Miscalibration

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This week, I’m on vacation, but that doesn’t mean my daily routine changes that much. I’m still up early, and enjoying a workout to clear my brain, move my body, feel good. At the hotel gym , I was thrilled to see a Peloton bike (I know, I know, enough about the Peloton!) but I hopped on, started a fun 20 minute ride, and lost myself in the moment. Partway through the ride, I noticed my output numbers were nearly double what they usually are, and I’d gone further than I ever had on a short ride. I laughed out loud, knowing that I hadn’t trained harder or pushed differently. The bike, as it turned out, was simply seriously miscalibrated.

For a few minutes, I let myself enjoy it. I felt strong, accomplished, a little bit like the athlete I’m not. Then the feeling shifted into something quieter and less comfortable. Had I earned that ride, or had a broken machine handed me credit that belonged to someone putting in genuinely double the effort? I still got a great workout. My heartrate knew that much was true, even if the screen didn’t. But the question stayed with me longer than the ride did, because it wasn’t really about the bike. It was about the space between effort and credit, and about a more uncomfortable version of that same gap that shows up often in my work.

Advisors advise, and we work to advise well. We research, and inquire, and go beyond the initial quest. We ask questions that need asking, help frame a decision, occasionally push when pushing is warranted. That work is real. But it isn’t the most important thing that actually moves impact forward.

Let’s give credit where credit is due. It’s essential that the philanthropist is the one who takes in what’s been surfaced and sits with it, sometimes for a long while, before deciding anything. They’re the one who writes the check, edits the estate plan, or has the difficult conversation with their children about what the family’s giving should reflect going forward. They live with what comes after, long after any conversation with me has ended. I can pace the ride. Their feet are the ones on the pedals.

Two wise women give me pause with this, though. My husband’s late grandma Min was known to say “self-praise is no recommendation,” and I take that mantra seriously. So please, take this in the spirit given – the work and value of good advising is real, and can be incredibly impactful. And yet. As my late mentor, Harlene Appelman would remind me, “it’s not your money.”  This is closer to accuracy: understanding clearly which seat I’m sitting in, and not letting a miscalibrated sense of my own role distort the picture. There’s a thread in Pirkei Avot about not separating yourself from the community, and a related caution against claiming honor that was never fully yours to claim. Both feel relevant here.

None of this means my seat is empty. Someone has to hold the mirror and the map, notice what’s missing, ask the question a family has been avoiding for years. That’s a real skill, and I don’t think it serves anyone — least of all my clients — to pretend otherwise. But there’s a meaningful difference between illuminating a path and walking it. The philanthropist weighs what they’ve learned against their own values and history, and then they act. The impact that follows belongs to them — not to me.

That Peloton bike is behind me now, quietly misleading whoever rides it next. But the question it left me with hasn’t faded. When recognition comes — for a gift, a decision, a legacy well shaped — I hope you remember who was really on the pedals.

Shabbat Shalom,

Kari Alterman

Kari

 

The Philantherapists Walk Into a Room

Don’t want to read? Take a listen, here.

Almost a year ago, as I was leaving my last job, I found myself in the virtual company of a small group of women who work in and around philanthropy. We started calling ourselves, half-jokingly, “the Philantherapists.” For most of the year since, we’ve mostly been names on a screen — only a few of whom I’d actually met.

So with the Purposeful Planning Institute Rendezvous – an intimate, premier conference for the many professional disciplines that help support ultra high net worth families – happening in Boulder, I flew out with the one Philantherapist attending whom I knew in real life. More of the group were headed there too, just people I hadn’t met in person yet. On the first night, six of us had dinner together. Lots of laughs, real questions, the kind of conversation that goes somewhere fast. Strangers on paper, familiar faces on a screen, but then, something else by dessert.

That dinner turned out to be a preview of how the whole conference unfolded. The facilitation by XChange was some of the best I’ve experienced: It moved you from one purposeful conversation with a single other person, into a small group, into the full room. And at every stage, you were genuinely in conversation, not just seated near one. There were reunions everywhere, old friends and colleagues finding each other again, but just as much new: new faces, new names, new thinking. It was welcoming and kind in a way that’s hard to manufacture. And it held two things at once that usually feel like a tension — real reverence for the people who built these disciplines over decades, and a sincere openness to whoever walked in this year with a new idea.

