We recently connected with Brook Eddy and have shared our conversation below.

Alright, Brook thanks for taking the time to share your stories and insights with us today. Let’s start with the story of your mission. What should we know?

Bhakti Chai. I had been gestating that name and business for years without even knowing it. It must have settled somewhere in my subconscious while sitting on the floating temple in the Arabian Sea as the fishermen demonstrated their bhakti, or sitting on cramped cement porches surrounded by local villagers watching my every movement as I sipped the boiled chai they had just served me, or with the Hare Krishnas dancing in kirtan—their bhakti through song. With the basic framework of my company established, the recipe, sourcing, pricing, customers, name, and logo, it was now time to build a company worthy of that name, a company of devotion. I wanted to construct the DNA of Bhakti steeped in social justice, feminism, family, and sustainability. It would have to be a different kind of business.

Even the word business conjured up for me boring cubicles, stale suits, sexism, rules, male privilege, misogyny, a rigged system, and greed. There seemed to be something soulless about business. It always seemed to make the wealthy wealthier on the backs of someone else.

I didn’t have a positive paradigm about business. I grew up in the eighties, when “Shop till you drop” was the mantra, and people even wore that phrase proudly, sometimes bedazzled on bulky sweatshirts. Consumerism was pumped into our veins like a drug, and I hated all the waste and greed it created.
The more you buy, the happier you are, they told us. But I didn’t know then it was the shareholders who were the happy ones—stockpiling billions on the backs of workers paid below minimum wage or children in China or Vietnam sewing our clothes. Shopping became a hobby, consumerism a religion.
So it was only natural that when I built a company, I would rebel against the status quo of what I knew about business. Try to pry open some of the nonprofit principles I’d learned in school and then later reinformed studying Hare Krishna and Swadhyay. I was inspired by companies like Patagonia, Ben and Jerry’s, the female-founded Body Shop, and Newman’s Own—companies with a conscience. I wanted it to be a for-profit company mod- eled after the values of nonprofits and social justice organizations. Could I create a business that felt more like a movement that helped and didn’t harm? And also strive for what Aristotle called
“human flourishing,” or a purpose beyond the material?

There is a new type of corporation that wants to do good in the world. They are called B Corps, or benefit corporations, and they are shifting the way we look at doing business. It’s business with the highest standard of social and environmental performance with transparency, to balance purpose with profit. They are trying to build a movement of like-minded businesses but also infiltrate business schools to teach business with a new paradigm of considering the stakeholders as not just investors, but the earth, employees, and the community as major stakeholders. I wanted to be a small part of this unique category of capitalism that created societal and environmental transformation in addition to economic growth and freedom. Bhakti became one of the first certified B Corps in Colorado. There are now 2,500 B Corps in more than fifty countries.

The giving ethos of Bhakti started with monthly tithing. In Hinduism, Seva is the concept of service and in Buddhism, Dana is the practice of giving and the virtue of generosity. I wanted to fund women, girls, and the environment. Women and girls are the population most vulnerable, and funding dollars disproportionately go to men globally, while women and girls bear the brunt of poverty, oppression, forced childhood marriage, war, rape, violence, climate change, and inequality.

I set up monthly automated payments to nonprofits so that it was a part of our operating budget. It was built into the DNA of the business model. Bhakti supported organizations like Planned Parenthood, Global Fund for Women, and the Urgent Action Fund, which works on the ground with activists trying to bring about changes in Iran, Afghanistan, and India. From helping women in Nepal have their voices included in the constitution to working with women in Romania fighting to ratify the prevention and elimination of violence against women.
I was bringing my concoction out in the world, and now I wanted to paint her in the gold of giving.

Awesome – so before we get into the rest of our questions, can you briefly introduce yourself to our readers.

Successful entrepreneur with demonstrated ability to launch, build, grow, market, and manage a beverage business with limited resources. Exhibits excellence in business development, marketing strategy, finance, sales, branding, product development, social media, written & verbal communication, and raising capital.

A business leader with a social impact lens responsible for implementing all business strategies including: new customer acquisition, operations, charitable contributions, facility development and zero-waste manufacturing, marketing, finance, sustainable practices, B Corporation certification, Fair Trade certification and Nongmo verification, advertising, public relations, grassroots organizing, positioning, and corporate growth. Keen ability to create new products and effective sales/marketing strategies to drive sales, increase profits, expand territories, and create lasting customer connections.

