The recent report involving Brendan Sorsby, covered by most sports media sites/networks, is not an anomaly. It is a case study. According to that reporting, Sorsby is entering a gambling addiction program. That single sentence captures the outcome of a system that has normalized constant access, frictionless transactions, and persistent behavioral reinforcement.  And at this point, it is unknown if this reaches criminal negligence regarding game fixing.

Data aligns with what many suspected. Multiple studies indicate that roughly 60 percent to 75 percent of college aged males engage in sports betting in some form. That range is wide, but the direction is clear. Participation is not niche. It is mainstream behavior embedded in campus life. When that level of participation meets an environment where wagering is available on demand through a phone, the barrier between impulse and action is effectively removed.

State level legalization has accelerated this shift. The policy argument has focused on regulation and tax revenue. The practical effect has been distribution. Gambling is no longer a destination activity. It is delivered directly into dorm rooms, apartments, and locker rooms. The industry has optimized for immediacy, frequency, and retention.

From a behavioral economics standpoint, it mirrors the delivery model of other high frequency reward systems.  Physiologically, prop betting intensifies the risk by creating rapid reward cycles, where wagering on individual plays can trigger dopamine responses every 30 to 60 seconds, reinforcing behavior at a much higher frequency than traditional game outcome bets.

It is also important to acknowledge that student-athletes operate within a different risk profile. They are closer to the product. They are more likely to have insider exposure. They are subject to performance pressure. And they are often younger than the environments they are asked to navigate. When access is constant and cultural acceptance is high, body/brain science tells us of people seeking the release of endorphins, the probability of boundary failure increases.

However, focusing only on athletes misses the broader issue. This is not confined to locker rooms. It is a societal pattern that is scaling across campuses and into early adulthood. The same conditions that affect athletes apply to their peers, with fewer institutional controls and less scrutiny. States face a conflicting incentive structure. The revenue from legalized sports betting is significant and growing. That creates reluctance to impose restrictions that might reduce volume. As a result, policy responses tend to lag behind behavioral impact.

This will not be the last story of its kind. The underlying variables have not changed. Access remains immediate. Participation remains high. Oversight remains uneven. Until those variables shift, similar outcomes should be expected.

But the conversation feels incomplete.

It tends to treat outcomes as something that happens to graduates, rather than something shaped by the choices they make along the way. That distinction matters.

When I was in college, I was not just taking classes. I was working. Internships, part time jobs, anything that connects learning to actual work. It was not optional in my household. My father was direct about it. He also had strong views about what I should study. He pushed for a degree that was usable. For me, that meant business, not English. His logic was simple. A degree should translate into the workforce.

That perspective shaped how I approached everything that followed.

When I went on to law school and later completed my MBA, I already knew I did not want to practice law. So, I made a decision. I spent my time interning in the field I actually wanted to pursue. While I was earning advanced degrees, I was also building relevant experience. Not perfectly. Not strategically in the way people might frame it today. But intentionally.

That is a piece often missing in the underemployment conversation.

We talk about alignment between degrees and jobs. That is important. But alignment also comes from behavior during those years, not just the degree itself. Internships, work experience, exposure to real environments. Those decisions compound over time.

There is another part of this discussion that rarely gets attention. Expectations. When I graduated from college, and again after law school and my MBA, I did not step into a comfortable life. I lived like a pauper. Ramen noodles were a staple. I drove an old car. There was no real social life to speak of. That was the tradeoff.

When I finished my graduate work, I was also getting married. My wife was in graduate school and worked as a resident advisor, so we lived in university housing. I was working my first real job, full-time.  Our housing choice was not by choice, but because it was what we could afford. We had no money. None. That experience shaped how I viewed early career outcomes.

Today, some of the frustration around underemployment is tied to a mismatch between expectations and reality. There is an assumption that a degree, even an advanced one, should immediately translate into a well-paying, fulfilling role. That has never been guaranteed.  Maybe even should be the goal.

The first job is often a bridge, not a destination.

This does not dismiss the structural issues raised in the article. There are real concerns about how higher education aligns with workforce demand. There are questions about the value proposition of certain degrees. Those are legitimate.

But focusing only on the system removes agency from the individual.