No politics, either. A small thing to name, maybe, but it was genuinely refreshing not to feel the low hum of it in the room, the way you almost always do lately. And nearly every presenter was also an attendee. The people teaching a session were sitting in the audience for the next one. No back-of-house, no separation between the people who “know” and the people who came to learn.

Philanthropy, it turned out, was only one of more than twenty disciplines represented at PPI — estate attorneys, therapists, family business consultants, filmmakers, wealth psychologists, coaches, all working inside families’ hardest conversations from different angles. And one word kept surfacing across every discipline, meaning something slightly different each time: trust. A trust is a legal document. Trust is also the thing that’s broken between siblings who haven’t spoken honestly in a decade. It’s the confidence a founder has to extend to the next generation, and the faith a family has to place in an advisor who’s about to ask them uncomfortable questions. Every conversation in that room was, in some sense, about trust — which document holds it, which relationship is missing it, and how you build more of it before you need it.

That’s where philanthropy earns its place. It’s one of the only reasons a family sits down together, generation after generation, and asks: What do we actually care about? Done well, giving isn’t a task alongside the family’s real work — it is the real work, wearing a more comfortable disguise. It’s a serious intervention for communication, unity, and shared purpose, dressed up as something everyone already wants to do. It lets people do good and feel good in the very same conversation.

I flew to Boulder knowing just a few people, and came home with the beginnings of many new friendships, a stack of new thinking, and a renewed sense of who and what my work is for.

So here’s what I keep sitting with: What would it look like if more families treated philanthropy not as a line item, but as the place where trust actually gets built — not just documented? And what’s stopping us, across all twenty-plus disciplines in that room, from saying that out loud more often? And as always, how can I help?

Shabbat Shalom,

Kari Alterman

Kari

 

Some of the Philantherapists at dinner at the beautiful Teahouse in Boulder.

Dreaming Out Loud (About Philanthropy)

Don’t want to read? Take a listen by clicking here.

A recent conversation with someone close to me got me thinking.

This person has it all figured out. Pre-paid funeral. Beneficiaries named on every policy, updated and correct. They have taken care of others for many years, including an adult with severe mental-health challenges. Worked hard, saved for themselves to retire the way they wanted, with travel, joy, and warm weather. And they’re the kind of person who has quietly and generously supported causes they’ve loved for as long as I’ve known them — never asked, never announced, just consistently there for the things that mattered to them.

We started talking about it all to make sure their ducks were in a row. Most of it was. But nothing in the estate plan reflected any of their philanthropic aspirations or the sustained legacy they wanted to leave behind.

Not because they didn’t care. Because no one had ever asked them to dream about it.

I think this happens more than we’d guess. People spend real effort getting their affairs in order — the policies, the beneficiaries, the paperwork — and somehow the causes they’ve spent a lifetime showing up for never make it onto the list. The generosity was real. It just never got invited into the plan.

There’s a universal truth in that: We’re often better at tending to our obligations than to our loves. We name the beneficiary. We rarely get asked to name the legacy (outside, of course, an ethical will).

So we talked — about a social-services organization that offered meaningful advice during a challenging time, but because of circumstances, never got to make good on their ideas. About a long-defunct synagogue, now with a small operating cemetery only, that gave comfort during the loss of a loved one. And about an education organization that mirrored their professional life and values, enhancing the lives of those most vulnerable. It was a conversation that brought us both great joy and comfort.

Legacy like this is what I love to dream about — to think about what has always touched your soul. The places and people to whom you want to leave a lasting thank you, an organization that gave you comfort and hope, a location that has sparked feelings of deep gratitude. How might you say thank you in a way that is truly felt?

That’s the actual work I love to do. Not just writing proposals. But sitting across from family, friends, clients, whoever’s willing — and asking the question nobody else asks: Given everything you’ve cared about, what do you want your name to keep doing after you’re not the one doing it?

