Finding "We" in Personalized World.

Welcome to data uncollected, a newsletter designed to enable nonprofits to listen, think, reflect, and talk about data we missed and are yet to collect. In this newsletter, we will talk about everything the raw data is capable of – from simple strategies of building equity into data+AI processes to how we can make a better community through purpose-driven analysis.

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A note of gratitude and care:

So much of this year has been weird, challenging, unprecedented, and chaotic.

Major news is breaking constantly, with consequential decisions being made, unmade, struck down in court, and renegotiated every day. How our government works, who it works for, and how the powerful are held accountable are all in flux.

At the very same time, we are officially part of the era when you don't necessarily need another human to sing a song, hold a hard day, play a game, or co-dream in that next article. A tool can write the first draft, "personalize" the message, and generate the slide deck. The temptation is to believe that because machines can do so much, humans can step back.

Which is why this last edition of the year is about reminding ourselves who we are and what we are committed to.

You and I have been writing to each other, for each other, for almost two years now.

That means a truth we both can acknowledge is: Data doesn't just happen.

• Someone makes it happen – in a certain way.
• Someone dictates the terms of that certain way.
• Someone demands something specific of that certain way.

That particular group of 'someones'– make data happen through their vision, their "truth", and an intention that may or may not acknowledge all those who should be recognized in that data.

And the truth is – you and I are part of that 'someone' every now and then.

That is why this newsletter exists – to remind you and me of our responsibilities in making data happen.

And I'll be honest with you about something:

• Pushing for DEI conversations in rooms where I am the only BIPOC woman felt scary.
• Talking about AI + equity in spaces crowded with tech companies seeking efficiency made me feel isolated.
• Running the AI Equity Project – months of deep work, hundreds of email exchanges – felt exhausting.
• Hearing people say "AI for good" yet not asking "Good for whom?" made me angrier.

There are days when I am very tired of explaining why consent matters, why communities deserve to see themselves in the numbers, and why "just add another column" is not a neutral suggestion. There are days when it feels like the world is spinning faster than our capacity to care for each other.

I acknowledge that, yes. I acknowledge that – for both you and me, I do.

And yet, I am still here – knee-deep in this work, heart-steeped – because of you.

Because this sector and our work call for a kind of courage I have witnessed in you. Your questions, notes, responses, reactions- all deviate towards protecting humanity in some shape or form.

So, this gratitude letter – this little you-impact note – is here to remind you that this newsletter space is you-powered, and so is my work.

And I promise you – we will continue this love.

• I intend to build with you a world that's kind, curious, patient, humble.
• I intend to write a social contract with you that rejects all forms of microaggressions and warped measurements that try to turn pace into our identity.
• I intend to design choices and a kind of fearlessness – with you - as a form of inter-dependence that celebrates both our individuality as well as collectivism.
• I intend to talk with you about data harms, AI equity, data dreams – again and again and again.

And for that to happen I want to, need to, seek to lean into your wisdom and your kindness.

So, keep showing up in my world, in our world – boldly, clearly, a little undefined – as you. Ask the awkward questions. Say when something doesn't sit right in your body. Share the small wins, like the one survey answer that made you hopeful again.

That's our shared job for 2026 and beyond: showing up with each other, for each other. One step at a time. One data value at a time. One stubborn act of care at a time.

Data doesn't just happen. Equity doesn't just happen. We make it happen.

Below is an image from my dear friend and illustration artist, Skye Louise, inspired by my summer keynote on collective listening. This illustration depicts an ear to show that we must learn to listen to each other if we truly want to build shared futures.

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And now a flash fiction I wrote about finding us in a world that's moving towards hyper-personalization too quickly. I don't publish fiction/short stories publicly, so read this as my gratitude++ sentiment for you.

The story of Finding "We" in a Personalized World.

In the bright city of Prismara, every building wore a different shape and a happy color.

• The post office was a sunny yellow building.
• The grocery store was ocean-blue block.
• The bank was a coral box-like building.

Outside each place stood a little machine called a Prompt Kiosk. It had a friendly screen and a slot for paper slips. People typed what they needed, and the kiosk printed a token—a small ticket—to pick up their things.

"Token 12: flaxseed-butter bread."

"Token 47: two stamped letters."

"Token 3: sleepy-cat music playlist."

Easy. Quick. Done.

Today, Prismara wants to share about a little girl, Mira.

