In my living room, by the kids’ instruments and the dog’s favorite chill spot, lives a Swedish ivy with a presidential lineage. This trailing plant — with shiny green leaves and ambitious stems that cascade over the pot’s edges — began as a cutting from my mother’s ivy, which started as a cutting from her friend Linda’s ivy, who received her cutting from her sister-in-law, a former White House staffer who once asked President Obama if she could take a clipping from the vibrant plant in his Oval Office.

“Sure,” he reportedly said in his avuncular Obama voice, and my plant’s story took root.

My mom has given cuttings to several of my aunts and cousins, all of them nostalgic for the Obama years. I started a family group text called “The Obama Ivy League,” where we share photos of our plants and tips for keeping them healthy.

Just a few steps from the ivy, in my refrigerator, an equally distinguished sourdough starter bubbles slowly in its jar. Eight years ago, a local bread baker gifted me a portion of her starter, telling me its lineage traced back to San Francisco’s renowned Tartine Bakery. During the pandemic, when sourdough became a quarantine obsession, I shared this starter with about a dozen local friends and neighbors, noting its Tartine origins. They had so many questions about starter care and sourdough baking that I created a private Facebook group called The Secret Sourdough Society.

Both of these are examples of what I call the “lineage effect”: when a memorable origin story transforms ordinary objects into catalysts for connection and action.

Provenance creates value

My Swedish ivy isn’t botanically superior to one from a commercial nursery, and my sourdough starter isn’t better than any other wild yeast culture. Yet both carry more value because of their stories. The ivy connects my living room to the Oval Office; the starter links my kitchen to one of America’s most celebrated sourdough bakeries. Context creates worth.

Mission-driven organizations often undervalue their own provenance. They focus on what they do rather than the legacy they’re extending or creating. The most compelling organizational messages aren’t facts; they’re stories that help audiences understand their place in a larger narrative.

Community through shared meaning

As a journalist, I want to disclose that I haven’t confirmed the lineages of my starter or ivy. (It would be a weird email to Obama’s press people, anyway.) Truth is critical—and in many contexts, false origin stories can become the pretense for serious harms, including erasure and theft. Brand provenance should be documented far more diligently than the stories we pass among families and friends.

But the lesson here is that backstories add value, connect people, and inspire stewardship. The Obama ivy sprouted a family text thread and motivates me to give extra TLC to that houseplant. The Tartine starter cultivates a digital community and reminds me to feed the yeast in the back of the fridge.

The most powerful brand histories aren’t just chronologies; they’re frameworks that help people feel connected in service of something bigger. When we highlight the human experiences that give facts and figures meaning, we invite our audiences to make deeper connections that motivate action.

Authenticity drives impact

Both the ivy and the starter grew and multiplied because of real relationships. The ivy passed through human hands, from the White House staffer to Linda to my mother to me. The starter traveled from the Tartine bakers to Cathy to me.

And here in my Monterey Bay community, I’m still giving ivy cuttings and jars of sourdough starter to my friends and neighbors, who become curators of these stories.

That’s the power of lineage: it transforms consumers into stewards, audiences into advocates. The best mission-driven messages don’t just inform. They propagate. 🌱