When Love Drives Curiosity

For me, this journey didn’t start with transportation—it started with opportunity.

Before I entered City government, my work centered on workforce and economic stability across multiple states. This was during a time when there was a real sense of possibility—investments in infrastructure, in green jobs, in creating new pathways for people, especially those who had historically been left out.

But no matter where I was, I kept running into the same barrier.

People couldn’t get there.

You could have the training. You could have the job waiting. But if transportation wasn’t reliable or affordable, then the opportunity never fully materialized. It existed in theory—but not in practice.

And that realization stayed with me. Because it reframed transportation altogether. It wasn’t just about movement—it was about access. It was about participation. It was about who gets to step into opportunity, and who remains on the outside looking in.

Behind every data point was a real person—a story, a choice, a constraint, a door that either opened or stayed closed. And I found myself asking: How do we move people from denial to solution?

So when the opportunity came to join the City of Philadelphia to support what would become the Indego bike share program, I said yes—even though, at the time, I hadn’t been on a bike in over 20 years.

And that mattered more than I expected. Because it made me pause and recognize that if I had to stretch my own understanding of what a bike could represent, then I wasn’t alone in that. That space between what we believe something is—and what it can become—is where so much of this work lives.

So I started there. With curiosity. With openness. With a willingness to see something differently—and to invite others to do the same.

Driving “access” and “equity”

When I arrived, equity was present—but not always activated.

It was part of the language, part of the plans, part of the intention. But it didn’t always show up in the day-to-day decisions, or in how resources were distributed. And I realized quickly that “equity” wasn’t a shared definition—it shifted depending on who you were speaking with.

Early on, I found myself asking: Who are we designing for?

But that question evolved in a way that changed my entire approach. During one of our early community engagement efforts, Ms. Mable Welborn—former Executive Director of the Leon H. Sullivan Trust—shared something with me that I carry to this day.

She said, simply: “If you want this to work, you have to design with the community—not for them.”

And that was the shift.

It moved the work from intention to accountability. From consultation to shared ownership. From checking a box to building trust.

From that moment on, I approached the work differently. I listened with more intention. I stayed closer to community voices. And I held myself accountable—not just to outcomes, but to the people those outcomes were meant to serve.

What surprised me most was how much lives beneath the surface of every decision.

From the outside, it’s easy to imagine a clear line—from data to decision to implementation. And while data absolutely informs the work, once you’re inside, you begin to see the full picture. Decisions are shaped by funding structures, political realities, and long-standing systems that don’t always move quickly.

Change, more often than not, happens in increments.

And what might appear small from the outside can represent a significant amount of alignment, coordination, and trust-building on the inside.

What grounded me through that learning curve were the people. I had the opportunity to work alongside City planners, Bike Transit, community partners and the Bicycle Coalition—individuals and organizations who were deeply committed to doing this work differently.

We were building something that required us to trust across disciplines, across experiences, and across perspectives. That shared commitment—to both the work and to each other—created the conditions for something meaningful to take shape.

Because historically, systems are often built around predictability—standard work hours, fixed routes, familiar patterns. But the people who rely most on those systems don’t always move within those lines.

With Indego, there was an intentional effort to center communities that had not always been prioritized—shift workers, low-income residents, neighborhoods that had experienced underinvestment.

But what made the difference was not just naming those communities—it was staying in relationship with them.

I remember being in a community conversation where someone said, “I see the stations—but I didn’t think they were for me.”

And that moment stayed with me. Because it reminded me that access is not only physical—it’s also emotional. It’s about whether people see themselves reflected in what’s being built.

So we kept showing up. We listened. We adjusted. And we remained in conversation, not just at the beginning—but throughout to this day.

And for me personally, it was important that the system extended beyond usage. That people could not only ride—but also see themselves as part of the system’s growth. That connection between access and opportunity—between mobility and economic stability—never left my thinking.

LOVE as intention and consistency

[Love] showed up in asking the question: What would make this work for people? Not once, but repeatedly.

And then staying committed to the answers.

That’s how we arrived at things like cash payment options, community ambassadors, and station placement that reflected where people actually live, work, and move. It wasn’t about convenience—it was about inclusion.

And just as importantly, love showed up in how we responded. When something didn’t land the way we intended, we didn’t defend it—we revisited it.

Because this work was never about the bikes themselves. It was about what they made possible. Access to jobs. Connection to community. Expanded choices.

And in the process, it expanded me too. It placed me in rooms and relationships I may have never encountered otherwise—and those connections continue to shape how I move through this work today.

We knew early on that traditional measures wouldn’t tell the full story.

Ridership numbers alone couldn’t reflect whether we were reaching the people we intended to reach. So we looked deeper—at who was enrolling in programs like Indego Access, how people were paying, where stations were placed, and how usage showed up in daily life.

But equally important were the conversations.

What we were hearing from residents. From community organizations. From people navigating the system in real time.

The data offered insight—but the community offered understanding. And it was the combination of both that helped us stay aligned with our intention.

I learned that policy is not just about having the right idea—it’s about alignment.

Alignment with timing, with funding, with priorities, and with the people responsible for implementation. Without that, even the strongest ideas can stall.

And perhaps most importantly, I learned how much relationships matter.

Trust—across departments, across partners, across sectors, across communities—is often what determines whether something moves from concept to reality.

First loves

JOIN, in many ways, was a return for me. It brought me back to workforce development—this time through a collaborative lens. Housed at the United Way, JOIN brought together funders, particularly from the corporate sector, to align around workforce impact.

And being part of that work allowed me to both reconnect with something that had always been central to me and expand how I understood the ecosystem.

Working alongside corporate partners sparked a new kind of curiosity. It challenged me to think about impact not just in the public or nonprofit space, but also within the private sector—to consider what it would look like to stretch my capabilities in that environment while staying rooted in purpose.

And what became even clearer during that time was this: transportation is often the first barrier—but workforce is the longer journey.

It’s about stability. Wages. Pathways. And ultimately, sustainability for individuals and families.

That realization didn’t pull me away from my earlier work—it deepened it. It connected the pieces.

At its best, it’s grounded in alignment and accountability.

It requires honesty about constraints, flexibility in approach, and a shared commitment to outcomes—not just activity.

But what anchors it—what makes it meaningful—is whether it reflects the voices of the people it’s intended to serve.

I often return to a simple question: Have we asked people what they need—and are we responding to what they’ve told us?

That question has guided me across roles, across sectors, and across every partnership I’ve been part of.

It taught me that both are necessary—and that neither works in isolation.

Systems provide structure, sustainability, and scale. External resources provide flexibility, experimentation, and speed.

The real work is in how you connect those two.

How you ensure that what is tested can be sustained. How what is piloted can become permanent. And how you stay responsive as conditions evolve.

What Loving Systems Require

This period gave me a clear view of both what is possible—and what it requires.

I’ve seen what can happen when people, resources, and intention align. And I’ve also seen how long it can take to get there.

Through it all, I’ve remained grounded in something deeper than any single role or space.

I’m anchored in my values. I move with integrity. And I stay accountable to the communities I serve.

That foundation doesn’t shift—it travels with me. Across sectors. Across opportunities. Across every decision point.

Because at the end of the day, no matter where the work lives,

I am—and will always be—a champion for and with the people.

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