There are moments as a founder when the world as you know it just stops. Losing Jeunn a couple of weeks ago was one of those moments.
Jeunn was my Executive Assistant, though that title doesn’t come close to capturing what he meant to our small team and to me personally. For the past year and a half, he has been a steady and meaningful presence in my life and in the work at GoodBread. He supported me through the transition from Upstate Capital into building GoodBread, often operating quietly in the background while holding together the systems, processes, and details that made everything else possible.
He became an extension of my brain and systems. He built and maintained databases. He improved workflows. He brought structure where there was none. And he did it all with intelligence, professionalism, and care that made work more human.
Sudden Passing
Jeunn passed away in a motorcycle accident the day after Christmas. I woke up on Friday morning to a Signal chat message from his account, but written by his partner, followed by another message written by his sister. I called immediately and we cried together. They told me what happened. I searched flights to see if I could make it from New York to Manila in time for his wake. I could not, and it added salt to the terrible, tragic, surreal experience.
There is no guide for losing a team member. I’ve read countless articles about hiring, scaling, team development, and leadership. But there’s almost nothing about what to do when someone essential is suddenly gone, not just from the company, but from the world.
No Playbook
I couldn’t operate from a playbook. I was operating from instinct and values, from the place where people matter first and foremost, because we are here to take care of each other as best we can.
I asked my colleague to reach out to Jeunn’s family, not with assumptions, but with questions. We asked what they needed and how we could support them. We sent flowers as a small gesture of care, knowing it would never be enough. We paid his wages through the work period and sent an additional gift to help cover unexpected expenses.
We worked closely with his family to organize a celebration of life, bringing our team together with the people who loved him most. It mattered to me that Jeunn was honored not just as an employee, but as a person. Someone who was generous, faithful, thoughtful, and deeply kind.
Inside the team, we slowed down. We acknowledged the loss openly. I didn’t try to rush anyone through grief or pretend that work could continue unchanged, because it couldn’t.
Jeunn’s Impact
Jeunn was foundational. He was someone people relied on, someone who noticed the small things and quietly fixed them. Someone who stepped in wherever he was needed, with determination and optimism. He made our work better and our days lighter.
When someone like that is gone, you don’t just lose capacity. You lose rhythm. You lose institutional memory. You lose a sense of steadiness you didn’t even realize you were leaning on.
I also lost the future I assumed I would be part of. There are so many conversations we won’t have, experiences he won’t have, and I won’t witness. One of his great hopes was to see snow in-person, and I was determined to make that happen. I grieve the growth I won’t witness. I grieve not only Jeunn himself as a person, but the life he didn’t get to finish living.
This kind of grief doesn’t resolve quickly.
What I Learned About Leading Through Loss
This experience is changing how I think about leadership.
Leadership doesn’t mean having answers. It means being willing to sit in uncertainty with other people. There were days when I didn’t know what to say or how to move forward. Naming that honestly mattered more than projecting confidence.
Saying someone’s name is important. Acknowledging the loss directly matters. Avoiding it, minimizing it, or rushing past it doesn’t protect people. It isolates them.
Care is not a “soft skill.” It is real work. Supporting a grieving team takes time, emotional energy, and patience. It slows things down. And that is not a failure of leadership. It is leadership.
Productivity will suffer, and that’s okay. Grief takes cognitive and emotional energy. Expecting people to perform at full capacity immediately is not just unrealistic, it’s harmful. I’ve worked with enough entrepreneurs to know that the pressure to “keep going” can be overwhelming. But sometimes the most important work is allowing space for people to be human.
Most of all, I learned that you don’t replace people like Jeunn. You don’t “backfill” their presence. What I can do is carry forward the values Jeunn embodied: steadiness, generosity, thoughtfulness, and care.
What This Means for How We Build
The world was brighter with Jeunn in it. Our team feels his absence deeply, and we always will.
But his impact didn’t end when his life did. Jeunn created something from nothing. He brought order to chaos. He made our work more human and more effective. Through him, I learned more about Filipino culture, and I will always think of “Kain tayo” with warmth and gratitude.
Losing him changed me as a leader. It reminded me that companies are not systems first. They are people first. Some people leave a mark that doesn’t fade. They change how you see the world and how you show up in it. Jeunn did that for me, and his influence will shape how we build GoodBread for years to come.
