Stolpman is a Santa Barbara County winery that has farmed one of California's most distinctive terroirs in the Ballard Canyon AVA for nearly thirty years. La Cuadrilla — Spanish for "the crew" — is both its entry-level wine label and the name of the team that makes everything possible: 37 full-time farmworkers whose labor, livelihoods, and futures are woven into every bottle.

Twenty-one years ago, Probst founded Do Good Make Money — a consultancy built on one uncomfortable truth: wanting to help and actually helping are separated by a vast, underestimated distance. Her clients today include David Ortiz, Mariano Rivera, and Jose Bautista. 

There is a moment in The Price of Milk— a docuseries that premiered at the 2025 Tribeca Film Festival — where a Pennsylvania dairy farmer named Joe Cochran describes writing a $4,000 check to the federal government so that it could produce the famous “Got Milk?” ads he despised. "I get tired of people reaching their fingers into my wallet and taking money from me and I’m not getting anything back," he says. "To hell with it." It is the kind of raw, quietly furious line that no marketing department would ever write. Which is exactly why it works. And which is exactly why Oatly, the Swedish plant-milk brand, paid for the film that contains it.

That paradox — a brand funding journalism that doesn’t mention the brand — is the business Nicholas Bruckman has spent nearly 15 years building.

There is a particular kind of dread that settles in when someone very smart explains, very calmly, that the world as you know it may not survive the next decade. David Goyer — the writer behind the Dark Knight Trilogy, the showrunner of Foundation, Apple TV+'s epic about the collapse of a galactic civilization — knows that feeling intimately. 

On April 30, 2026, The Shed announced a transformative, unrestricted $25 million gift from Moore to the institution as a whole — strengthening its artistic ambition and long-term financial foundation. As a mark of that commitment, The Shed's Level 2 Gallery will be named the Darla Moore Gallery in her honor.

For decades, publishing has asked creators to accept a deal that would feel absurd in almost any other industry. Write the book. Hand over most of the value. Accept an advance that is really a loan. Then, once the manuscript is done, get ready to market it yourself. Soulprint Media was built in direct response to that reality.

When Don't Look Up landed on Netflix, it became one of the most-watched films in the platform's history. Not one of the most-watched climate films. One of the most-watched films. Full stop. A dark comedy about a comet nobody wanted to believe in had done what years of earnest climate documentaries couldn't — it had made the crisis impossible to look away from. For most of Hollywood, it felt like a revelation. 

In the age of AI, data has never been more abundant. Neither has despair. The leaders who will define the next decade aren't the ones with the best answers — they're the ones who can make the future feel possible again.

Every year, as spring arrives and leases expire across America's cities, millions of people face the same moment of reckoning — surrounded by overstuffed closets, confronted by clothes they haven't worn in years. 

It's a small, private drama that plays out in apartments from Manhattan to Dallas to Los Angeles. And it has been, for decades, a story with only one ending: the bag gets tied, the clothes get tossed, and another contribution gets made to the 85% of discarded textiles that end up in landfills or waste-to-energy facilities.

Not because people don't care. Because nobody made it easy enough to do anything else.

That’s the gap that Uniqlo, WM and Piece of Cake decided to fill together.

Five of Africa's great river systems are born in the highlands of eastern Angola. The Okavango. The Zambezi. The Congo. The Kwanza. The Cuando. Together they carry water and life across a continent, feeding communities, sustaining ecosystems, underpinning the food security of seven nations. The Okavango Delta — celebrated by every nature documentary, every conservation campaign — simply would not exist without this source.

And yet, until recently, that source had no name on any international conservation map. No recognition. No formal protection. It was, in one of the quiet oversights of modern environmentalism, invisible.

That invisibility is what the Okavango Eternal partnership was built to end.

Every year, thousands of young Black and brown creatives graduate from American universities with real skills, real ambition, and almost no path into the advertising industry that could use them.

The industry's front door has always been narrow — built on internships that go to people who can afford to work for free, entry-level jobs that go to people who already know someone, and a cultural shorthand that rewards those who grew up inside the room.

Talent, on its own, has never been enough.

Lincoln Stephens saw this clearly when he was 25 years old. He didn't write a think piece about it. He built something.

There's a moment that happens at every Kiki ball — that electric instant when a young performer steps onto the floor and the crowd erupts. It might be a death drop executed with surgical precision, a hand-sewn look that rivals any fashion week runway, or a freestyle vogue performance that stops time. For decades, these moments of transcendent artistry have existed almost entirely within the underground — celebrated by those lucky enough to be in the room, invisible to the wider world.

Packaging waste isn't a mystery. The confusing part is the system around it.

For eight years, Marta Fiscina and Dave Ford have been helping the people shaping the packaging system sit at the same table and learn from one another. As co-founders of The Circular Leadership Network—known as Circle, formerly the Ocean Plastics Leadership Network—they've built a neutral platform where policymakers and industry leaders can make sense of circular packaging policy and recycling infrastructure.

For a long time, brands have been told the same story. Consumers care about sustainability. They care about ethics. They care about social impact. And if a company is doing the right thing, people will reward it.

Phillip Haid is not so sure it is that simple.

Haid is the CEO of Public Inc., an independent creative impact agency that works across North America. The company helps brands and nonprofits with impact strategy, sustainability communications and issue-led campaigns. Its clients include Macy’s, Samsonite Global, CeraVe, Dick’s Sporting Goods and Meals on Wheels America.

For years, corporate volunteering was often framed as a feel-good benefit. It helped attract talent, gave employees a chance to support causes they cared about, and signaled that a company stood for something beyond quarterly results.

That framing was not wrong. It helped open the door to a more human, more participatory approach to corporate purpose. It brought more people in, made purpose feel more personal, and gave companies a way to connect business with something bigger than the bottom line.

But as Sona Khosla sees it, the opportunity has now grown far beyond that.

Hope is not a word Barbara Perry and Harry Hutson use lightly.

They know how it sounds in a workplace shaped by layoffs, burnout, distrust and AI anxiety. Soft. Vague. Maybe even naïve. That is exactly why they think it matters.

In their new book Hope at Work, out April 20, 2026, the longtime leadership advisors argue that hope is not a slogan or a personality trait. It is something leaders either build into an organization or fail to build at all.