Seven Years In: Profit, Purpose, and the Tension I Still Carry

Seven years.

In biblical language, seven represents completion. Fulfillment. A cycle brought to maturity.

This year, I crossed the seven-year mark in banking. I paused.

I didn’t expect applause. In fact, I was fairly certain no one noticed. But I noticed. And for me, that was enough.

Because for a foster kid who wasn’t statistically positioned to lead much of anything, let alone a bank, seven years feels like more than tenure. It feels like testimony.

A couple of weeks ago, I attended the Acquire or Be Acquired conference sponsored by Bank Director. Years ago, around the time I was entering banking, Bank Director published survey results showing that it was slim to none that boards would select a “non-banker” as CEO. Certainly not someone from the nonprofit world. Certainly not someone with my background.

That article stayed with me.

It became more than industry commentary. It became a quiet backdrop to my early years. Even though I was brought in to lead, it was clear that my ascent was hard for some to digest. There were people who didn’t expect me to make it this far.

And if I’m really honest, there were moments early on when I wasn’t sure myself.

Not because I didn’t believe in business or my ability.

But because I was trying to understand whether I could belong in a world that often speaks a language very different from where I came from.

I remember one of my first gatherings of bank CEOs. As I approached a small group, the conversation softened. Someone asked how my week had gone. I said, matter-of-factly, “I had our entire team meet with a group advocating for fair lending in historically neglected communities.”

I could feel the judgment.

It could have been awkward. It was isolating.

But I stood firmly on who I was.

Because long before I understood liquidity ratios or capital buffers, I understood instability. I grew up in foster care. I know what it feels like when systems don’t hold. When institutions fail to create security. When the economy doesn’t work for the people inside it.

You see how fragile support systems can be. You see how quickly people fall through cracks when the structure isn’t designed to hold them—and sometimes no one even notices they’ve fallen.

So when I entered banking, I didn’t leave that perspective at the door.

That perspective shaped the tension I began to feel almost immediately.

Over the years, I’ve heard it said plainly: “To be in business is to be about the maximization of profit. That’s the only thing you should be thinking about.”

Markets require discipline. Businesses must make money. I believe that.

But I struggle with the word only.

If the only thing we are thinking about is maximizing profit for shareholders, then what are we willing to sacrifice to achieve it? What gets deprioritized? What becomes invisible?

That question followed me from the nonprofit sector into financial services.

A colleague recently asked how I made the shift. How do you move from tracking charitable giving incentives to navigating Dodd-Frank, stress testing, and capital frameworks?

The mechanics were learnable. The regulations were learnable. The economics were learnable. I’m still learning, and I have strong people around me who sharpen me daily.

What was harder wasn’t the technical side. It was reconciling worldviews.

In the charitable sector, I watched how changes in tax policy shaped generosity. In banking, I watch how capital flows, rate environments, and regulatory structures shape opportunity. Different arenas. Different scoreboards.

But the deeper question underneath both worlds has always been the same:

What kind of economy are we building?

Because if profit is maximized in a way that hollows out the middle, extracts from the margins, or concentrates value so tightly at the top that the base becomes unstable, then what we are building may be profitable in the short term, but fragile in the long term.

If that sounds theoretical, it isn’t.

According to St. Louis Federal Reserve data:

• The top 10% of households by wealth had $8.1 million on average. As a group, they held 67.2% of total household wealth.
• The bottom 50% of households by wealth had $60,000 on average. As a group, they held 2.5% of total household wealth.
• The top 20% of households by income had $4.3 million in wealth on average. As a group, they held 71.1% of total household wealth.
• The bottom 20% of households by income had $180,000 in wealth on average. As a group, they held 3% of total household wealth.

That is not a moral indictment. It is a structural reality.

When imbalance reaches certain levels, sustainability becomes the issue.

An economy that does not work for most people is not just inequitable. It is unstable.

And this is where my background and my profession collide.

Because when you grow up in foster care, you understand what instability produces. You understand what happens when systems are optimized for efficiency but not built for durability.

So when I sit in rooms where the conversation narrows, where quarterly performance overshadows long-term ecosystem health, I feel the internal friction.

I understand the pressure. I carry it. Boards expect performance. Investors expect growth. Regulators expect compliance. Employees expect stability.

But I also know that security at the top is indirectly tied to mobility at the bottom.

So when I hear “maximize profit,” I instinctively add a second phrase:

Maximize profit sustainably.

Sustainably for shareholders. Sustainably for employees. Sustainably for customers. Sustainably for communities. Sustainably for the broader economy.

This is not about redistribution as ideology. It is about expansion.

Expansion of opportunity. Expansion of ownership. Expansion of participation. Expansion of asset-building.

An optimized system is not one that extracts the maximum from each node. It is one that strengthens the whole network.

I have learned enough now to know this: maximizing alone is not leadership. It is math.

Seven years in, I’ve learned that profit and purpose are not enemies. But they are in constant negotiation.

There are days when performance and impact reinforce one another beautifully. And there are days when decisions look efficient on paper but feel complicated in practice.

That tension does not mean I do not belong here.

In fact, I’ve come to see it differently.

Seven years ago, I wondered whether I belonged in banking.

Seven years later, I realize belonging was never the real question.

The real question was whether I would remain myself once I did.

Whether I would abandon the perspective shaped by foster care. Whether I would narrow my lens to fit the room. Whether I would trade optimization for maximization simply because it was easier.

I haven’t.

Seven years feels like completion in one sense. A cycle closed. Doubts quieted. Credibility earned.

But it also feels like recommitment.

To building institutions that perform. To honoring shareholders without ignoring stakeholders. To creating value that can endure stress. To advocating for an economy that works for most people, not perfectly, not evenly, but meaningfully.

Because when better is shared, better is sustainable.

And sustainability, more than maximization alone, is what ultimately keeps systems from tumbling down.

Seven years in, that is the tension I still carry.

And I intend to keep carrying it.