10 Years, 10 Lessons: A Stunt or Pure Genius? Only time would tell.
READ TIME: 6 mins
You can’t build trust with one group and play a different game with another.
In the early days of JUST, we were building two businesses at the same time.
The first was hard enough:
→ Build a new model of microcredit rooted in trust, not pressure.
→ Create a community where it didn’t exist.
→ Deliver less stress and more joy by lending money.
But there was a second business I hadn’t fully appreciated yet:
Convince people to give us money to do it.
As a former funder and new founder, my naïveté made me believe it would be easy.
This was my first rude awakening.
LESSON 4: You Only Get One Way to Show Up
Double Magic
Nonprofits are strange when you really think about them.
You’re trying to solve a problem that hasn’t been solved before.
There’s almost no financial upside.
And at the exact same time…
You have to build a parallel business where you ask people to just give you money.
In exchange for what?
A feeling. A story. An impact that doesn’t directly affect their life. Maybe a tax receipt.
That’s it.
It’s double magic.
And I was wildly unprepared for it.
"I assumed it would be easy. I genuinely thought people would be excited to be part of something new. They weren’t."
From Funder to Founder
For 10 years, I had been on the other side of the table. I was the one giving money away[LINK].
Back then, I liked to joke; I was tall and funny. People would always answer my calls.
Now I was the one asking for it.
I assumed it would be easy. I genuinely thought people would be excited to be part of something new.
They weren’t.
We were too early for proof. Too different to explain quickly. Too similar to seem innovative.
And if I’m honest, self-doubt started to creep in.
Austin was home, but I now felt like an outsider no longer invited to the party.
At the same time, our fearless team of three was building the new JETA model.
Erika was duct-taping together spreadsheets and payment systems. Ivonne was out in the community, organizing, supporting, and inspiring new leaders.
The three of us would leave meetings, look at each other, and say, “This might actually work.”
But belief doesn’t pay the bills.
"I’ve never raised money before. JUST deserves a chance to succeed. I’m asking for your help."
The 750 Dinner
While I was struggling to find my footing as a fundraiser, the model itself was quietly transforming [LINK].
We were turning over power, and the community ran with it — JETAs were now deciding who joined, when they met, and how.
We had stepped back, and trust had stepped in. This was trust in living color.
But I really, truly didn’t know how to fundraise. It seemed almost unimaginable to ask someone for money.
So I did what I knew.
I brought people together to ask, not for money, but for help.
I hosted 11 friends and acquaintances to a Jeffersonian dinner. Each of them had some connection to JUST—or to philanthropy—but none fully understood what we were building.
We had the meal catered by a JUST entrepreneur.
Before we started, I paused and said:
“Let’s start the same way we begin every JUST meeting.”
We took three deep breaths. Then we each shared one word.
Within five minutes, the energy in the room shifted.
People shared about death. Divorce. Love. Strangers grew a little closer.
Then we had one conversation, which started with one question:
“How do you build trust with people you do not know?”
I wish I could tell you I remember everything that was said.
I don’t.
Because I was nervously playing out the end.
Would it be a failed stunt? A creepy, uncomfortable silence? Worse yet, offensive?
The Ask
At the end of the dinner, I stood up and said:
“This is JUST. We create spaces where people can connect and support one another. The way we build trust with people we don’t know is by giving them money. And I need your help.”
Then I handed each person an envelope. Inside was a check for $750.
The amount was important because it’s the exact amount received by every first-time JUST entrepreneur.
With a crack in my voice, I added, “I’ve never raised money before. JUST deserves a chance to succeed. I’m asking for your help.”
The room was silent. There was only one rule: we had to get our money back. If our entrepreneurs could do it, so could they.
Darsh looked down at his envelope and said, "I want to rip it up. My culture is wary of debt." He's now on our Board.
Virginia admitted, "First, I felt excitement. Then dread that I'd have to do something" — and then she turned her $750 into a fundraising brunch series called ‘A Tribe Called Brunch’, raising awareness and $795 for JUST.
Then there was Sara, a former microfinance funder who said something that meant the world to me: "For the first time, I feel like I understand what it might be like to receive a loan."
That was it. That was the whole point. You can explain "different" a hundred ways, but people have to feel it to believe it.
For our JETAs, the check represents more than money — it’s trust, belief, and the possibility of a better future. That night, it was all of those things for us, too.
Our experiences have the ability to change us.
The Lesson: You Only Get One Way to Show Up
That night made something clear to me:
You can’t build trust with one group and play a different game with another.
If we created dignity, connection, and shared experience for our clients…
Then funders deserved the same. To be seen as partners on this journey. JUST would continue to hold ourselves accountable for speaking and acting the same in any room, regardless of who showed up.
Because trust is our product…
It has to be true for everyone.
The Tool: The “One Room” Test
If you’re building something—especially in the nonprofit world—try this:
Ask yourself:
Would I say this the same way if my clients were in the room?
Would I run this experience the same way?
Would I feel proud if both groups heard this message together?
If the answer is no, it is an opportunity to examine how and where trust shows up.
What That Dinner Built
The results didn’t come immediately.
But over time:
Two people at that table became Board members
Three became major funders
I like to believe everyone became long-term advocates
But more importantly…
We all understood something deeper:
This work is hard. Community is medicine. Money matters—and it’s not enough.
Together, we are better.
What Came Next
We still needed to prove the model.
So we made a bet.
We had to learn more and faster by testing the JETA model in a new city. So we set our sights on expanding into Dallas.
And then…
The pandemic hit.
Next up: what happens when your model based on community meets the end of the world as we knew it?
