What does it mean to build a brand in an era when the most powerful form of marketing has always been the most human one?
That question sat at the center of one of the afternoon's most anticipated conversations at The WIE Suite and DVF's gathering of more than 150 women leaders, founders, and cultural changemakers. Moderated by Dee Poku, founder and CEO of The WIE Suite, the session brought together Tiffany Lopinsky, co-founder of ShopMy and Danessa Myricks, the celebrated beauty entrepreneur whose eponymous brand has become a cult phenomenon driven almost entirely by community. Together, they traced the contours of a new influencer landscape, one where authenticity has become the most valuable currency in the room.
Tiffany opened by reframing a concept the industry has long misunderstood. "People are most influenced by word of mouth," she said — not by polished campaigns or paid placements, but by the kind of recommendation that comes from someone you trust. ShopMy was built on that premise: a platform where creators could link to products they genuinely loved and earn from the relationships they'd already built. The distinction she returned to throughout the conversation was the difference between a creator-as-actor and a creator-as-distributor. "A lot of brands have been stuck thinking about influencers almost like talent you cast in a campaign," she said. "The real opportunity is to think of them more like distribution — like mini department stores run by people with real taste and real trust."
That reframe has meaningful consequences for how brands allocate their resources. Rather than chasing reach, Lopinsky argued, the more durable strategy is to amplify the people who are already champions of your product. The affiliate model, she noted, has made this accessible even for brands without significant marketing budgets. "Brands no longer need to pay $100,000 for a few Instagram stories just to get in the game. They can say: here's our program, we offer commission, let's build something together — and scale the relationship from there."
If Lopinsky articulated the structural logic of the new influencer economy, Danessa Myricks offered its soul.
Myricks built her brand from her basement, responding to a gap she felt personally. For years, she stayed behind the scenes, content to educate and create without making herself the story. That changed in 2020. "When the pandemic hit, people were craving deeper community," she said. "I was looking at my brand, looking at the people supporting me, and feeling how they were feeling. And I realized I had no choice but to stand up and start telling the story. Not just of the products, but of why the brand exists."
When Myricks began sharing the personal and emotional origins of her work — the ways the industry had made her feel unseen, the identities she was trying to honor — something shifted in how her community connected with what she was building. "When someone knows that somebody was actually thinking about them," she said, "everything changes. It becomes so much deeper."
Lopinsky affirmed this from the brand strategy side. "Knowing the founder's story makes it so much richer for everyone — including the creators trying to sell your product. You give them something real to tell."
Perhaps the most striking thread running through the conversation was the way both women oriented their thinking around relationships rather than metrics. Myricks described her earliest network of creators — some 273 people in 2021 and 2022 — as a community of everyday advocates, not influencers by any conventional measure. When Danessa Myricks Beauty launched at Sephora, it was these voices — cousins calling cousins, sisters texting sisters — that drove sales past Sephora's first-quarter target in a single weekend.
"They weren't people with big audiences," Myricks said. "They were just telling the people they love to support something they love."
What kept those relationships alive had nothing to do with contracts or compensation. When budgets were tight, Myricks offered what she had: business advice, lighting techniques, access to the studio, an honest conversation about what it takes to build something. "I always think about how I can be more valuable," she said. Today, many of her most powerful advocates have never been paid. They talk about the brand because they feel genuinely seen by it.
Lopinsky drew a through line between that model and the broader shift she's watching across the industry. "Your customers are your best salespeople," she said. "The top influencers for most of these brands are people whose relationships with the brand started because they bought the product themselves."
As the conversation turned to the particular pressures founders face and the expectation that they become the face, the voice, the story.
For Myricks, it required overcoming a deeply held instinct to stay behind the work. "I didn't consider myself an influencer," she said plainly. "But I found that the more I told those stories — and the stories of other people in the community — the more people rallied behind what I was creating."
Lopinsky, speaking from the vantage point of someone who advises brands every day, was direct about the return. "If it comes naturally to you — or even if it doesn't — becoming the voice of your brand is worth it. Founders who do it well become one of the most powerful, and often the least expensive, marketing channels they have."
In a room full of founders, the conversation landed as both permission and provocation. The new influencer, this session made clear, is not necessarily someone with millions of followers. She is someone with something true to say — and the courage to say it.
This session was part of InCharge: A Gathering for Women Shaping What's Next, hosted by The WIE Suite and Diane von Furstenberg at DVF headquarters in New York on March 18, 2026.
