A Community’s Glue

Karmin Teague didn’t wake up one day wanting to run a nonprofit. She just saw too many people hurting and couldn’t look away anymore. When somebody walks through her door with a need, she struggles to say ‘sorry, no’. She finds a way to help.

“I can’t say no—I’ll find a way. I ask God to help, and somehow, He always shows up.”

“This store—this little thrift store—isn’t just about clothes and dishes. It’s healing. For me, and for everyone who walks through the doors.

She walked through fire and then opened the door for others still burning. She remembers. The homeless youth. The woman surviving abuse. The addict rebuilding. She remembers the little 8-year-old girl surviving abuse. None of them deserved it. She didn’t just see the gaps in the system—she lived in them. And she believes God pulled her out so she could hold that door open for others.

“I ask God to help, and somehow, He always shows up. I call it God working through everyday people.”

Draining her 401(k) wasn’t a bold move—it was the only move. And when that still wasn’t enough, she turned to something far more resilient than a bank: social capital.

Dozens of small crowdsourced $25-$50 Kiva loans poured in from all over the community to fill the $5K gap left by a truck. It was a symbol that friends of friends believed the community deserved this engine to move forward.

This was never about resale. It’s about repair. And now, Cedar Valley Thrift and Community Outreach is both a sanctuary and a structure.

“I didn’t wake up one day wanting to run a nonprofit. I just saw too many people hurting and couldn’t look away anymore.”

This is Karmin Teague’s Moment of Truth.

① What moment changed everything for you?

“When I came back home and saw that the old St. Vincent de Paul thrift store was gone, I knew I had to do something. That store helped me when I had nothing. So I called ReShonda and said, “I want to start a thrift store.” She helped me get certified, and that’s how Cedar Valley Thrift and Outreach Outlet was born.”

She didn’t wait for someone else to fill the gap.

Even now, Karmin shares how imposter syndrome lingers, especially in systems where polished professionalism is gatekeeping.

“I used to think God made some people good and some people bad. I thought I was one of the bad ones.”

“I struggled with writing and spelling. I always felt like everybody else was smarter than me.”

“I paid $1,500 for someone to write a grant and got nothing. That was hard.”

The lesson wasn’t in being rejected. It was in learning that she could do it differently, with support.

②  What system or obstacle were you up against?

“We don’t make money down there. If we sell something, it’s anywhere from $1 to $5, maybe $10 at the most. A lot of our services are free. So, trying to get grant money, I feel like we’re small. Sometimes it feels like they don’t see us as being as important as these bigger [nonprofits].”

And when the grant-making economy prioritizes well-branded nonprofits with full teams and polished language to attract funding, small community-serving programs get overlooked. Even though they were feeding, clothing, and caring for people daily, delivering dignity where it was most needed. Karmin’s operation could be dismissed as “too small” or “not formal enough,” but that is also the genesis that keeps her close to understanding community needs.

“I used to think God made some people good and some people bad. I thought I was one of the bad ones. I struggled with writing and spelling. I always felt like everybody else was smarter than I. Even paid $1,500 for someone to write a grant and got nothing. That was hard.”

The lesson wasn’t in being rejected. It was in learning that she could do it differently, with support. And her community agreed. Customers donate back. They bring others. They come for second chances, not just secondhand goods.

③ What did you try, even if it wasn’t perfect?

She believes in divine timing, but also divine follow-through. If someone walks in, God’s already involved.

“This little thrift store—it’s healing. For me, and for everyone who walks through the doors.”

She put in her own 401(k) and the money her father left behind. She thrifted and hauled furniture herself. She launched community meals, mentored alternative school youth, and created jobs—even when the budget was running on fumes.

After two years in operation, Karmen “hooked up with ChatGPT”, and wrote her own grant. And guess what? They got it. With new tech tools, she felt like her “words and heart were being heard”. But even that victory wasn’t without its perils:

“Black Hawk County Board of Supervisors gave us $10,000, but I didn’t know how the fiscal years went, so I spent the money in June, but they only gave us back money that we spent in July [and thereafter]. So we lost out on that. […] But it still worked out good, because you always can find a blessing,”

Now they have written two more grants hoping to upgrade from a truck to a neighborhood food truck to feed and deliver serve real meals—smoked pork chops, rice, green salad, dessert, and a drink. Meals of respect and love.

And when she couldn’t find an accountant, she cold-called the Volunteer Center. When the gaming committee denied her, she emailed Home Depot anyway. And when she lost two years of accounting records, she turned to her “new boyfriend, ChatGPT”, to rebuild what was lost.

④ What helped you keep going?

“Sometimes I don’t know, just like, I guess I always believe God had a plan for me. I say that all the time. Even though I detour or whatever, He pulled me right back on that track.”

Faith in God. Community love. Her grandmother’s memory. Her students. Her grit. The deep belief is that if people can eat, feel clean, and be cared for, everything else becomes possible. And that belief was mirrored back by a growing circle of support: from the local Food Pantry providing discounted food to West High students, coaching little ones in the Ezekiel Softball Program (a name she swears came from God via AI).

“I can talk in these kids’ language and teach them.

“So if they need a little extra tender loving care, then they can look at us as support.”

⑤ What truth do you want people to remember from this story?

“A lot of families go through [trauma], and they don’t understand where it come from. I would like to help.”

“At the age of 15, I was so rebellious. I was one of those kids that didn’t go to school regularly, because I was angry, because my mom was a heroin addict, and who I thought was my dad, he was raising somebody else’s kid. So the funniest thing, my auntie, my dad, my real dad’s sister, she came and got me. She was like: “Why do you wear that baseball cap all the time?” She said: “You have nice hair.” She said: “You’re going to take that cap off [and] go down to my sister’s shop.” And I went down there and combed my hair. But do you know how, how that made me feel that somebody cared enough about me that wanted me to look as good as I could. That helps me feel better, because that was one, that was one of my disguises, the baseball cap, the baggy sweatpants, you know. I’m just, just, just, up under in all these clothing, or I didn’t care. Well, really, I always wanted somebody to care. That was that little girl not knowing why she was hurting or what she was missing. And that was just my armor.”

Social capital is real capital. It is not fluff. It is not secondary. It is what keeps communities alive when the formal systems fail. You don’t need fancy words or big names to change lives. You need trust, dignity, and the will to show up—even when the budget is gone, the records are lost, and you’re running on hope. That’s what sustains a people.

“The truth from my story is:

No matter what you’ve been through, no matter how long you’ve felt unworthy, you are worthy. God sees you. And if you don’t give up on yourself, you’ll be strong enough to help someone else keep going too.“

– Karmin Teague

© 2025 Institute for Quantum Innovation & Impact (The Qii). Licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0.
Originally catalyzed by philanthropic seed funding and now stewarded by the innovators whose stories appear here, with support from a growing network of researchers, educators, system architects, and community investors.