I’d like you to think of someone in your life who’s generous like the person I referenced at the beginning — quietly, consistently, without needing credit. Have they ever been asked what they want that generosity to become? How they want it to endure? If not, you might be the person who gets to ask. And if you’d like company for that conversation — with them, or about someone you love — I’m here for it.

Shabbat Shalom, 

Kari Alterman

Kari

 

On Patriotism and Pride

Don’t want to read? Take a listen here.

When my dad died just over four years ago, we ended his funeral service with a final blessing. It wasn’t what people expected, but for him it was the most meaningful of all prayers. I cry each time I hear it, and have for many years.

It is not always part of Jewish liturgy, and you may hear it in other houses of worship as well. When Irving Berlin wrote it as an appreciative immigrant to this country, it sat on his shelf for nearly twenty years before he felt the time was right to record it. Legend has it that he convinced Kate Smith to sing it, and the rest is history. I’m speaking about G-d Bless America.

Being first-generation American, I was taught early and often to appreciate the miracle that is this country. To recognize that it is unique in the history of the world, and as Jews, to revel in it, appreciate it, support it, and — much like we as a people believe in lifelong learning — to continue to improve upon it. No place in this world is perfect. Every country has flaws. And yet, there is no place I’d rather be than here in the United States.

I am always patriotic. That has never wavered. But engaged? Engage is something different. Engagement requires that we look honestly at what we see each day — the gaps between our ideals and our reality — and rather than look away, lean in. Have the hard conversations. Show up. And perhaps most importantly, invest.

This Fourth of July marks 250 years of this extraordinary experiment in democracy. And when I look for evidence of America at its best, one place I look is to its philanthropists — the people and institutions who see a need and meet it, not because they have to, or think they can wait for government to step in, but because they believe in something larger than themselves.

I think of Andrew Carnegie, who built more than 2500 public libraries because he believed that knowledge should be accessible to everyone. I think of Julius Rosenwald, who partnered with Booker T. Washington to build schools across the rural South at a time when the government would not — and who asked that his entire fortune be spent within his lifetime, not held in perpetuity. I think of MacKenzie Scott, who has quietly and radically redistributed billions in unrestricted gifts to organizations working on the front lines, trusting them to know their communities better than any distant donor could.

And I think of something that happened right here in Detroit.

When the city filed for bankruptcy in 2013, it faced what seemed like an impossible choice: Sell masterworks from the Detroit Institute of Arts to satisfy creditors, or devastate the pensions of municipal workers who had given their careers to this city. Detroit’s philanthropic community refused the either/or. Foundations, donors, and the DIA itself came together to raise the funds that protected both the art and the people — a Grand Bargain that showed what private generosity can accomplish when it is bold enough to try.

This is what engaged patriotism looks like in practice. Not a flag on a lawn, but a check written, a meeting attended, a cause championed. Detroit has long been a place where people invest in one another because they understand that a city, like a country, is only as strong as the people willing to show up for it. I think of the city as a public – private partnership. 

So as we mark this 250th anniversary of our country, I want to resist the urge to wring my hands at so many things that are disturbing and unnerving, and instead pick them up — to engage, to give, to lean into the discomfort of difficult conversations, and to invest in the people and places doing the work of making this country worthy of its own ideals. Whether that means giving your time, your treasure, your talent, your ties, or your testimony, there is a role for each of us.

I am patriotic always. I want to be unabashedly proud, and I believe we can be through engagement. 

G-d Bless America. May the next 250 years be worthy of her promise.

Shabbat Shalom

Kari Alterman

Kari

One Year On My Own

Don’t want to read? Take a listen here. 

For 29 years, I worked for other people. I had a fulfilling career supporting organizations through fundraising and leadership development, and then nearly a decade supporting a family philanthropy’s commitment to Jewish organizations — locally, nationally, and globally. But as of May 15, 2025, that changed. I started working for myself — under the banner of Good Name Advisors.

I could have looked for another job — and I was thrilled to be recruited for other positions. But that didn’t feel right.

