About

I'm Wilfred Stephen Anfield (feel free to call me Stephen), MPH, MSW, a strategist, writer, and caregiver who centers joy, based in Washington, D.C. With roots in the deep South, I spent nearly two decades in digital marketing, communications management, and social media before coming back to the things that raised me. I now think about health equity, determinants of health (social, digital, and commercial), digital inclusion, and participatory design, centering lived experience, restoring dignity, and amplifying joy.

This is my story.

I was born at Shaw Air Force Base in Sumter, South Carolina, grew up in Huntsville, Alabama, and found my voice studying speech communication at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville.

My journey into community care work began in a place close to my heart: my grandmother's first-grade classroom in South Carolina. There, seated criss-cross applesauce on a rug, I first experienced the joy of watching her students find their words.

I'd spend time with her students each spring break, sitting alongside them as they sounded out words from their favorite books, counted (and ate) jellybeans for math lessons, and shared stories from their lives. That classroom was my first glimpse into the beauty of presence, encouragement, and patience that comes from being part of someone's journey rather than directing it.

Pecan trees taught me patience. Porches taught me how to listen. I'm rooted in Black Southern care, nourished by collard greens, front-porch wisdom, and the unshakeable belief that "y'all" means all.

After college, I didn't take a straight path. (Do any of us?)

I spent nearly two decades in digital marketing, communications management, and social media, working as an Online Community Manager, Social Media Strategist, Media Analyst, and Consultant. My work spanned tech companies, nonprofits, government agencies, and everything in between.

I learned how to meet people where they are both online and off. I learned that digital tools can connect communities or leave them behind. And I learned that the most important question is always: Who's not in the room?

I went back to school. Why? Because I wanted to deepen my ability to serve communities through the lenses of public and population health and social work.

While I was still in school, I became the court-appointed guardian and conservator for my mother. Suddenly, I was navigating care systems, legal frameworks, and financial decisions... all while finishing two graduate degree programs.

It was hard. It was clarifying. And it changed the way I see everything.

Most things involve answering two questions: 1) who's been left out, and 2) how do we design them back in? I think about this through public health, population health, health equity, and participatory design, with particular attention to social determinants of health, digital determinants of health, and commercial determinants of health. Caring for my Mom as her legal guardian, conservator, and caregiver gives me a perspective no classroom or textbook could provide: systems either hold people with dignity and recognize their humanity, or they don't. Because of this experience my Mom and I share, disability justice and elder justice anchor how I see everything else, which means I bring trauma-informed ethics into every space meant for care.

I approach opportunities with what I call "mason jar values": clear, grounded, and built to preserve what matters most, even in hard seasons. Like a family recipe passed down through generations, the way I approach family caregiving, accessibility, and participatory design carries the soul of Black Southern care traditions: front-porch conversations that reveal collective wisdom, practical solutions as reliable as well-preserved summer vegetables, and enough room at the table for everyone.

I believe care is infrastructure and should never be an afterthought. The rest follows from there: say it in plain language because clarity is respect, listen to and trust community wisdom as expertise because lived experience is data, and always try to keep a little joy in your pocket because sharing joy is where connection happens. And because joy is highkey fun.

Everything I do still starts the same way it did on that classroom rug: sitting with people, sounding things out, and believing in what's possible when we design with community.