Students make choices. I made choices.  What to study.  How work would reduce loan dependency. Whether to work while in school. Whether to pursue internships. How to build experience alongside education. How to live after graduation. Each of those decisions influences outcomes in ways that are often underestimated---or even discussed before/during the educational experience.

There is also a discipline in starting from the bottom. Living lean. Taking roles that build skills rather than status. Delaying comfort. That phase is not always pleasant, but it can be formative.

Underemployment, as a concept, is useful for diagnosing a problem. But it can also obscure the more nuanced reality that early careers are rarely linear, and rarely ideal.

The goal is not just to get the right job. It is to build a trajectory.  That starts long before graduation, and it often requires a willingness to accept that the early years may look nothing like success.

In rooms full of people, it is easy to default to averages. Leaders scan for trends, majorities, and segments, and strategy becomes oriented around “the group.” Over time, the one person becomes abstract. A donor turns into a data point, a student into a score, and a patient into a case.

The risk is not philosophical. It is operational.

Research on personalized learning provides a useful signal. When systems are designed to respond to individual needs, measurable outcomes improve. A large study of more than 11,000 students found those in personalized learning environments showed stronger gains in math and reading than peers in traditional models. Other analyses indicate students in personalized settings can perform up to 30 percent better on assessments while also showing higher engagement and retention. Engagement itself correlates with achievement, with higher engagement environments producing more students at or above proficiency.

The pattern is consistent across domains. When attention narrows to the individual, outcomes improve.

This dynamic extends beyond education. Individuals bring different starting points, motivations, and constraints into any system. Models built for the “average” systematically miss those differences. Over time, that gap compounds. In education, it widens inequality. In philanthropy, it weakens relationships. In organizations, it suppresses performance.

Focusing on “the one” is not a rejection of scale. It is a refinement of how scale is achieved.

High performing systems embed personalization into their operating model rather than treating it as an exception.

• In education, that means adapting pace and content to the learner.

• In fundraising, it means aligning engagement with a donor’s interests, timing, and decision process.   

• In leadership, it requires seeing the individual behind the role and responding accordingly.

There is also discipline required. Seeing the one depends on proximity and attention. It requires quantitative data, but also observation, listening, and iteration. It can feel slower in the moment, yet it reduces misalignment and inefficiency over time.

There is a secondary effect that is often underestimated. When individuals feel seen, behavior shifts. Engagement increases, commitment deepens, and relationships move from transactional to relational. That is where disproportionate impact begins to form.

Large systems will always optimize for the many. That is necessary. But outcomes are determined in the margins where individuals either connect or disengage. The practical challenge is designing systems that do not lose the one while serving the many.

That was the lesson of Richard Nixon and Watergate. The original break-in was serious. The larger collapse came from the effort to deny, hide, delay, deflect, and protect those in power. Once leaders choose preservation over truth, the institution becomes part of the harm.

That appears to be the deeper issue in a Nebraska women’s basketball matter, started some three (3) years ago. A former assistant coach reportedly admitted, just recently in a deposition, to a sexual relationship with a former player after earlier denials. The lawsuit alleges the institution failed to protect the player and mishandled what followed.

The power dynamic was wrong from the beginning. A coach holds influence over playing time, status, team belonging, future opportunity, and emotional security. A player is not operating from an equal position. Even when conduct is framed as a relationship, the imbalance cannot be ignored. Authority changes the meaning of consent, pressure, silence, and fear.

The institutional failure, if the allegations are proven, is even larger. The people with power (university leaders, the Athletics Director, Head Coach, administrators) appear to have protected the system, the brand, the department, and each other. The player, a starter, when initial discovered, unofficially was suspended. The assistant coach kept coaching. The player became the expendable person. The adults with authority managed risk. The athlete carried consequences.

That is where organizations lose moral standing.

Universities, athletic departments, nonprofits, companies, and boards all face the same test. When misconduct surfaces, leaders can protect the vulnerable person or protect the hierarchy. They can seek truth or manage optics. They can ask who was harmed or ask how to contain the story.

The cover up kills because it compounds the original wound. It tells victims they were never the priority. It tells staff that loyalty matters more than honesty. It tells the public that the mission statement was negotiable.

Watergate remains relevant because it revealed a pattern still common in institutions. Power first. Truth later. The lesson is not only political. It is organizational. When leaders hide behind process, titles, legal language, or silence, they may win a day. They lose the future.