Founder of GITAGIVING.org – a platform for positive social change and giving to organizations supporting women and girls.

Author of STEEPED: Adventures Of A Tea Entrepreneur

Bhakti, Inc is the maker of award winning chai and innovative iced tea beverages. Found in retailers like Whole Foods, Costco, Sprouts, Natural Grocers and Amazon – as well as in thousands of cafes around the country.

Can you share a story from your journey that illustrates your resilience?

TOTES OF TEA Seeing so much innovation at Expo and how brands pivoted and rolled out shiny packages of new items for consumers every year, I knew I needed to think bigger than just chai. And how hard could it be to do something totally different?
First, I played in my home kitchen, brewing up some of our artisan teas and adding juices and sparkling water. I added lemon juice to our black tea and ginger. I added lime and mango juice to matcha tea. I added mint and sassafras to yerba mate and cherry juice to our rooibos artisan tea. I was ready to have my employees and friends try these new teas. Just like the other innovations, the response was positive.

I brought samples in cute glass bottles to the Whole Foods global team in Austin, Texas, and pitched them on Bhakti Sparkling Tea. Before investing in something that big and expensive, I needed a customer. I needed a retailer that similarly thought they were delicious, refreshing, unique, healthy, and the perfect addition to their drink sets. Whole Foods said yes, they wanted the new line of Bhakti Sparkling Tea to launch in all their stores nationally. Now, I had to find a soda-bottling copacker to blend, fizz, and package it for me.

Four months later, I was walking into a production factory in the dark early morning with a nonstop drizzling rain. I was in Portland, Oregon, for my first sparkling tea line bottling run. My hair was tucked into a hairnet, and I wore clear protective eye shields and a white lab coat. The blending began at four in the morning. This was the only line time a small brand like Bhakti could secure. The hot-fill processing line next door was cooking and filling plastic bottles with viscous teriyaki sauce. Smelling that in the early morning made me nauseous. I couldn’t wait to get my ingredients running and smell the fresh mint for the mate and the mango puree in the lime matcha blend. I was standing where Pepsi products were made. This felt like I had made it big time. I couldn’t wait to see the glass filled with my new creation on an endless conveyor belt of colorful bottles. As I was scheming what angle I would shoot the video from to send to my team to post on Instagram when the bottles began to shuffle down the line with our beautiful, bright labels, the plant manager came walking up to me in a fury.

“We have a big problem,” he said. “Your totes of brewed tea arrived, but they did not have tamper-proof seals, so we can’t use them.” He had an impenetrable attitude, but I had dealt with worse.

I heard no all the time. Every day someone told me I couldn’t do something. Pushing for the yes and being optimistic was ingrained in my nature. I convinced the “no” people 99 percent of the time to say yes. I would figure out a workaround. I was confident I could pivot this latest “no” script spewing from his tired mouth to a yes.

“We always have our totes sealed. Is there a way I can sign off on this, and we can use different seals next time?” I kindly asked. “Yes, they were sealed, just not with a tamper-proof seal. Someone could have opened the totes of brewed tea and compromised the integrity,” he replied in a robotic tone.

“But no one did. They came from our brewery on a truck to your facility. Truck drivers don’t tamper with products. Can we look into having them tested or signed off on by the trucking company, or I’ll take the liability?” I said.
“No. Everything that we receive must have a tamper-proof seal on it, or we can’t use the ingredient.”
I pleaded with him to talk to the bottling plant owner to see if we could find a solution.

We had just spent $70,000 to get all the ingredients, bottles, labels, and boxes there, and we were
launching in Whole Foods in eight weeks. Dave, the bottling plant owner, was a sixty-year-old guy I’d convinced to give me a chance two months prior. He had said no then too. But after I sent him projections, flew out to meet with him in person, and assured him this sparkling tea line would be the next big product, he begrudgingly agreed—but only with an up-front payment and line time in the middle of the night.

My rational arguments, ideas for compromise, pleas for compassion, and lists of solutions didn’t work. It was a rule they wouldn’t break. Dave wouldn’t do a thing. They would dump all of that freshly brewed organic and fair-trade tea—and charge us for it. They would also dump the mango puree and the fresh cherry juice that only had a one-week shelf life because they couldn’t get us another slot on the line for another month. All of it down the drain with the excess teriyaki sauce. Which meant I had to go back to Whole Foods and postpone the launch, which meant we would miss the reset and paid promotion. Another $45,000 lost.

