If you asked me 30 years ago to describe the persona of a financial advisor, I would have responded that, for me, it was synonymous with “stockbroker.” And when I heard the term, I thought “used car salesman.” I wanted nothing to do with that.
For most of my life, anything to do with money made me feel very uneasy and triggered feelings of shame and anxiety. I saw it less as a tool and more as a weapon, one that too often hurt the people it touched. I didn’t understand money, but I knew that it could create a lot of pain and discord. From the family stories I heard, it seemed that greed had torn a whole generation apart. To me, nothing good could come from it.
Wealth is a relative thing. I grew up in what most would call a comfortable home, and I knew the doors that privilege could open, though I always felt very alienated from that privilege. Many of my classmates lived with far less, sometimes less than nothing. Out of about 175 students in my high school, nearly 80 percent were on public assistance. Only 10 people went on to college; I was one of them.
When I left home, I wanted to leave all of it behind. Even — or especially — my family’s 120-year-old manufacturing business. It had given me opportunities others in my hometown could only imagine, even as it had been the source of a lot of family strife.
Those early experiences with a family business and with capitalism had left their mark on me. I saw capitalism as a system that drained the life out of everything it touched; resources, communities, and even the people it claimed to serve. I wanted another way to live, something that didn’t demand giving up my sense of self to survive. And I wanted that for others as well.
High Highs and Lower Lows
After college, I returned home briefly to engage in the family business, but I didn’t belong there. I soon left behind the white, rural poverty that had shaped my childhood and moved to Atlanta. Though I’d been raised Roman Catholic, I enrolled in the Candler School of Theology at Emory University to study for my Master of Divinity degree. It was, by all accounts, a crazy move. But I did feel “called” and, indeed, I loved my years at Candler.
I was also openly lesbian and had been since my teens. While I felt as if I was coming home to my deeper self, there was no obvious path to ordination in the early 1990s for someone like me. So rather than seek ordination, I started working on my PhD in religion, still at Emory.
My alienation from money only got wider as my spiritual life got deeper. But then, on my way to a career as a college professor of religion, my personal life began to unravel. In retrospect, as so many challenges in life are, it was the catalyst for me finally finding my true path.
Overnight, my plans, my academic future, and everything I’d imagined for myself were in doubt. I had no career path. No real job experience. Just me and God.
One day, in the middle of contemplative prayer, or what some might call meditation, I spilled my frustration into the silence.
“Now what? I’ve been following you, or so I thought, and I’ve hit a wall!” I said, my prayers turning urgent. “What am I supposed to do?”
And the answer came, clear as anything I’d ever heard: “Get up and deal with your money.”
“I didn’t think you DID money,” I answered. But the message was clear.
Resistant Reckoning
The voice I heard that day was the push I needed. I began where I could, starting with the small amount of money I still had. As I fumbled my way through my own personal relationship with money and wrestled with my unease, it occurred to me that I couldn’t possibly be alone in this. Surely, there were others out there who felt allergic to the thought of finance, people who were just as reluctant to actively engage with this beast called capitalism.
Maybe I wasn’t the only reluctant capitalist.
The next step came almost without thinking: I uploaded my CV and applied for positions in financial services. Of all the resumés I sent, American Express Financial Advisors was the company that called back, invited me to join, and sent me to sit for my licensing exams. “Pass the exam first,” they said, “and come back for a job.”
So, I did. I began work on July 5, 2002. I had turned 40 the prior March. I walked away from academia and into the wealth management world, just as the dust of the dot-com bust was settling.
My friends at Emory were equal parts curious and shocked. Many of them had just watched their 401(k)s get sliced in half. Some were sitting entirely in cash without even realizing it; others had chased the last great return and been burned badly. A surprising number hadn’t opened a single statement in over a year. I found myself literally opening their mail with them, my hands breaking the seal on envelopes they were too afraid to face.
Financial planning, I quickly learned, is as much about fear as it is about numbers. How hard was it to convince those clients to transfer their accounts to me? Not hard at all. I wasn’t selling; I was listening. I understood their fear. I recognized their revulsion. I had lived it myself.
By the end of my first month, I had 30 new clients. My district manager couldn’t believe it: 30 clients in 30 days! I was a novice, but it turned out that I was a very good listener. To me, it was all about connection, and that’s exactly what I was best at.
Pastoral Care with Money
That’s the thing so many people miss: if you charge straight at the numbers without lingering in the heart of the matter, you miss the whole show. You must be present with your clients. Yes, you meet the needs they bring to you – that’s the starting point. But if you stop there, if you don’t take the time to understand them and the complicated relationship they have with money, you’ve only done half the work.
That’s the philosophy upon which I’ve built my career of 20-plus years in finance.
I’ve never liked introducing myself as a financial advisor. It’s a title that feels thinned out and worn smooth from overuse. We use it at my company, Chicory Wealth, but even now, it doesn’t sit comfortably on my tongue. When I meet someone new and the topic of work comes up, I usually say I run a financial planning firm.
If the conversation deepens, I might explain that what I do — alongside my whole team — is provide “pastoral care with money.”
My background in theology drives everything about my firm. I believe in the dignity of work. I believe in the power of listening. I believe every person carries the divine. And I believe we must find ways to work within the system without being consumed by it. I don’t love that system, but it is the system we have, and I have faith it can be changed for the better.
You simply cannot invest in public markets and cause no harm — but you can cause less harm. You can choose what to profit from and what to say “no” to. For my life and for the beloved communities I serve, those choices matter.
It was only by entering this industry and letting my theological background shape my financial advice that I could offer something positive to others.
People like us, who believe in an equitable, just, and sustainable world, do exist. Investments that can help make that reality possible do exist. These conversations can happen without condescension or cynicism. Helping others courageously engage in those conversations is our calling.
Building a Legacy
I grew up knowing what long-term business planning looked like, both when it worked and when it didn’t. Legacies are not abstractions to me. I was raised inside one. Today, the family business still runs in the same town where I grew up. I learned a few things there, much of which was what NOT to do. But the thing they got right was a commitment to not just build something and sell it, but to endure through good and bad times.
Now, as a business owner, I’m building a different kind of legacy, one that’s been 23 years in the making. What’s carried me this far? The answer is simple: believing in a mission larger than myself.
In our culture, money often plays the role of “power over,” but it doesn’t have to. It can serve as “power for.” It can be a force of love rather than domination. When you build a business where people pour in their time, their energy, and their hearts, those people are not cogs in a machine. They are the reason for its existence.
In our firm, everyone is incentivized to ensure we all thrive. Team members are chosen with care to align with our values, and they have the chance to own a piece of what they’ve built. They deserve more than wages; they deserve the fruits of their labor. Anything less misses the whole point.
This profession and this way of working chose me. The whole damn thing. Call me a reluctant capitalist if you’d like, but don’t mistake my disdain for disengagement. I’ve been called into this, and I’ll continue to fight for a more just and sustainable world.
American Express Financial Advisors, Chicory Wealth, and TradePMR are unaffiliated companies.