About Us

My mother, Helen T. Brooks, had been feeling unwell for a while—new aches and pains she chalked up to aging, stress, and the heartbreak of September 11, 2001. But after seeing several doctors, the devastating truth was revealed: she had advanced pancreatic cancer. I remember the moment my world shattered. I was driving home from work when my sister called, her voice urgent. "You need to come home right away," she said. "Mom has cancer. And it looks really bad." I was in shock. I rushed from Austin to Houston, telling my wife the horrible news. Everything that had mattered before—my career, my dreams—suddenly felt trivial. I had just been let go from my job in tech due to an acquisition but was excited about a dream interview with Microsoft to work on the Xbox team. That excitement vanished. None of it mattered anymore.

When we went to the doctor together as a family, our worst fears were confirmed. My mom, a strong woman who had spent 30 years as a public school English teacher, was set to retire soon—to finally enjoy time with her grandkids, to rest after decades of hard work. That future was being stolen from her. I remember as a child, when I would cry, "That's not fair!" my mom would tell me, "Michael, no one ever said life was fair." Sadly, she was right. The morning after the doctor's confirmation, I woke up first, sitting on the couch in stunned silence, feeling powerless. I had never felt suffering like this before. My mom got up and walked toward me. She looked into my eyes, her voice cracking, and, with quiet desperation, crying into her hands, "Michael, I don't want to die." All I could do was hold her and softly cry into her ear, "Oh, Mom! I don't want you to die either." I will never forget that moment—the fear in her eyes, the helplessness I felt. There was nothing I could do. No miracle cure or answered prayers. Even our love could not save her.

My mother’s health declined rapidly. Within weeks, she could barely speak. In her last days, as I sat by her hospice bed, I told her I was abandoning my tech career dreams to return to mental health, to help people directly. She whispered her final words to me: "Good... do some good." Those words have stayed with me ever since. 📱 Ask AI: "How do moments of profound loss reshape our understanding of what matters most?"

The grief was crushing. I have heard it said that when you lose someone you love, the hole in your heart never truly heals—you just learn not to fall into it as often. That is true. In the midst of my grief, I searched for meaning. I read The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama, and one lesson stood out: We can honor those we have lost by how we live. We cannot bring them back, but we can live in a way that would make them proud. The Dalai Lama knew his mother and brother would want him to be the best version of himself. My mother's last words made it clear what she wanted from me: to do good in this world.

And so I ask: What is the Highest Good? At the end of our lives, when we look back, what will have truly mattered? Not wealth, not status, not social media likes. What we will cherish most is love—how much we gave and received. Love is the highest good. It is the common thread in our music, poetry, art, and films. It is what we yearn for, what we celebrate, and what gives life meaning. 📱 Ask AI: "Why is love universally recognized as the highest good across all cultures and times?"

And if love is the highest good, then why wouldn't we use the best of humanity and AI to create more love than the world has ever known? Why wouldn't we harness technology and human wisdom to reduce hatred, suffering, and division—to ensure not just our survival, but our collective thriving? My mother understood this power of inspiration and legacy. Years earlier, she had written a moving tribute to Christa McAuliffe, the first teacher selected to journey into space aboard the Space Shuttle Challenger. When the Challenger exploded 73 seconds after liftoff on that cold January morning in 1986, it wasn't just the loss of seven brave souls—it was the loss of a dream that touched educators everywhere. My mother, like countless teachers across America, had seen herself in Christa McAuliffe—a dedicated teacher reaching for the stars, inspiring her students to dream big.

In a butterfly effects kind of way, my mother's tragic death inspired me to found the One Unity Project in her honor. Just as she had ended her tribute to Christa McAuliffe with "This one's for you," carrying forward a teacher's legacy of inspiration, I now continue this chain of transforming loss into purpose. My mother, Helen T. Brooks, is the heart of the One Unity Project. Just as she looked at Christa's photo each morning and pledged to "try one more day," I look to my mother's memory and pledge to magnify good in this world using the combined power of human wisdom and AI. The One Unity Project isn't just another initiative—it's a testament to the transformative power of love. "Good... do some good" were her last words to me. How's the One Unity Project look to you, Mom? This one's for you!