My expectation is that this will never be fully tested in a courtroom. These matters rarely are. The power brokers tend to settle. Agreements are reached. Statements are issued. The system resets. The formal/actual truth is never revealed, even if it is a public entity. Whether anything was learned is less clear.

The better response is still available. Name the power imbalance. Protect the person with less power. Separate institutional loyalty from ethical duty. Investigate without favoritism. Do not punish the person who was vulnerable while preserving the people who controlled the environment.

The first wrong act can create a crisis.

The cover up can and does negatively define the institution.

I wrote about this in January 2025 in a post titled “Millions of Webpages to Be Edited in Less Than 365 Days.” The core issue then is the same one now. The scope of the mandate was massive, while the timeline and infrastructure to support it were limited. Institutions were being asked to review, remediate, and in many cases rebuild entire digital ecosystems. That includes websites, PDFs, video libraries, course materials, and third-party platforms.

At the time, I noted that the challenge was not philosophical. Most institutions agree with the intent. Accessibility is not controversial. The difficulty sits in execution. The volume of content alone creates a structural problem. Large universities can have millions of pages and files. Many are decentralized, owned by different departments, stored across systems, and updated inconsistently.

Even with strong leadership, the operational lift is significant. It requires technical audits, content rewrites, new governance models, staff training, and ongoing monitoring. It also requires funding. Many institutions were attempting to address this without dedicated budget increases or

sufficient staffing. That creates a gap between expectation and reality.

The delay acknowledges that gap.

There is a broader pattern worth noting. When compliance expectations are set at a level that very few organizations can realistically meet, enforcement becomes difficult. If most institutions are out of compliance, the mandate loses practical force. At that point, regulators often adjust timelines or expectations rather than pursue widespread penalties. This is not a statement about intent. It is a reflection of how large systems behave under pressure.

That dynamic appears to be at play here.

The extension does not eliminate the requirement. It resets the clock. Institutions still need to move toward compliance. The underlying work remains. If anything, the delay should be used to build a more durable approach. One that prioritizes high traffic content, establishes clear ownership, and integrates accessibility into ongoing workflows rather than treating it as a one-time project.

There is also a strategic question for leadership. Compliance should not be framed only as a regulatory burden. Done well, accessible digital content improves usability for all users. It strengthens communication, reduces friction, and aligns with broader mission goals, especially in education and healthcare.

The risk is that institutions interpret the delay as permission to pause. That would repeat the same cycle that led to the initial deadline pressure.  The more productive response is different. Use the additional time to build systems that can sustain compliance over time.

The mandate did not change. The timeline did.

For most of my career, I have made the case that fundraising strategies overly centered on cash miss the larger reality. Roughly 85 percent of wealth in the United States is held in non-liquid forms. Real estate, retirement accounts, closely held businesses, and insurance policies dominate the balance sheet of most families. Cash is a small slice.

When organizations focus only on annual gifts, they are competing for that smaller slice. When they build serious planned giving programs, they access the other 85 percent.

That is the context in which St. Jude’s accomplishment should be viewed. They did not just raise money. They aligned their strategy with how wealth actually exists.

Their approach reflects several principles that show up consistently in high performing programs. Planned giving is treated as a core growth strategy, not a side conversation. Bequests are positioned as the entry point, which lowers complexity and increases participation. Conversations are driven by donor intent rather than technical structures.

This matters because most donors are not thinking first about tax optimization. They are thinking about impact, legacy, and what their life represents over time. The most effective programs understand that second and third gifts are not about what the donor can do for the organization. They are about what the organization can help the donor accomplish.

There is also a timing issue that cannot be ignored. Over the next two decades, more than $80 trillion is expected to transfer between generations. Even conservative estimates suggest that between 11 and 14 percent of that will go to nonprofits. The organizations that build disciplined planned giving programs today will be the ones positioned to benefit from that shift.

St. Jude’s results are a scaled example of what happens when this work is done consistently. They normalized the idea of including the organization in an estate plan. They invested in long term relationships. They made the conversation accessible. None of that is complicated, but it does require commitment and clarity.