Previous experiences in my personal and professional life gave me the confidence to go out on my own. From founding and running the Jewish Entrepreneurs Network through the Jewish Federation of Detroit in the 1990s (one group still meets!) to watching my dad and then my brother build businesses from scratch, to being engaged with multiple nonprofits and helping them identify roadblocks, brainstorm solutions, and execute on decisions — I thought I was ready. Well, that’s not entirely true. I wasn’t ready. But as I tell other people: make the decision before you’re fully ready, because when you’re ready, the “right” time has usually passed.

This past year has been equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. I won’t pretend the early months weren’t scary — they were. The absence of a steady paycheck, a built-in team, and an organizational structure you can lean on is more disorienting than I expected. I was coming out of a depression, but didn’t even realize it until the fog really lifted. I made mistakes, some big and some small. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I had countless meetings and conversations, zooms and walks. All leading me to understand that the fear I felt in those early months gave way to something I hadn’t anticipated: clarity.

I very much enjoy the opportunity to control my own time, to be present with family and friends, and to have the flexibility that always felt just out of reach. Most of all, I love the work itself — talking with people about philanthropy and helping them to discover their interests, to question their assumptions, and to make thoughtful decisions about the organizations they support.

With individual philanthropists, our conversations rarely start with an organization they support or are interested in supporting.  I’m more interested in the what — the values, the vision, the idea — and then the how and the where follow naturally from that. At the heart of it all is a simple belief: preserving your good name through philanthropy isn’t just a tagline. It’s a conviction that the way we give says something lasting about who we are.

Over this past year, my writing has been intentional in a different way. After decades representing other people’s voices — their missions, their visions, their words — I needed to find mine again. These posts have been as much about that rediscovery as anything else. I hope you’ve enjoyed getting to know how I think. One year in, I’m more convinced than ever that this was the right call. Not because it’s been easy, but because it’s been mine.

What’s next? You’ll still hear from me — but a little less often, and with a sharper focus. I’ll be writing more about philanthropy: the big questions donors wrestle with, the trends shaping the sector, and the conversations I think we should all be having. I’m sure some other off topic essays will sneak in, too. 

A few questions I’ll be exploring — and I’d love to know which ones resonate with you:

  • Does your giving reflect your values?
  • Who should be part of your philanthropic decisions?
  • Are you giving out of passion — or obligation?
  • What’s stopping you from doing more?
  • What does legacy mean to you?

What would you like me to write about? Reply, comment, or reach out — I’m listening.

L’chaim — To Life!

Fondly,

Kari Alterman

Kari

 

You Don’t Know What You’ve Done

Don’t want to read? Take a listen here.

I’m willing to bet that if you’re reading this (or listening to it!), you have had a positive influence on someone’s life, and that you may have done it unintentionally. 

When I started my MSW, a rabbi at my synagogue asked if I’d teach religious high school one day a week. I said yes, knowing that I had no intention of being a teacher, nor any idea what I was doing. I created a curriculum on “Jewish heroes,” and each week led a conversation about what I thought might be interesting to the students, mostly leaving it open for their thoughts and chance to talk, question, argue, and discuss with someone only a few years older than them.

Remarkably, one of the students in that class – and her parents – have told me repeatedly over the years how much that one class influenced her, giving her permission to engage in community on her own terms. She’s still involved, as are her children. 

There are a couple other individuals over the years who have told me about my unintended (positive!) impact – from former campers to volunteer leaders, other non-profit professionals and volunteers. More often than not, I was unaware that I was influential. It was certainly not my stated goal.

I know that it is not always about intent. I’ve been on the receiving end too. I have my own “list” of those who have guided me, knowingly or not. My late cousin, who was a significant force in my professional life, helped shape the direction of my entire career — but sadly wasn’t around to witness it. 

Influence doesn’t always arrive in large ways. On a smaller but long-lasting scale, a volunteer leader once taught me two simple rules for running a meeting: always position the speaker facing the door, so only she sees who arrives late, and set out fewer chairs than you need, so the room always looks full. I use both of them to this day. I have no idea if that person remembers telling me.

How we show up — in a classroom, at a camp, in a casual conversation, at a committee meeting — is legacy in real time. Not the polished, intentional kind we imagine when we think about the word. The quiet, accumulated, often invisible kind. The kind that compounds in other people’s lives long after we’ve forgotten the moment entirely.

