Writing.

Business-Minded

How have your choices influenced your career path and aspirations?

When Credit Suisse collapsed, I knew moving to our acquirer, UBS, would bring change, but a deeper question came along with it: did I still belong in finance?

When a college friend mentioned her crowdfunding startup was hiring, I was skeptical. I’d been building my life around linear, sequential goals—but I took the call. Their founder, Nick Tommarello, spoke to how they were democratizing access to capital for entrepreneurs traditional banks ignored. For the first time in years, I felt genuine curiosity instead of calculated passivity. I joined.

At Wefunder, I found something absent from banking: work that felt consequential. We were serving women, queer entrepreneurs, and identity-laden CPG brands like Maazah. Financing that meant meeting purchase orders and payroll.

Unlike Credit Suisse, when a problem came up at Wefunder, there was no defined owner. My job went beyond pure task completion; I had to act without oversight. I fixed our broken CRM, built dashboards to flag problems before clients noticed them, created automated email sequences, and streamlined application workflows. We built low-code systems to serve more entrepreneurs looking for capital. When our Head of Customer Success left, I stepped up to hire their replacement and improved how we communicated distributions to founders. We transformed a black box for our clients into something transparent and reliable.

When our COO left, I was promoted to Head of Business Operations, not because I lobbied for the title or fulfilled some corporate-ladder-esque requirements, but because I’d already been leading. Months of stepping into unclaimed spaces helped drive over $30 million in funding to overlooked founders.

Even with these improvements, 250 inbound founders reach out weekly—over 12,000 annually—yet we can only help around 150. This gap is more than an operational challenge; it’s a structural inequity I’ll dedicate my career to fixing.

Leadership-Focused

What experiences have shaped how you invest in others and how you lead?

In my first job post-college, perfection was expected. Everything was meticulously reviewed, run up and down the chain before it dared be seen by the world. I had mentors, sure, but my value didn’t go far beyond my work output.

Banking did instill some great habits, though: how to communicate precisely, ownership, hitting tight deadlines, and ruthlessly driving toward an outcome.

When Ishan first joined Wefunder post-college, he was overzealous, often inadvertently creating extra work for other teams—a characteristic that undermined his goodwill in the broader company.

And yet, I could see few cared as deeply about the work as he did. Everything to him was a problem to be solved, a process to be improved. After a year and a half on the job, his passion reframed how I viewed my own role.

I helped him smooth out his edges in a corporate world where his familiarity was limited. I went to bat for him when some members of the team thought he was “making too much noise.” I offered him counsel when he hit a place I’d hit before: wanting Wefunder to grow faster and feeling powerless to drive change.

Ultimately, he was offered a job at another, faster-growing startup, which, after much discussion, he took.

It stung to see our mutual investment walk out the door, but developing Ishan was a turning point in my perspective. I’ve come to see leadership not as control or output; it’s helping someone find their own path, whether you personally stand to benefit or not.

Growth-Oriented

How have you demonstrated curiosity, and how has that influenced your growth?

In eighth grade, our teacher told us to write a letter to a hero. My classmates picked athletes and pop stars. I wrote to Iron Chef Alex Guarnaschelli.

Throughout my childhood, my parents worked late, so dinner meant jarred sauce over noodles. I envied how other kids took their packed lunches for granted.

Around age twelve, I grew curious about food. What made it “good”? How was it made? Why was it important in other families, but not to mine?

I binged Food Network. Needing to recreate the magic I had watched, I’d force my mom to the ShopRite on Route 206 nearly every night.

I started cooking. First for my parents after they got home from work, sharing meals previously relegated to pure utility. Then for my five college roommates. Later, weekly dinners for twenty coworkers at Wefunder—where we became more than just our jobs.

These team dinners are now more than just a tradition; they’re a place where we can invite founders and community members into our world. People around a table, talking and bonding candidly.

Alex Guarnaschelli never wrote back to me, though she’s still the only celebrity I follow on Instagram. That unanswered letter reminds me that curiosity doesn’t need validation to be transformative. What started with some questions about what makes “good food” has become a way I build meaningful connection wherever I go.

What Matters Most to You, and Why?

Throughout my childhood, my parents worked late, so dinner meant jarred sauce over noodles. I wanted to understand why food meant so much to other families, but not to mine; why other kids had home-cooked lunches, and I had whatever was fastest.

I binge-watched Food Network, dragged my mom to the ShopRite on Route 206, then started cooking. I’d take the bus home to an empty house and recreate whatever Ina or Alex had made that day for my parents after work, trying to make meals that meant connection, not just utility. I found a deep joy in being able to put so much effort into something we could all enjoy together.

At thirteen, afraid my sexuality would cost me their approval, I leaned on food for comfort. Then it turned on me. Unfortunately, kids were no kinder to obesity than they were to queerness.

I ended up overcorrecting. I skipped meals and taught myself to detach from hunger, from myself. The weight dropped. People applauded my “discipline.” I learned the wrong lesson: shrink yourself, and you’ll be accepted.

That bargain carried me through school and into banking. I delivered what was expected: grades, internships, compliance. Pure performance, minimal purpose. But when Credit Suisse collapsed, so did the thing I pinned my worth to. Long nights and subsidized takeout left me heavier than before, but just as hollow. I’d built a résumé, and little else. I realized that discipline without meaning was just another kind of emptiness.

Rather than join our acquirer, UBS, I knew I needed to make a change. When a college friend mentioned her crowdfunding startup was hiring, I was skeptical—but I took the call. At Wefunder, I found something absent from banking: work that felt consequential. I was drawn to founders whom conventional lenders and VCs overlooked, including women and queer entrepreneurs—people who had learned what it meant to feel excluded and were trying to build spaces of their own.

I also found my way back to the kitchen. The added flexibility allowed me to rediscover the feeling of creating and use food again as a way to build connection. I took a mundane workplace ritual—one member of the team cooks on Wednesdays while we work late—and turned it into large sit-down meals. A place where I could get to know the people I spent ten-hour days with beyond their work. I found I could form professional relationships based on more than output by making people feel like they belonged.

Wefunder also showed me food on a different scale. I went to community events in the Bay like Food Funded, a gathering of food entrepreneurs and investors. I expected a demo day with samples. Instead, I saw women, immigrants, and outsiders translating identity into products, investors taking them seriously, and a room where food meant more than calories. It was the first time my personal story lined up with a market thesis.

Take Maazah, an Afghan chutney company raising to meet a Target purchase order. I worked with them on fundraising and outreach, helping them raise over $100,000. Their success showed me how identity could translate into durable advantage.

I want to back overlooked founders who give others that same sense of connection—not because it’s nice, but because loyalty and community are an edge.

What matters most to me is food, because it taught me to stop shrinking myself for others. It showed me that belonging is built, not given, and that’s the kind of person I want to be.