There is a practical takeaway here. If most of the wealth is in assets, then the primary question for any organization is whether it has a strategy to engage those assets. Planned giving is not a technical specialty reserved for a small group of donors. It is the most direct path to aligning donor capacity with donor intent.

The organizations that recognize this will not just raise more. They will build more durable and more meaningful partnerships with the people they serve.

I am not going to take a side here. Not because the issue lacks importance, but because I do not know what I do not know. Complex labor disputes are shaped by details that rarely make their way into public summaries. Compensation structures, long-term liabilities, enrollment projections, and internal negotiations all matter. Anyone who suggests this is simple is either uninformed or advocating.

What stands out to me is something else entirely. What is missing from most of the conversation is the student.

More than fifty thousand students were affected in this case. That is not a footnote. That is the central impact. Classes interrupted or canceled. Academic timelines disrupted. Financial aid delayed. Transfer plans complicated. For some, graduation timelines pushed out. For others, uncertainty about whether the term will even count.

Time matters for students in a way it does not for institutions or employees. A delayed quarter or semester is not just an inconvenience. It can mean additional tuition, lost wages, childcare complications, or visa issues for international students. It can mean momentum lost for students already balancing work, family, and school. Many community college students are navigating fragile pathways. Disruption carries real cost.

Learning itself is also affected in ways that are harder to quantify. Continuity matters. When instruction stops and restarts, comprehension suffers. Engagement declines. The rhythm of learning breaks. These are not abstract concerns. They influence completion rates and long-term outcomes.

What is striking is how rarely this perspective is centered. Public narratives tend to frame these disputes as a contest between labor and management. That framing is understandable, but it is incomplete. Students are not observers. They are the primary stakeholders. Yet their experience is often reduced to a line or two near the end of an article.

This pattern extends beyond this situation. In public district labor disputes across education, the same dynamic appears. Adults negotiate. Adults advocate. Adults take positions. Students absorb the consequences.

That does not mean strikes are unjustified or that institutions should simply concede. It does mean the conversation should expand. If student impact were treated as a primary consideration rather than a secondary effect, how might decisions change. How might timelines shift. How might communication improve.

There is a discipline required here. To hold space for complexity without rushing to judgment. To acknowledge competing realities. And to keep attention to those who have the least power in the situation.

In moments like this, the question is not only who is right. It is also who is carrying the cost.

The recent case of the university president at Ohio State stepping down over an inappropriate relationship tied to potential resource access is not just a story about judgment. It is a case study in how personal conduct and leadership credibility are inseparable .

There is a persistent temptation among leaders to separate personal life from professional role. That separation does not hold at scale. When someone is entrusted with visibility, authority, and influence, their behavior becomes a proxy for the organization. People inside and outside the institution read actions as signals. Trust is not compartmentalized.

What stands out in situations like this is not only the behavior itself, but the absence of internal constraint. Personal responsibility is not about compliance with policy. It is about discipline when no one is watching and restraint when access and power expand options. Leadership without that discipline becomes fragile.

Power changes context. Research consistently shows that individuals with authority become more impulsive and more self-focused if accountability is weak. That does not excuse behavior. It explains the conditions under which responsibility erodes. Leaders are not immune to this. They are more exposed to it.

The failure, then, is not only moral. It is operational. When a leader creates even the appearance of a conflict, it disrupts confidence across multiple stakeholders. Faculty question intent. Donors question stewardship. Boards question judgment. The organization spends time recovering from distraction rather than advancing its mission.

There is also a second layer that is harder to address. Many leaders are selected for achievement, visibility, and results. Those are measurable. Personal responsibility is harder to quantify. It is often assumed rather than tested. That assumption is where risk enters.

Leadership requires a different standard. Not higher in rhetoric, but higher in consistency. It requires clarity about what one stands for beyond advancement, recognition, or growth metrics. Without that clarity, decisions become situational. Situational ethics do not sustain institutional trust.

The more complex the organization, the less tolerance there is for ambiguity in leadership behavior. Large systems depend on confidence in the person at the top. Once that confidence is compromised, recovery is slow and often incomplete.

Personal responsibility is not an accessory to leadership. It is foundational. When it weakens, leadership weakens with it. When it fails, the organization feels it immediately.

Leaders do not need to be perfect. They do need to be anchored. Professional success without that anchor is unstable.