You probably can’t know whose list you’re on. But you can do two things: tell someone they’re on yours — and pay attention to how you’re showing up right now, because someone is watching.

And so I ask, who’s on your list — and have you told them? Is there someone whose influence on you they may not even know about? What’s stopping you from telling them? And how have they they, and you, impacted your legacy?

 

Fondly,

Kari Alterman

Kari

 

On a (Somewhat) Lighter Note

My notes here have been of the emotionally heavy variety lately, so today I’m thinking about something a bit lighter: the silly, the mundane… and compliments and insults.

I try to give compliments often—sometimes to people I know well, sometimes to people I’ve just met. It can be as simple as noticing someone’s shoes, their smile, or just offering a sincere thank you. Maybe it’s part of an ingrained gratitude practice, but I like that sharing something positive is free, easy, and almost always well received.

And truthfully, I tend to see the good in people. I pride myself on being able to find something kind to say about nearly everyone I meet—or even just feel like I know.

That said… I also accidentally insult people.

I’ll say something I mean innocently, and Eddie will shoot me a look and say, “That wasn’t very nice.” I’m almost always mortified. I don’t mean it, and I hate the idea that something I said might stick.

Because here’s the thing—I still remember a handful of insults directed at me over the years. They linger. “Queen of the Dodo Birds.” A sorority sister once asking why people were friends with me at all. A seamstress looking me up and down and saying, “I also do wardrobe consult.”

They stay with you.

And the irony is, the clever response—the perfect comeback—is almost always the “wit of the stairwell.” The thing you think of five minutes too late.

So why do the negative comments stick so much more than the positive ones?

I looked it up, because of course I did. And there it was — negativity bias. Right alongside recency bias and confirmation bias, like an old friend I hadn’t seen in a while. Psychology Today has a fascinating piece on why our brains are wired to cling to the bad. Knowing it has a name doesn’t make it sting less, but it helps.

Why don’t we hold onto the kind words with the same intensity? The warmth-inducing comments, the genuine compliments?

Is it because the negative feels more revealing? More motivating? (I can assure you, I rarely leave the house looking slovenly anymore.) Or do we discount the positive—assuming there’s an agenda, or brushing it off as flattery, or simply not believing it?

I often come back to the Maya Angelou line: “People will forget what you said. People will forget what you did. But people will never forget how you made them feel.”

But I’ve noticed something that complicates all of this — something that only seems to happen with distance.

We soften. We remember the best in people, in places, in things. The edges blur. The negative fades. We look back with nostalgia—on stores that are long gone (I can still find in my mind where everything I need is at Hiller’s!), on people we’ve lost, even on versions of ourselves.

We remember the good.

What if we practiced a positivity bias of our own? Not naive, not forced — just intentional. Noticing the good. Saying it out loud.

Which makes me think this: if time eventually does its work—if the positive is what remains—why not be intentional about it now?

To say the kind word, to notice the small good. To leave people with a feeling they might carry longer than we realize.

Because in the end, this is legacy.

Not just what we’ve done—but how we’ve made people feel along the way. And whether, when they think of us later, what comes to mind is kindness and impact.

How are you carrying your good name forward? What small kindness are you putting out there today?

I’m always up to talk about it — over Zoom, coffee, or a walk.

Fondly,

Kari Alterman

Kari

P.S. Is there an insult or a compliment that has always stayed with you? I’d love to hear it and we can laugh about it, together. Let’s compare memories (and laughs!).

 

It’s a Small World, After All

In my first post from Good Name Advisors, I recounted the trip I had taken a few weeks prior to Mauthausen concentration camp, outside Linz, Austria in May, 2025. With my daughter, brother and nephew, we participated in the 80th anniversary of the end of World War II ceremonies. While we were there, there was a crew from 60 Minutes filming some b-roll but we didn’t give it much thought.

And then, two weeks ago, the piece from Mauthausen aired on CBS. It was one of the finest pieces of television I’ve ever seen. In the long-form piece (nearly 30 minutes), Lesley Stahl detailed the unbelievable survival of three babies, born during their mothers’ imprisonment, and their meeting each other for the first time 65 years later. We heard a bit about their stories on that day last May 2025, but it wasn’t until we watched the segment that we fully understood the remarkable story.