Mira was a curious kind who liked asking questions. She carried a small bag of cardstock everywhere to write down thoughts and doodles.

One afternoon, Mira's mom said, "Could you book the Building of Needs for Saturday? Your aunts and I are having the neighborhood book circle. At the prompt kiosk, ask for a circle of chairs, soft lights, a kettle for tea—and lemon biscuits if they have them."

The Building of Needs stood in the very middle of Prismara. It was the only building with no paint. It changed during the day—pale in the morning, warm at noon, dark by night. This building could become anything people needed:

• "A dance room with a rustic look, please."
• "A Diwali kitchen with long tables, please."
• "A quiet room for remembering someone, please."

People typed their wish, got a token, and the building transformed.

That morning, Mira walked to the Building of Needs and stood at the kiosk. The screen glowed.

It said, "Ready when you are."

Her fingers hovered over the keys. Chairs, lights, kettle, biscuits. Her job was simple.

But then a new thought popped into her head:

What if I don't type anything? What if I just… look?

Mira stepped away from the kiosk and pushed the big door open – something she had never done before.

Boy, did she know she was in for the surprise of her tiny yet mighty heart.

Inside, the building was not a tea room. It was not a dance room. It was a library, the most magical one Mira had ever seen.

Books were everywhere—tall ones, tiny ones, new ones, old ones. Some shelves curved like rainbows – with book covers of colors she did not even know the name of. A glass window in the ceiling let in soft light. The air smelled like paper and a little bit like peppermint candy.

"Wow," Mira whispered. She slipped off her shoes to walk more quietly. She ran her finger along a row of book spines.

"Hi" a voice said behind her.

Mira turned. Another girl stood by a shelf. She wore a dark blue cap and a coat with tiny stars stitched on it.

"I'm Laleh," the girl said. "I came to the kiosk but couldn't think of what to ask for. So I just walked in."

"I'm Mira" Mira said. "I almost typed a request—but I wanted to see what the building already was."

They smiled at each other, happy to meet a new friend in a surprising place.

Mira and Laleh started exploring together.

They opened small books and big ones.

They read a poem about a fox crossing the road.

They read a recipe book with stories about grandmothers.

They read a tiny notebook full of short sentences, written and signed by people of the past.

"Can not knowing be fun too?" Laleh wondered out loud.

Mira nodded. "Usually I tell kiosks exactly what I need. Today I got something I didn't ask for—and I love it."

They were quiet for a moment, just listening to the soft sounds of pages turning. It felt calm and gentle.

With an afternoon that passed too quickly, Mira suddenly realized what her mother had asked.

 "Uh-oh," Mira said suddenly. "I still need to book the room for the book circle."

They walked outside to the kiosk. This time, Mira typed without more curiosity that could get her in trouble with her mother:

A circle of chairs. A small table. A kettle for tea. Lemon biscuits, if possible. If not, any biscuits are okay.

Token 8, the kiosk printed.

Laleh pointed toward the river. "Do you want to walk there? When the sky looks purple like this, the water tells stories. I like walking when the sky looks like that."

On the way, they saw other people using kiosks:

The river was slow and deep. Streets were busy with people returning from work. The girls sat on the lowest steps.

"Do the kiosks know us?" Mira asked.

"They know what we type," Laleh said. "That's close. But sometimes the not-typing shows us more. Don't you think?"

Mira smiled. Somehow, she understood exactly what this new friend meant.

As they walked home, Mira tried to find simple words for her big feelings.

"The kiosks help us name our needs," she said. "That's useful. It saves time. But today the library showed me something else. If I don't try to control everything, I might find new friends, new ideas, and new feelings. I didn't plan any of that. And it was wonderful."

"Next week," Mira told Laleh, "let's revisit the Building of Needs."

"What should we ask it to be?" Laleh asked.

"Nothing," Mira said, grinning. "Let's see what it already is."

They hugged a quick kid-hug and went home.

That night, Mira wrote two questions on her chalkboard:

• Whose eyes can I borrow tomorrow?
• What will I notice if I wait?

This was a day she wasn't forgetting, and she knew that.

In the quiet square, the Building of Needs rested. The chairs waited. The kettle cooled.

Somewhere inside, a new little book appeared on a shelf: a tiny story about two girls who didn't prompt—and found a library instead.

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Your Dream Question (reply if you want to):

What part of your life are you finally ready to treat with more tenderness than urgency in the coming year?