Leadership, at its core, is a reflection of what a person chooses when they have the option to choose otherwise.

The issue is not ideology. Reasonable people can and should disagree about policy, priorities, and the role of government. That is part of a healthy republic. The concern is the tone, the posture, and the apparent shift away from problem solving toward positioning. What we are seeing now is not simply disagreement. It is a pattern of behavior that rewards conflict, discourages cooperation, and treats compromise as failure rather than progress.

When citizens elect representatives, the expectation is straightforward. We send people to govern, to make decisions, and to navigate complexity on our behalf. That process has always required negotiation. It has always required listening. It has always required a willingness to accept less than a perfect outcome in order to achieve a functional one.

That is not weakness. That is the job.

What is happening instead is something different. Recalcitrance has become a strategy. Holding firm, even when it prevents movement, is often celebrated. The result is paralysis at best and escalating tension at worst. Over time, that erodes confidence in institutions and in the individuals who lead them.

This matters well beyond Washington. In the nonprofit sector, trust is the currency that makes everything possible. Donors need to believe in the organizations they support. Leaders need to believe in their boards. Communities need to believe that institutions are working in their interest. When the broader environment is saturated with distrust, that skepticism does not stay contained. It seeps into relationships, into decision making, and into the willingness to engage.

I see it in conversations with donors who are more hesitant. I see it in boards that are more divided. I see it in leaders who are spending more time managing conflict and less time advancing mission. The tone set at the national level does not remain abstract. It becomes practical and personal in ways that slow progress.

Compromise is not the enemy in this equation. It is the mechanism that allows diverse perspectives to produce forward motion. The real risk is the growing acceptance of immobility as a sign of strength. That approach may win moments, but it loses ground over time.

A functioning republic depends on a shared belief that progress is possible through engagement. When that belief weakens, the consequences extend far beyond politics. They affect how we work together, how we give, and how we solve problems that do not have the luxury of waiting.

Getting older is not a theory. It is daily feedback.

I have begun to see more clearly that how I take care of myself shows up in very practical ways. Not in some distant future, but in how I move through a Tuesday. What I eat, how I sleep, whether I stretch, whether I ignore something small that becomes bigger. The connection between choice and function is no longer abstract. It is direct and immediate.

There is less room for neglect.

I still love coaching my kids’ teams. There is something grounding about being on a field, teaching, encouraging, watching them grow. But I also feel the gap. Energy is different. Recovery is slower. What used to be second nature now requires intention. There is a reason people say coaching is for the young. I understand that perspective now in a way I did not before. Still, I am not ready to give it up. It just means I have to approach it differently.

More preparation. More awareness. More care.

What has surprised me is the willingness to work on things I ignored for years. Mobility. Strength in smaller muscles. Balance. Posture. These were not priorities before. Now they are. Not because someone told me they should be, but because I can feel the difference when they are not.

There is value in paying attention.

There is also the reality that not everything is within control. Hereditary factors matter. Some of us are wired with advantages. Others carry challenges that show up over time. Old injuries resurface. Structural issues become more pronounced. You can do everything right and still have to navigate limitations.

That part requires a different kind of discipline. Not just physical effort, but mental steadiness. The willingness to adapt without giving in. To accept reality without lowering standards.

I am working on that.  I am not trying to be who I was at twenty-five. I am trying to be fully capable at fifty-five. That is a different goal, but it is no less meaningful. It requires effort, attention, and some humility.

I am up to it.

I am worth it.

And so is everyone.

It does more than most organizations realize.

Planned gifts represent one of the largest sources of charitable revenue in the United States. Bequests routinely account for close to ten percent of all charitable giving nationally, and in some years the total exceeds forty billion dollars. The average bequest is often far larger than a donor’s annual gifts. Many legacy donors never made a major gift during their lifetime. That alone should recalibrate how we think about these relationships.

A heritage society is not about a pin, a luncheon, or a name in a report. It is a framework for stewardship. It signals that a donor’s long-term commitment matters now, not just someday. When done well, it deepens trust, reinforces mission alignment, and keeps the organization top of mind.

There are practical advantages.

First, identification. A clear heritage society with simple entry criteria makes it easier for donors to self-disclose estate intentions. Many donors will not volunteer that information unless invited. When they do, you gain visibility into future pipeline that otherwise sits hidden in an attorney’s office.