This was the “big time,” and we had f*cked up. First, I called the head brewer and asked what had happened. He had all the communication about product specs, timing, freight, and certifications needed for them to do our run. He used the tote seals we had on hand and didn’t think the lack of a tamper-proof seal would be an issue. But that requirement was clearly spelled out on the spec sheet. Which was his job to read and follow. I wanted to f*cking kick over cases of our glass bottles, a full-on glass-exploding temper tantrum. I wanted to roar and rage at him. But I wasn’t that type of CEO. I never yelled at anyone. I often exhibited disdain or disappointment when things were not done properly. Or I got frustrated when someone missed an important deadline with a retailer. But I never yelled. Instead, I pushed it down, went out to my car, where there was still a dark, dreary rain, and burst into tears.

I drove to the airport to return my rental car and get on an ear- lier flight but had to drive around and around because I couldn’t control my tears and my rage to get out the car and talk to the rental car attendant. Here I was again. Alone. Dealing with other people’s fuckups. Having to salvage my company again. I knew I would have to tell my investors I’d just dumped their money down the drain. Literally. And I hate using that word, but they were literally dumping tea and ingredients down the drain. When was I going to get a f*cking break? When was I not going to have all the stress on my shoulders? On a physiological level, every one of these dodge, pivot, fail, and cry moments of a startup ramps up adrenaline. Then the body secretes a hormone to constrict blood and heart muscles and stimulate the adrenal glands. These vessels begin to shred; the intestines and immune system all slow down to deal with this attack. Not the best daily practice to be doing.

I eventually had those sparkling tea bottles made and launched in Whole Foods nationally to great accolades and consumer enthusiasm. But this catastrophe foreshadowed how much Bhakti could fail and flounder and how I was just as powerless as I was saving those totes of tea. We were so fragile, like so many young companies, and the margin for error was slim. We were always just one crisis away from going under.

Have you ever had to pivot?

I had never uttered the word bankruptcy or even thought it would be an option. Not because I believed in some tale of its power, like bankers never using a red pen in business for fear of falling in the red. It never even occurred to me to discuss bankruptcy. I knew the statistics about 90 percent of businesses failing within the first five years. But not Bhakti. I only ever thought about growth. I thought all day and all night about improving and building—never the idea of unraveling my company or being in the position to salvage my company. I had a new realization—one that so many founders go through—the pain of your creation heading to a graveyard. It was heartbreaking. We were a month away from running out of money, and the board started using the term BK, as if truncating the word took out the sting. I couldn’t believe I was on calls discussing bankruptcy. I felt powerless. I didn’t have the money or power to call for an emergency rescue operation. For so long, I had been the benevolent dictator, making the decisions. You can’t run a company as a democracy when things move so fast and achieving compromise takes time. But this time, I couldn’t call the shots or make decisions without money.

Then the word insolvency arose. How could we pay off our debts? Would the existing investors have to put in money to pay off the company’s debts so they wouldn’t be exposed? Would I? How much had I personally guaranteed, after all? I’d signed so many forms to ensure equipment and loans, and I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. How would I come up with the money to pay off all the debt?

I was on board calls with attorneys who worked in BK. Then more calls with buyers of distressed businesses. Would the investors “have a BK stain on their fund”? I sat on the phone with my jaw open. Even though I was on mute, I was moving my mouth, saying, “Oh my God…no f*cking way…how is this happening?”
They uttered things like, “If we wind down now, perhaps a BK wouldn’t be necessary from a legal perspective.” They were already resigned to losing all their investment money. Millions of dollars vanished—no return on investment. No emotion. Nothing about the death of a beautiful brand I spent a decade building. There was never “These products are too good to fail.” It was as if they were already planning the funeral and deciding on a wood coffin because it was cheaper.

I was suddenly reminded of a Kabir poem:
“While you’re busy perfuming your body with sandalwood, Someone else is chopping the wood for your funeral.
A kite string in your hand, paan dribbling from your mouth,
You forgot that when you die, they’ll truss you up with rope, Just like the common thief, and put you on the pyre to burn. Can’t you see that Rama is the only truth,
everything else a monstrous lie?”

