for homeless youth in Miami and their kitchen was in dire need of repair. The kids couldn’t cook or take cooking classes without it. The visit today was merely to verify what I’d already learned—they were doing incredible work that deserved long-term support.
I’d also donated almost all of my kitchen supplies to them (minus the blender Cam had rigged that could have been a military-grade weapon) and a handful of other furniture pieces for their lounge. I’d been slowly stripping my mansion of items over the past two weeks—I had more than enough, and there were plenty of nonprofits nearby who told me they could use new tables or better chairs or artwork to brighten up play areas for children.
I was happy to oblige.
I’d been dazzled by all the kids at the Wilson Family Center showing off their different makeup styles to me, their hair colors, their vibrantly-painted nails and clothing. It was a place of joyful, warm spaces that helped youth transform from isolated to embraced. Art as healing was at the center of their programming, and that artistry extended out into the way they dressed and accessorized their bodies.
Christian also might have mentioned last week how much the kids loved makeup. And I might have sent like a one-year supply of products their way ahead of time.
“Well, we appreciate it. We’ve also been looking into starting a therapy animal program, to help the kids when they’re first with us, before they start to feel safe. I know you worked with that nonprofit Lucky Dog. Do you think the director over there might have any contacts?”
All the air left my lungs.
“Beck Mason, you mean?” I didn’t need to clarify with his name. But I was suddenly desperate to say it out loud. To hear it spoken.
“Yeah. I know his nonprofit works with rescue dogs, but I thought he might know who in Miami is running therapy dog programs. The kids would love it.” I could see it in my mind’s eye clearly, how perfectly therapy animals would augment this program. The unconditional love, the sense of caring for a living thing. It was like the program Beck had done when he was in the detention center.
“You should definitely call him,” I said. “He’s great. Like really great. A truly beautiful soul, you know?”
Sylvia was giving me an odd look—sympathetic but also confused.
“Oh. Cool,” Christian said. “I’ll give him a call, tell him you sent me his way.”
“Sure.” I faked a big smile, feeling itchy. “Well, our ride is here.” I took Christian’s hand, shook it. “Please send in the application. I look forward to reading it.”
Christian waved at us as we drove off.
“I’m really, really happy we did that,” I said, noting the total happiness I was feeling in the moment, even with the mention of Beck. “I know we’ve both been busy with Wild Heart stuff but—”
“It’s important,” Sylvia replied. “It’s the mission moments that keep you going. And you got to see the benefit of your foundation and makeup. A twofer.”
“I did,” I said, looking out the window. “The only hard part is wanting to give all the money to all the nonprofits everywhere.”
Sylvia smiled, but she looked tired. We both were. Tired but weirdly energized—working with a purpose. The last two weeks we’d been hard at work crafting the structure of the foundation, hiring staff, working with the accountant. We still needed to hire a director and program managers. It was daunting. Thrilling.
Funding wouldn’t be available for months, but I was doing some early site visits for qualified candidates, learning what they needed and the best way our program could truly help. It was the perfect distraction from the other work I was doing—rebuilding Wild Heart’s reputation from the ground up, basically. There was a flurry of positive press after my speech and announcement, but now I mostly ignored, well, any form of media that came my way.
The only way out was through—the only way out was dedication to why Wild Heart had been founded in the first place. We re-signed with our original supplier and took tours of their facilities to confirm their promise. Started new production. Wild Heart formally signed an in-store contract with Ruby’s Closet, and as soon as we had enough product, it’d be rolling out in Alissa’s stores. Our footprint would be smaller for a while, but I was okay with that.
At least we were back to doing the right thing. I’d never been more at peace. Professionally-speaking.
By day I buried