Second, retention. Donors who make a planned commitment often continue giving during their lifetime. Ongoing engagement increases the likelihood that they maintain or even grow that commitment. Absent stewardship, bequests are more likely to be changed or diluted over time.

Third, culture. Heritage societies normalize legacy giving. When donors see peers recognized for forward thinking commitments, it reframes planned giving from a technical conversation to a values conversation. It becomes about impact and permanence.

From a management perspective, the lift is manageable. A concise annual touchpoint. One meaningful event. Periodic insider updates from leadership. Thoughtful acknowledgment. That is not an additional department. It is disciplined stewardship.

For organizations focused on long term financial resilience, heritage societies are not optional.

They are strategic. They surface hidden commitments, strengthen donor loyalty, and build future assets with clarity.  And they are not overly complex. With modest structure and consistent attention, they create disproportionate value.

The core premise is simple. When a donor sees the work in person, the abstract becomes concrete. A report becomes a patient. A line item becomes a child. A capital campaign becomes a research lab or conservation site or classroom that is operating in real time. Physical presence changes perception. It reduces distance between the donor and the outcome.

There is a neurological and behavioral dimension to this. Direct exposure strengthens memory formation and emotional encoding. Donors are more likely to internalize the value of a program when they experience it through multiple senses and through unscripted interaction. They ask different questions. They notice different details. They begin to see themselves in the story.

That shift matters at the principal gift level.

Major philanthropy is rarely transactional. It is relational and experiential. The donor who has walked the campus, toured the clinic, observed the research team, or traveled to a program site has context. Context builds conviction. Conviction supports transformational investment.

Some will argue that curated trips and immersive experiences are expensive. They can be.

Travel, staff time, and logistics require planning and discipline. But framing this solely as cost misses the larger strategic point. Principal gifts are not secured through newsletters and event tables. They are secured through depth of engagement. If an organization is serious about seven and eight figure commitments, it must be serious about creating moments that justify that level of trust.

An expedition is not about luxury. It is about alignment. The experience must connect clearly to strategic priorities. It must allow donors to see impact and understand need. It must create space for conversation about the future. When those elements are present, the investment in cultivation is rational.

Local nonprofits may not be able to organize international travel. They do not need to. The transferable lesson is this: elevate the experience.

A hospital foundation can host small group clinical walkthroughs that allow donors to see how equipment changes outcomes. A social service agency can create immersive site visits where prospects spend time with program leaders and participants. A university can bring potential investors into the lab or studio to meet faculty and students directly affected by philanthropy.

These are not tours for optics. They are structured encounters designed to build understanding and connection.

The objective is emotional proximity. The closer a donor feels to the mission, the more likely they are to see their philanthropy as essential rather than optional.

High touch cultivation requires intentional design. Clear objectives. The right mix of participants. Preparation of staff to translate what is being seen into strategic opportunity. Follow-up that captures momentum while the experience is fresh.

At its best, this approach is not about creating a memorable trip. It is about building durable commitment. When donors see value firsthand, they move from interest to ownership. And ownership is what ultimately sustains principal gifts and long-term impact.

That kind of shift does not happen because someone sent a better email.  It happened because leadership treated employees as a strategic priority, not an annual campaign obligation.

In the article, the company increased its match from 1 to 1 to 2 to 1. It lowered barriers to entry. It added payroll deduction. It expanded eligible organizations. Senior leaders tracked participation monthly. Stories of impact were shared internally. Employees could see both the outcome and the expectation.

Participation followed.

Large nonprofits, particularly hospitals and universities, often speak about employee giving as a point of pride. They know it signals internal alignment. It demonstrates belief in mission. It can even influence external donors.

Yet many of these institutions struggle with participation rates in the single digits.

The lesson from the Chronicle example is straightforward. Employee giving does not improve because of messaging alone. It improves when it is embedded in culture, leadership behavior, and systems.  Here are several recommendations for nonprofit leaders.

First, visible executive participation.
Presidents, CEOs, deans, and service line leaders must give early and publicly. Not in a performative way. In a consistent and transparent way. Participation data should be shared by department. Leaders should be accountable for engagement within their units. Culture follows behavior.