One of the interviewees showed his American soldier father’s album – a collection of memorabilia and pictures from the 11th Armored Division, many depicting the liberation of Mauthausen. His father, Private Lloyd “Pete” Petersohn, was handed one of the babies, and his quick actions helped save her life. And as I watched the segment, something clicked for me.

For over 30 years, I’ve looked for a picture of my dad at liberation. He remembered taking it with an American soldier (or officer) and recalled his name as Jerome Rosenthal, from Chicago. Rosenthal spoke to my dad in Yiddish, and they took a picture; my dad always described it as being in front of the Mauthausen entrance with bodies stacked like cordwood behind them. The closest I have come to finding the picture came from – of all places – the office next door to me when I worked at the Jewish Federation of Detroit. My colleague at the time, Carol Kaczander, overheard me when I called somewhere seeking the photo and said, “My father-in-law helped to liberate Mauthausen, and he left us pictures in his estate.” Once the shock wore off, my dad and I went to lunch with Carol and her husband. And in the box were pictures that just took my breath away, many showing the scene my dad had always described. But, no picture of him.

A few years later, my husband went on a fishing trip with some friends. At one point, World War II came up, and of course, it turns out that one of the fishermen, Brent, was a grandson of a Mauthausen liberator and left him a box of memorabilia. Once back home, Brent came over with his box, and my dad sat with us as we unpacked it. No pictures, but there was a moment where my dad exclaimed, seemingly out of nowhere, “Your grandfather lived at the end of that cul da sac up in Lapeer and loved a good gin and tonic!” Brent sat there stupified, as my dad was completely correct. Turns out, my dad had met the grandfather for a drink for many years to thank him for his military service!

And back to two weeks ago – while watching 60 Minutes, Brian Petersohn showed his dad’s album, and the quick look at the pictures got my attention. There were scenes from liberation, many of them looking just as my father had described. I reached out to Brian (realizing I had his information from the May 2025 trip) and while he doesn’t think he has a photo of my dad, we will be in Chicago soon and will take a look for ourselves.

This is all part of my legacy, inherited from my dad. One of kindness, connection, appreciation, and love. Knowing that history is complicated, but kindness is not. That you can preserve your legacy with good deeds, with charitable giving, and with living an authentic, connected life.

How will you preserve yours?

Fondly,

Kari Alterman


Kari

What We Carry Forward

On complicated loss, memory, and legacy

Spoiler alert: this one isn’t as upbeat as they usually are.

I’ve written before about death and dying — about ritual, about the power of mourning traditions, about the ways we gather to mark loss. I’ve written about shiva and minyan, yahrzeits (memorials), about funerals that hold us up, about the comfort of community in moments of grief.

But what about when legacy is complicated?

What about when someone deeply troubled dies? When you lose a family member or friend who struggled throughout their life — physically, mentally, or both? When the mess someone leaves behind makes it difficult to mourn them cleanly or generously? When you always think of the ‘what if,’ and not the ‘what was.’

Not every loss is easy to hold.

And to be clear, this isn’t only about people who were overtly hurtful, or relationships defined by cruelty or estrangement. Often the relationship was real, loving, and indisputable — and still deeply complicated.

What death can offer, unexpectedly, is a kind of control-alt-delete moment. Not an erasure of what was hard or broken, but an opportunity to reset how we carry the person forward.

We don’t get to rewrite history. But we do get to choose what we keep closest. We can make a conscious decision to remember the good without pretending the rest didn’t exist.

We all know this is true. We all are part of families – born and chosen – made up of the good, the bad, and the painful. We’ve watched friends navigate losses like this. And many of us, if we’re honest, know that one day we may too.

This is where legacy enters the conversation — not as something bestowed upon us, but as something we actively shape.

When someone dies, especially someone complicated, their legacy is no longer being written by their next choice or next apology. It becomes, in part, a matter of how they are carried forward — not in denial of the truth, but with discernment about what defines the story we tell.

