Judy Faulkner

 While other billionaires race to space, this 82-year-old woman is quietly giving away $7 billion—and you've probably never heard her name.

Meet Judy Faulkner. No yacht. No private island. No monuments bearing her name.

Just a basement in Madison, Wisconsin, $70,000 borrowed from friends, and an idea that would save millions of lives.

The year was 1979. Healthcare was broken in ways most people never saw. Your medical records? Trapped in filing cabinets. Move to a new city? Your doctor knew nothing about your history. Critical allergies? Lost in the paperwork shuffle. People died in those gaps.

Judy saw the problem with unusual clarity. She'd worked in healthcare computing since the 1960s—back when "computing" meant punch cards and room-sized machines. She understood both medicine and code. And she knew that if medical information could follow patients seamlessly, everything would change.

So she built Epic Systems.

From that basement, with two part-time employees and a computer she programmed herself, she created what would become one of the most powerful healthcare technology companies in the world. Today, Epic holds medical records for patients across half the hospital beds in America. When your doctor pulls up your chart, checks your allergies, sees your test results from another hospital—there's a good chance Epic made that possible.

But here's where Judy's story diverges from every Silicon Valley playbook you've ever heard.

She never sold.

Never took venture capital. Never went public. Never chased the exit that founders are supposed to want. She kept Epic private because she believed patients should never be secondary to profit margins.

"Why be owned by people whose primary interest is return on equity?" she once asked.

It was a revolutionary stance. While other tech founders optimized for IPOs and acquisition deals, Judy optimized for something different: systems built to last decades, not quarters. Relationships with hospitals, not revenue spikes. Product quality over market dominance.

She grew Epic slowly, carefully, deliberately. At 82, she still goes to work every day at Epic's 1,670-acre campus in Verona, Wisconsin—a whimsical place with storybook-inspired buildings that one executive described as a mix between Bill Gates and Willy Wonka.

But the wealth came anyway. Billions of dollars. Inevitable, given Epic's success and scale.

And that's when the most important decision arrived.

Most billionaires, when they sign the Giving Pledge, commit to giving away their wealth someday. After death. Through foundations that will operate in their names long after they're gone. It's legacy planning dressed as philanthropy.

Judy went further.

In 2015, she pledged to give away 99 percent of her fortune. Not someday. Not after she's gone. Now. While she can see where it goes and ensure it's used well.

She named her foundation "Roots & Wings"—inspired by a conversation with her children years earlier, when they asked what they needed most from her.

Food, they said. Money. Security.

She shook her head. "You need roots and wings."

Roots: food, shelter, healthcare, education—the essentials that ground a life.

Wings: opportunity, dignity, the chance to rise.

In 2020, her foundation gave $15 million to over 100 organizations. By 2024, that number grew to $67 million distributed to more than 300 nonprofits. Her goal? $100 million annually by 2027.

She's systematically selling her Epic shares back to the company—ensuring employees benefit from ownership—and giving every dollar away. Into healthcare access for underserved communities. Education for children who need it. Housing stability for families on the edge.

Of the hundreds of billionaires who have signed the Giving Pledge, only a small fraction actually give away substantial wealth while they're alive. Most treat philanthropy as something that happens after they no longer need the money.

Judy Faulkner is giving it away now, while it can still matter in the world she inhabits.

In an era when wealth often becomes spectacle—vanity projects, ostentatious displays, monuments to ego—Judy chose stewardship.

Her legacy won't be measured in rockets or towers with her name on them.

It will be measured in lives saved because doctors had the information they needed. In children educated because someone believed learning matters more than profit. In families stabilized because help arrived before collapse.

She taught her children they needed roots and wings.

Now she's spending her fortune making sure millions of others can have both.

Not for tax benefits. Not for PR. Not for legacy polishing.

But because she genuinely believes that wealth, held without ego, can become something rare: a tool for care, a foundation for dignity, a quiet force that lifts others without demanding applause.

Judy Faulkner is 82 years old, worth billions, and still going to work every day at the company she built from a basement with borrowed money.

She could have sold decades ago. Could have retired to comfort. Could have multiplied her wealth through an IPO and justified keeping it a thousand different ways.

Instead, she's giving 99 percent away while she's alive to see it matter.

Most billionaires talk about giving back someday.

Judy Faulkner is actually doing it.

And hardly anyone knows her name.

Maybe it's time that changed.