Many nonprofits measure success with data — but your impact seems more personal, more human. How do you define success at The Evolved Network?
We’re not anti-data. We track attendance, we see growth, we listen to feedback. But numbers alone can’t hold what we’re really witnessing.
Success, for us, is relational. It’s felt. It lives in the subtleties — the way a child’s body relaxes after weeks of tension. The moment they initiate connection. The first time they say, “Can I help?” or “Can I make that at home?” You can’t always quantify that. But you know it when it happens. And it matters.
At The Evolved Network, we define success as presence — the kind that invites transformation. We ask: Are we creating spaces where young people feel safe enough to be curious? Brave enough to try? Free enough to be seen as they are? If the answer is yes — even for a moment — that’s success.
We measure growth not by how much a child changes, but by how much more of themselves they feel safe to reveal.
That’s the shift. It’s not about fixing behavior or achieving benchmarks. It’s about nurturing belonging. It’s about what becomes possible when a child realizes they don’t have to armor up to be loved.
Our impact is human because our work is human. It’s not clean or linear. It’s messy, relational, sacred. And that’s why it’s real.
So yes, we can give you the stats — how many students, how many meals, how many schools. But the real success lives in the stories. The quiet breakthroughs. The small choices. The freedom to be.
How has this work changed you — as a person, a chef, and a leader?
It’s rare to watch an idea become something real — to see a vision take root in the world and know that it didn’t just stay in your head or your journal, but became something someone else could touch, taste, trust.
This work has changed me because it keeps me honest. It strips away illusion. It asks me to show up — even when I don’t feel ready, even when I’m tired or unsure — and still be present with what’s in front of me. The students, the soil, the stories — they teach me just as much as I try to offer them. I evolve every time I cook with them. I grow every time I choose to listen instead of lead with answers.
As a chef, I’ve had to stay seasonal, open, creative, and honest — not because it looks good on a plate, but because the work demands it. The students demand it. They notice when I’m disconnected, when I’m not grounded. So I cook in a way that mirrors what I hope they experience: change, reflection, spontaneity, care. I don’t get to stay static — and that’s a gift. TEN has stretched me to create with intention, to respond to what’s growing, and to keep learning alongside them. That’s made me a better chef than any kitchen ever could.
As a leader, I’ve learned that leadership isn’t about being in front — it’s about standing with. It’s about being willing to hold space, to make decisions rooted in care, and to stay steady when the path is unclear. It’s also about loneliness. Not in a tragic way, but in a real way. There are moments when you’re walking ahead, or holding something others can’t yet see — and that can feel isolating. But if the people you're walking with feel seen, if the youth feel your presence even when you're quiet… then the loneliness becomes bearable. It even becomes sacred.
This work has made me more human. Less interested in performance, more interested in presence. And I think that’s the real evolution — not just building something meaningful, but becoming someone who can hold it with integrity.