental piece of this work: being decent to people.

It interrupted my urgency — the kind that fuels so much of this work — and reminded me that impact isn’t always strategic or scalable. 

Sometimes, it’s just two strangers giving a damn.”

“I have worked across the progressive landscape, from electoral campaigns, to community organizing, to multi-issue advocacy. The work I'm most proud of is getting to build an engaged, vibrant online community of people across the country who were seeking a political home to make an impact with.

We ran close to 5k deep. These were thousands of people who joined this community seeking belonging, direction, and hope.

And honestly, sometimes I didn't have it.

There were days when the despair set in. And one night, soon after Justice Ginsburg had passed on, that despair and hopelessness started knocking on my door.

I could just see the trouble we were about to be in. And with thousands of volunteers from the community I managed looking to me, as the facilitator of this sacred space we'd built together, for direction...I was at a loss.

Until I spoke to a mentor in Houston.

She shared a time when she was feeling the same way and leaned on her mentor, and said, “My mentor, a woman in her eighties, who had been organizing in reproductive justice her whole life and had a hand in helping Roe v. Wade get passed, told me, ‘If they repeal Roe, then we'll fight again. And again. And again.’”

It was that simple. That matter of fact.

And that illuminated two important things for me:

One — movements are, and need to be, multi-generational.

And two — movement work, especially building a movement, is long. It takes time and oftentimes, we will not enjoy the fruits of our labor. But we do it anyway.

We plant the seeds of the tree we will not get to bear the fruit of anyway.”

“Before stepping into leadership roles in arts education and the nonprofit sector, I spent several years as a dance teacher at a charter school. 

The schedule was intense — long school days followed by rehearsals, tech weeks that stretched into evenings, and weekends spent prepping for performances — but the work was deeply rewarding. Through the rhythm of daily classes and the intimacy of rehearsals, I came to know my students on a profound level. As a teacher, I was witness to students discovering themselves, pushing past limitations, and building meaningful relationships through creativity and collaboration. 

In my first year teaching, I worked closely with a fifth-grade student who played the lead in our annual musical. They were magnetic on stage — full of heart, potential, and charisma beyond their years. We spent hours together preparing choreography, reviewing lines, and navigating the rollercoaster of tech week nerves and opening night excitement.

After that year, the student moved on to middle school outside of the city, and I didn’t teach them again. Life, as it often does in schools, moved quickly — new classes, new performances, new students. But that student never fully left my memory. There was something about the experience of watching them grow — creatively and personally — that stayed with me and helped shape my own evolution as an educator. 

Just a few weeks ago, I received a friend request on Instagram from a name I hadn’t heard in nearly a decade. It was that same student, now 18 and preparing to graduate from high school. It had been nine years since we shared a classroom, and yet they remembered me. 

I sat with that for a long moment. It reminded me, in such a tangible way, of how deep and lasting my impact had been. In just one year, one production, one series of rehearsals, something meaningful had been created — something that endured over time. 

It’s easy, especially in leadership roles, to get caught up in strategy, logistics, and deliverables. But that moment brought me back to why I began this work in the first place. It’s the one-on-one relationships, the quiet moments of connection and growth, that create lasting change. 

The arts offer a rare space for that connection — a medium where students can be themselves, take risks, and be seen. This is why I have become so committed to expanding access to arts education through schools, community organizations, and grassroots projects. Because I’ve seen and felt the impact.

And it’s through those human moments — often small, sometimes years in the making — that I know our work matters.”

“I had been working with my client for seven years.

I was leading their communications, helping shape their voice in the space, and finally, I was able to take an international trip with them to visit our grantee partners – the heart of our work.

Many of our grantees had just been impacted by the USAID cuts, and it was an extremely heavy moment for all of us. Despite that cloud of uncertainty, I will always remember this trip for the pure, deep human connections we formed with not only our partners, but also the communities they serve.

It was perspective-shifting in every way, getting to visit the special places, people, and work we fund. I had been learning and hearing about them for so long, but being there in person is always different — and a critical reminder to step away from our virtual spaces and immerse ourselves in real life, real community, real dirt, as often and whenever we can.

I came back to the United States feeling 100x more connected there than I did here, and have been processing and exploring what that means for my life now, working in social impact under this administration, while trying to build the life I want – and carrying forward what I learned and felt on that long-overdue trip.”

“I am a brown woman in tech.

I'm a brown woman with a funny name in tech.

Not quite a 'skinny kid with a funny name', but close.

Executive directors, PhD advisors, managers, and customers routinely stumble their way through my name, even after knowing me for years, or try to avoid calling me by it completely. I've worked most of my career in academia or industry, and felt like there was little I could do about it. I stood up for others when I could, self-advocated when I felt it wouldn't get me labeled as difficult, but mostly just felt frustrated.

I remember my first conference in the progressive space. We'd broken out into small groups to discuss something or another, and I found myself, for the first time in my professional life, in a group of mostly black and brown women, leaders all of them.

Earlier that day, one of the presenters had completely and totally mangled his co-founder's name, and I mentioned to the group how frustrating this was to see from the audience.

I have never felt the wagons circle around me so viscerally. These women may have mostly had names that could be pronounced by their English-speaking colleagues, but they knew disrespect when they saw it.

They also knew the difference between fighting to change the system and fighting to survive another day. And they knew that different tactics are needed for each and that both are needed to make the change we want to see.

In this moment, I was supported. Made not to feel alone. Reminded that picking and choosing my battles — including the mispronouncing of a name — is a way to survive, and not a sign of selling out or shame.

In connecting with these other women, there was no pity for the plight of this child of immigrants. Instead, we found a reminder of our shared struggle against a rainbow of microagressions and unity in spite of the fact that we may not ever have experienced what the others have lived.

I'd never had that kind of support happen to me in industry or academia. Frankly, I haven't felt it again in the progressive space, either. But it has to happen once before it can become a pattern. So I hold out hope.”

“I worked on a project for a mental health and suicide-prevention non profit. Because our work involved creative branding, it was easy to feel disconnected from the ‘actual’ impact work. Part of our process, however, was speaking with a handful of people who had lost loved ones to suicide, and that’s something I’ll never forget. 

The people we spoke to described the grief journey as not one continual improvement, but a repeating series of ups and downs. The healing Overnight Walks we wound up creating with them were mini microcosms of that.

You would attend, see people from previous walks, and feel uplifted by that community in that moment. The next moment, you’d be in tears recounting your own experience with suicide or the loss of a loved one, or hearing others’ stories.

But rather than hide that messiness, we all just wanted to embrace it.

To this community, those meandering walks weren’t just a fundraising opportunity for this organization that meant so much to them — they were a reflection of the messiness of grief itself.

I was honored to hear those stories, to experience the memories of these loved ones, and to have these hurting people share their grief. It was powerful and added more meaning to our work — something like mocking up a logo became a mission to create something that symbolized the journey these people walked with loss and healing.

Those conversations, and that work, will always stick with me.”

A note from a partner:

The best marketing ideas come from marketers who live it.

That’s what this newsletter delivers.

The Marketing Millennials is a look inside what’s working right now for other marketers. No theory. No fluff. Just real insights and ideas you can actually use—from marketers who’ve been there, done that, and are sharing the playbook.

Every newsletter is written by Daniel Murray, a marketer obsessed with what goes into great marketing. Expect fresh takes, hot topics, and the kind of stuff you’ll want to steal for your next campaign.

Because marketing shouldn’t feel like guesswork. And you shouldn’t have to dig for the good stuff.

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