Bhakti was dying. First, I went to the bargaining stage of grief. I had to save my company. I wrote a Bhakti manifesto and sent it to the board and all the early investors and advisory board members. I’d do anything to get her back. I was going to fight the fight. I tried to find local investors to buy out all the current investors if they weren’t interested in rekindling her. I met with the international beer conglomerate that had invested, begging for help. But they were dissolving their nonalcoholic focus, and those employees could care less for Bhakti. I searched everywhere for a white knight—a business term meaning someone who was willing to buy out the investors and give the company back over to the founder to run. Instead of having multiple investors trying to pull the company in different directions, there would be just one saving the company from bankruptcy.
What I really wanted was a goddess to arrive dressed in a sari and give me the funds I needed to take back the company. I paraded through endless coffee meetings with men. I showed them slides of the beloved brand I created, the vibrancy still coming through her even as the dismal numbers and scoreboard of defeat hung over every conversation. But there wasn’t anything I could do. I was powerless unless I came up with millions of dollars overnight.

Then, I entered the anger stage of grief. On hikes I would yell and mumble to myself, having imaginary conversations with everyone I blamed, including myself and everyone that wasn’t helping me. Why couldn’t anyone else see that this brand deserved to be saved?

The depression phase hit next, exhibited through isolation and alcohol. I’m not endorsing drinking, but I found it really did shift my perspective and stress. I was spending my days trying to get terms with our vendors to pay them in 120 days because we couldn’t pay our bills and I was laying off people. Unraveling our business with distributors and trying to negotiate debt. This called for cocktails.

Finally, I moved onto the grief step of acceptance. The white knight or goddess in a sari never arrived to save my company. I had to accept the destiny now before me. I felt embarrassed that Bhakti was becoming another statistic of failure. Even in all the sadness, disappointment, fear, and mourning of my brand’s death, I had the inner knowingness we would be all right—and I would eventually too.

The following week, our main investor, the Colorado granola native, called and said he had a plan. “If we sell the brewery effective next week, and all the brewery equipment, and discontinue the iced chai single-serve line, gallons, and all the glass quarts and growlers, I think there may be a way to save the company.” I was helpless without money, and it was my only option. It was the last-ditch effort to save my company from bankruptcy. He would be willing to put in some capital if we were not burning money every month. Could I say no? The millions of iced-chai bottles consumed and used as morning caffeine pick-me-ups, afternoon treats, or after-yoga rituals would now be unavailable. More products and innovation in that natural foods graveyard. All those brewery employees let go.

He said some of the kindest words that I really needed to hear at the time: “Bhakti and Brook are a Colorado asset; we need to do what we can to build this company back up.” He hadn’t given up on us or me; he cared. Luckily, I didn’t have to do it alone. The investor loaned me one of his young analysts to help turn the company around—for free. She was intelligent, hardworking, and a thoughtful blessing. Without her, I couldn’t have gone back into the battlefield alone. See, I’m getting the hang of using these biz references!
The two of us worked together as a team to cut costs and build back sales. We pulled all spending and kept Bhakti going with a skeletal team and parched spending. I watched Bhakti do a series of rounds of chemotherapy. A plan so virulent it may just save her life. It was as if I was starting all over again. A mess to clean up. But at least I was well rested from my sabbatical days! It was like the early days before innovation or line extensions—Bhakti was back to just two products: the original fresh ginger chai concentrate and the unsweetened fresh ginger chai concentrate. All my other products swirled down that big drain of disappointment.

It was a season of uncertainty with the brand. There were days of stability and good news. New business with Costco. But then COVID-19 snuck up behind us and our café business shriveled into almost nothing due to all the coffee shops shutting down, and our retail business dipped 25 percent. Luckily, our Amazon business kept us alive that year, as well as the governmental Paycheck Protection Plan.

I was learning another way to run a business. It wasn’t as interesting or creative as when I was focused on new products and marketing campaigns. It wasn’t as fun as buying an electric Tuk Tuk for sampling programs or hosting a Michael Franti concert. Now it was about conserving cash and working toward profitability. I had no other choice but to push the Bhakti boulder uphill again.

Contact Info:

• Website: www.brookeddy.com www.drinkbhakti.com
• Instagram: @brookbhakti @drinkbhakti
• Facebook: Brook Eddy Bhakti Chai
• Linkedin: Brook Eddy Bhakti Chai
• Twitter: @bhaktifans @brookbhakti

Image Credits
Nina Lawerence