This doesn’t mean smoothing over harm or insisting on redemption. It means acknowledging complexity without letting it eclipse everything else. It means deciding that a person can be more than the hardest chapters of their life — and that we, too, can be more than the pain of our relationship with them.

And perhaps more importantly, these moments hold up a mirror.

They ask us to consider the legacies we are creating in real time: the relationships we are tending or neglecting, the words we choose, the care we offer, the repair we attempt. Legacy is not only what will be said about us after we’re gone; it is how we are experienced now, in the ordinary moments that accumulate over time.

We don’t always get to choose the people we inherit.
But we do get to choose what we carry forward.

What are you choosing to carry forward?

Fondly,

Kari Alterman

Kari

What Comes Into Focus

Over the past year, I’ve written about many things.

About language and listening. About bridges that don’t quite meet in the middle. About courage and legacy. About generosity and grief. About community and belonging. Some of those essays were light and personal; others heavier, more searching. A few made me laugh as I wrote them. Others sat with me for weeks before I could be released.

At first glance, they may have seemed disconnected. But to me, they’ve always been part of the same conversation.

It’s impossible to ignore the context in which all of this is unfolding. The world feels heavy right now. Many of us are carrying fear, grief, anger, and a sense that things we once relied on feel less steady than they did before. It would be easy—understandable—to pull back, to harden, or to disengage.

But I don’t believe despair is an option. And I don’t believe walking away is a solution.

What we do control is ourselves: how we think, how we show up, how we treat one another, and where we choose to place our attention, our energy, and our resources. For me, philanthropy has always been one of the most grounded ways to do that. It’s a place to act rather than retreat—to lean toward values rather than away from them, and to stay in relationship even when the world feels fractured.

When I look back at the essays from last year, I see the same questions surfacing again and again. How do we find meaning—as individuals, as families, as communities? How do we make decisions when the answers aren’t obvious? What do we carry forward, and what do we choose to pass on?

For a long time, much of this work happened quietly—in living rooms and boardrooms, around kitchen tables and conference calls, inside family conversations and philanthropic partnerships. I’ve helped people clarify what matters to them, navigate shared decision-making, and give in ways that feel thoughtful, aligned, and true. Often, I was holding stories as much as strategies.

One place where this comes to life most clearly is in my work with giving circles, particularly women’s giving circles. Here in Detroit, I continue to build spaces rooted in shared learning, trust, and collective decision-making—places for people who want their philanthropy to be relational rather than transactional, and who believe that giving alongside others can deepen both impact and understanding.

Another thread running through all of this is legacy—not as something reserved for the end of life, but as something we shape every day. Legacy lives in our choices, our relationships, and the values we model for the people watching us. I’m often sitting with individuals and families asking quiet but important questions: What am I building? What am I responsible for? What do I want my name to stand for? These are conversations I feel deeply honored to hold.

I also continue to say yes to rooms—living rooms, sanctuaries, conference rooms—where people want to talk about philanthropy, values, community, and the stories we inherit and leave behind. Speaking and teaching have always been part of how I process the world, and part of how I connect with others.

None of this has been built alone. I’m grateful to the mentors, colleagues, partners, friends, and family members who trusted me, challenged me, and nudged me to name the work more clearly. I carry your fingerprints in this work every day.

As we move into a new year, I’m thinking less about resolutions and more about intentions. Not what we want to accomplish, but how we want to move through the world. If you’re in that reflective space too, here are a few questions you might sit with:

  • What do I want to be known for this year—in the small, human moments?
  • Where am I craving more connection, and where might I be holding back?
  • What stories or values do I feel responsible for carrying forward?
  • Where could generosity—of time, attention, or resources—change the tone of my year?
  • What feels ready to be built, and what feels ready to be released?

If any part of this resonates—if you’re curious about giving circles, thinking about your own legacy, or simply wanting to continue the conversation—my door is open.

I’m glad you’re here. And I’m grateful to be doing this work, together.

With. my best wishes for a new year filled with grace, joy, health, and happiness.

Fondly,

Kari Alterman

 

PS — That’s me, below, with my new friend El Toro in Mexico City, wishing you a feliz año nuevo!

Kari and El Toro in Mexico City