We traveled separately but landed together at the network’s first symposium, a place where other organizations told their stories in measured tones and slide decks. It was useful, and it was safe—most people there were hungry for practice, not for headlines. Angel’s workshop drew a packed room; Conley’s session steadied nervous trustees; my talk about transparency and intimacy was the conversation people returned to over coffee in the hallways. When we reconvened in our hotel room that evening, we were tired with the good exhaustion that comes from work that landed true.
“Let’s not talk about the house tonight,” Angel said as she poured three mugs of tea. “Let us talk about the things we like about each other.”
We did. We traded small confessions—the odd habit the other had, a memory of
