The philanthropist who chose purpose over prestige and helped unlock $2.6 billion for social good

Muhsin Hassan's world was never small.

Born in Kenya to a Yemeni father and a Somali mother, he grew up in a house where people spoke five or six languages, and a constant stream of guests brought the world to his doorstep.

He has nine siblings, and with cousins always around, family life wove a rich tapestry of different personalities and perspectives.

"It really helped ground me in terms of my identity, who I was," he says.

His experience as a Muslim in a non-Muslim majority country sharpened this sense of self.

In the city of Eldoret, he was the only Muslim in his school for six years, a "super minority" who had to learn early on how to explain his beliefs.

"It really helped me develop a deeper appreciation for my own religion," he says.

From his father, he learned that education was the only inheritance that mattered.

"If you want a better life," his father would tell him, "it's really through education."

Muhsin took it to heart.

He became a disciplined student, thriving in Kenya's rigorous, competitive school system.

People told him he could be president. As a kid, he believed it.

At 15, he moved to the United States, armed with a strong sense of self and a disciplined work ethic.

He believed his merit would speak for itself. 

He was about to learn that in a new country, the system often makes its own assumptions first, and they weren't designed for someone like him.

* * * 

The confrontation came in the counselor's office. 

A high school counselor, making assumptions based on his background, tried to place him in an English as a Second Language (ESL) class.

A few weeks earlier, a cousin had given him a crucial piece of advice: "Do not let them put you in what is called ESL."

Muhsin spoke up. 

He insisted he knew English and was given a pre-SAT exam to prove it. He got a perfect score.

The counselor’s reaction was immediate. “I can see her eyes lighting up,” Muhsin remembers. “‘Oh, my God, you’re smart.’ We have to redo your whole schedule.”

She discarded his original schedule and placed him in honors classes. 

The experience taught him how quickly the system can define an immigrant's trajectory based on a single assumption.

It also taught him a principle he would carry for the rest of his life: "You have to advocate for yourself, because if you don't, nobody else will."

He found his footing, helped found the school's first Muslim Students Association to create a space for Jumu'ah, and excelled.

The doors his father had promised were opening. Princeton University accepted him. He had arrived.

Or so he thought.

* * * 

"As a good immigrant, math and science are what we do," Muhsin says.

He entered Princeton's school of engineering, ready to play the game.

But he quickly realized that the game never ends.

After Princeton, it would be Harvard Law. After Harvard Law, it would be the fight to make partner.

"By the time that happens, I'm like in my 60s," Muhsin realized. "That's not the life that I want."

This realization sparked a profound search for purpose.

He thought back to his childhood in Kenya, to the poverty he witnessed just outside his school gates.

He remembered the woman selling mangoes on the street, her young child helping her instead of sitting in a classroom.

He wanted to understand the systems that created this inequality. He switched his major to public policy, focusing on international development.

At Princeton, a prestigious program selected him to intern with USAID in Nairobi.

Back in the city where he grew up, but now with the lens of a development professional, the disparity hit him hard.

He realized that, unlike a disease like cancer, for which we are still seeking a cure, the solutions to poverty, poor governance, and lack of infrastructure were already known.

They just weren't being implemented. "That's what really did it for me," he says. "I was like, 'Man, this is what I want to do.'"

He had found his path.

But he was about to discover that the vehicle he had chosen — the U.S. government — had its own set of limitations.

* * * 

After a few years at USAID, Muhsin grew disillusioned.

He watched how quickly U.S. foreign policy priorities could shift, turning a partner country into a low priority overnight.

He also felt the subtle, corrosive effect of the system on his own worldview.

He started internalizing the security-obsessed lens through which his colleagues viewed his home country, a place he knew was far more complex and beautiful than their risk assessments suggested.

"As you're working within the system, the system is also working on you," he says, "and people tend to forget that."

He needed a new vehicle.

He returned to Princeton for graduate school. After graduating, he moved to the UAE to join a social impact consulting firm. There, he learned the frameworks of management consulting and discovered the world of strategic philanthropy.

He saw another way to effect change—one that was more agile and less beholden to political whims.

After a few years, a desire to be closer to his family brought him back to the U.S. He was intentional about his next move, seeking a role that aligned with his values of experimentation and learning.

He found it at Lever for Change, a new, innovative nonprofit spun out of the MacArthur Foundation.

Their mission: unlock philanthropic capital through open-call competitions, democratizing access to funding.

As one of the first employees, he helped build the organization from the ground up.

In one of his proudest moments, he intentionally recruited a diverse panel of evaluators, including many refugees with deep, lived experience, for a challenge focused on refugees.

The result was a $10 million award to a coalition of refugee-led organizations, a group that would have likely been overlooked in a traditional philanthropic process.

He realized his role didn't have to be in the spotlight.

He could work in the background, uplifting others and creating opportunities.

But this quiet, impactful work would require him to be more public about his own needs as a Muslim in the workplace.

* * * 

At Lever for Change, Muhsin has helped unlock $2.6 billion in funding with a team of just 25 people.

Now a managing director, he focuses on extracting lessons from this work to improve the practice of philanthropy.

His professional life follows a simple Islamic principle: perfecting good character. To Muhsin,  it's about being kind, reliable, and empathetic.

This principle also guides how he shows up as a Muslim.

He blocks off his calendar for Jumu'ah. He advocates for prayer space. He remains unapologetic about his values because he has learned that you must teach people how to treat you.

His advice to other Muslim professionals distills his own journey.

It's about balancing professional excellence with firm grounding in your faith.

It's about renewing your intentions, treating people well, and advocating for your needs.

But his most profound lesson is one of trust.

He has wrestled with the choices he's made, wondering if a more lucrative career could have allowed him to be a different kind of philanthropist.

But he always comes back to a core belief.

"As Muslims, we have to firmly believe that rizq is from Allah," he says. "What is meant for you is going to come to you, and what's not meant for you will never reach you. At the end of the day, Allah is the one who is in control."