Second, reduce friction.
Payroll deduction should be simple. Minimum gifts should be accessible. The match, if financially possible, should be meaningful. A 2 to 1 match communicates seriousness. If that is not feasible, tiered matches or limited time enhanced matches can create momentum. The easier it is to participate, the higher the rate.

Third, clarify purpose.
Employee giving campaigns often feel generic. “Support the mission” is not specific enough. Hospitals can focus on a defined patient initiative. Universities can align giving with student success funds or research acceleration. Employees respond to tangible impact, particularly when it connects to their daily work.

Fourth, tell internal stories.
The Chronicle case emphasized storytelling. This is equally relevant in nonprofit settings. Feature nurses who support patient assistance funds. Highlight faculty who give to scholarships. Make the impact visible within the community employees already care about.

Fifth, measure and manage.
Participation rates should be reviewed regularly. Not annually. Monthly or quarterly dashboards drive attention. When leaders see data, behavior adjusts.

Employee giving is more than incremental revenue. It is a signal of internal conviction. When staff invest in their own institution, it strengthens external credibility. Major donors notice. Board members notice.

Hospitals and universities often invest heavily in external campaigns. The same discipline applied internally can transform employee giving from a checkbox exercise into a cultural asset.

The Chronicle story shows that dramatic growth is possible. The question is whether nonprofit leadership is willing to treat employee philanthropy with the same strategic rigor they expect from their advancement teams.

This discussion is overdue.

For the last two decades, college athletics has been driven by an escalating arms race. Universities build larger stadiums and training complexes. Coaching salaries move higher each season. Recruiting budgets expand. Now name, image, and likeness compensation adds another major financial layer.

Each individual decision often makes sense. Programs want to stay competitive. Fans expect visible investment. Conferences reward success with television revenue and national exposure. Yet when all of these pressures operate at the same time, the numbers stop working.

Many athletic departments report revenue that looks impressive on paper, but expenses grow even faster. Facilities require constant upgrades. Coaching contracts increase in length and value. NIL collectives introduce a market dynamic where the price of talent continues to rise. The result is predictable. Spending climbs year after year because no institution wants to be the first to step back.

This is why the proposal coming from Louisville deserves attention. Their suggestion of a spending cap introduces a concept that college athletics has largely avoided. Discipline.

Professional sports leagues operate under similar frameworks. They recognize that competitive balance and long term sustainability require boundaries. Without those boundaries, wealthier organizations would simply outspend everyone else and the system would eventually fracture.

College athletics currently operates without that type of constraint.

The concern is not limited to athletics directors. University presidents and trustees increasingly face the downstream consequences. Athletic deficits place pressure on institutional budgets, and in some cases schools rely on student fees or institutional transfers to close the gap. That approach becomes difficult to defend when academic programs face their own financial challenges.

There is also a broader reputational issue. Universities exist to educate students and advance research. When headlines highlight nine figure athletic spending while tuition continues to rise, it creates understandable questions about priorities.

None of this suggests that athletics lacks value. Successful programs build community pride, attract prospective students, and strengthen alumni engagement. Athletics can serve as a powerful front door to an institution and can deepen the emotional connection alumni feel with their university.

But value does not remove the need for financial discipline.

A spending cap would not eliminate competition. Programs would still recruit, develop athletes, and pursue championships. What it would do is introduce parameters around a system that has been expanding without limits. Facilities would still be built. Coaches would still be hired. NIL opportunities would still exist. The difference is that spending would operate within a structure that protects long term sustainability.

College athletics has reached a moment where the current model invites instability. Facilities continue to grow, NIL markets escalate, and coaching contracts keep rising. At some stage the system needs structure. The proposal from Louisville may not be the final answer, but it moves the conversation in the direction that higher education needs.

Allen’s estate has announced plans to sell the Seahawks, a team recently crowned champion in Super Bowl LX. With valuations projected in the billions, the transaction could rank among the largest sales in professional sports history. Yet the headline is not the price tag. It is the purpose. Allen directed that the bulk of his fortune be devoted to philanthropy. The proceeds from this sale will flow into charitable initiatives stewarded by Allen Family Philanthropies.

That decision reflects discipline and foresight. Many estates dissipate wealth across generations or fragment under competing interests. Allen’s approach was different. He institutionalized generosity. By embedding philanthropy into the structure of his estate, he ensured that liquidity events, including the sale of high value assets like an NFL franchise, would expand long term community investment rather than narrow it.

