In movement spaces, one often gets asked, “What brings you here?” or “What was the pivotal point in your life that led you to this work?” On the surface, these questions can serve to authentically connect, inviting us to reflect on the moments that drove us toward disruptive change and a commitment to challenging systemic inequities. However, these questions can also tread into harmful territory, leaning into trauma narratives that demand marginalized individuals recount every painful moment of their lives to validate their purpose. This practice forces people to relive their worst experiences to prove their passion—an expectation I feel should not exist anywhere where there is humanity.

I could point to many of those moments in my own life: growing up in an abusive household, navigating poverty, or facing housing insecurity. I’ve seen firsthand how people who were poor didn’t want to be poor, how marginalization stripped individuals of dignity, and how devaluing can come from even those closest to you. These experiences robbed me of a sense of safety and belonging, but they also ignited a determination to create spaces where safety, equity, and care could thrive. Experiencing the fragility of my own life during moments of destitution compelled me to work toward a world where no one else would endure those depths of despair.

Yet, my “why” isn’t solely shaped by these personal experiences. My professional journey has played an equally significant role. Working within organizations that claim to lead in equity has shown me the painful disconnect between their missions and their practices. I’ve witnessed how the needs of marginalized people—those these organizations aim to serve—are often weaponized, co-opted, or ignored entirely. Instead of challenging oppressive systems, many of these spaces replicated them, demanding compliance and perpetuating harm. Over the years, this reality broke something in me, leaving me to reckon with the trauma of navigating workplaces that failed to live up to their promises.

This dissonance is why I created GoodJust. It wasn’t to replace the passions that shaped my career or the skills I’ve gained from working in government, research, campaigns, and nonprofit spaces. Rather, it was to build something different—something that truly aligns with the values we claim to hold. To be good and just is not about staying comfortable or complacent. It’s about constantly asking hard questions and holding ourselves accountable to the work we set out to do. It’s about pushing past surface-level commitments to equity and genuinely centering the needs of those who have been left behind and exploited.

GoodJust is my commitment to creating safer, more equitable spaces in the movement world. I believe we cannot fight for the needs of people who are houseless while exploiting them within our organizations. We cannot champion racial equity while conveniently abandoning DEI principles to fit into white supremacist norms. We cannot claim to care about marginalized lives while ignoring the ways society has ostracized them. Being in movement spaces does not mean we are fixed or safe in our ideals—it requires a constant commitment to growth, self-education, and accountability.

I created this space as a commitment to equity, accountability, and creating environments where people feel truly valued. My hope is that GoodJust not only serves as a resource but leaves people and organizations with better, more meaningful experiences in their journey toward equity. I will always hold space for safety, care, and justice because, to me, being good and just means leaving no one behind. It means building practices and environments that align with the world we hope to create. That is why I’m here.

A letter for you