I’ve spent most of my adult life creating safe spaces for others. Over a decade ago, I built a national nonprofit from the ground up—no experience, no funding—just an unwavering belief that young people in rural communities deserved opportunity, belonging, and support.

But the seed for The 99 Fund was planted much closer to home.

In early 2025, on a quiet Sunday morning, a man forced his way through my locked electric gate and drove up my long rural driveway. He knew it was just me and my daughter there. He had never been invited, never been given permission. Anyone welcome at my home was told the same thing: call or text first so I could secure my dogs and open the gate. He ignored that.

Instead, he tampered with the gate, drove in unannounced, and ran over our dog, Aries—a Presa Canario who was strong, gentle, and fiercely loyal. She wasn’t just a dog; she was my protector and friend. My sense of safety vanished in an instant.

The district attorney initially charged him with aggravated trespassing and a felony for killing Aries. But later, the felony was dropped—because it didn’t happen on a public road. By that essentially, the law decided her life didn’t “count.” That decision left us feeling invisible, as if what happened to her—and to us—didn’t matter.

Today, I share my home and heart with Aries’s boy, Whiskey—a 155-pound, 12-month-old who carries her spirit forward.

This foundation exists to honor Aries’ life and what she represented. It’s for the protectors—whether they’re animals, first responders, or veterans. It’s for those who deserve to feel safe in their own homes. It’s about transforming pain into purpose, and ensuring that no life—human or animal—is treated as if it doesn’t matter.

Because every life counts.