The impact is not abstract. Over the years, Allen’s philanthropy has directed billions toward biomedical research, environmental conservation, arts and culture, and youth development. In the Pacific Northwest alone, funding has supported brain science institutes, climate research initiatives, ocean health programs, and community-based arts organizations. These investments have scale. They fund labs, endow faculty, underwrite discovery, and stabilize institutions that anchor regional identity.

The Seahawks themselves have long served as a point of civic pride in Seattle and across Washington. A championship season unites a city. It produces shared memory and short-term economic activity. But the sale of the team, when converted into philanthropic capital, has a different trajectory. It strengthens research ecosystems. It supports education pipelines. It advances environmental resilience. Those returns compound across decades.

There is also a broader lesson for wealth holders and families. Philanthropy is most powerful when it is not episodic or reactive. It is most effective when embedded in governance, planning, and succession. Allen’s estate demonstrates that large, illiquid assets can be intentionally converted into sustained public benefit. That requires clarity of mission and a willingness to prioritize community over perpetuation of ownership.

A Super Bowl win delivers celebration, visibility, and pride. It lasts a season in the record books. The philanthropic dividend from the sale of the Seahawks will likely last generations. Trophies sit in cases. Endowments fund discovery. In that sense, this transition may prove to be a more enduring victory than any championship on the field.

Goldman’s critique centers on legitimacy. In a society that expects accountability, institutions cannot rely on status or tradition alone. They must continuously explain how they serve the broader community. When universities respond to skepticism by asserting autonomy or intellectual privilege, the response may be technically correct yet rhetorically ineffective. The public rarely finds reassurance in abstractions. People respond to visible purpose, practical contribution, and demonstrated outcomes.

What makes this discussion particularly resonant for me is the contrast with my own education. During law school I experienced a culture that was relentlessly oriented toward application and performance. The curriculum was demanding. Expectations were explicit. The connection between study and professional readiness was obvious. Every assignment, every classroom exchange, pointed toward the skills required for competent practice. Even though I never practiced law, the training emphasized discipline, structured thinking, and communication under pressure. The value proposition was clear.

Over the years I have sensed a widening gap between that model and the experience described by many graduates from other fields—both in my doctoral pursuit and even teaching some at universities. Too often higher education drifts toward theory detached from execution. Intellectual exploration is essential, but it cannot stand alone. Students and families bear significant financial burdens. Tuition levels have risen at rates that strain household economics and reshape career decisions. Under those conditions, institutions carry an obligation to ensure that graduates leave with durable capabilities, not simply exposure to ideas.

Employers consistently emphasize the same priorities. They seek individuals who can analyze problems, write clearly, present arguments, collaborate effectively, and adapt to changing environments. They value reliability, resilience, and professional judgment. These are not narrow technical attributes. They are foundational skills that determine long term success across industries. When academic programs minimize the cultivation of such competencies, graduates face unnecessary friction as they enter the workforce.

There is also a cultural dimension. Higher education should reinforce habits that support achievement in any profession. Persistence. Time management. Constructive response to feedback. Respect for standards. Effective communication. These qualities are neither ideological nor disciplinary. They are universal drivers of performance. Their development requires rigor, expectations, and a consistent link between effort and evaluation.

Goldman’s essay highlights a broader institutional challenge. Universities must articulate their role in language that connects with public priorities. Preparation for meaningful work.

Advancement of knowledge with practical relevance. Contribution to civic and economic vitality. Stewardship of resources entrusted by students and society. These themes resonate because they address shared interests rather than internal narratives.

Universities remain vital institutions. Their influence on innovation, mobility, and cultural development is profound. Yet vitality does not guarantee trust. Trust is sustained through clarity of mission and demonstrable value. Reengaging that principle may prove more persuasive than any appeal to tradition or status.

This aligns with what many of us are seeing across the nonprofit sector. CEO tenure continues to shrink. In higher education the average tenure for presidents and chancellors has dropped to under six years. Healthcare systems often see tenures under four years. Across the nonprofit sector more broadly the average sits around five to six years

There are several reasons for the trend. Organizations are more complex. Financial pressure has increased. Political tension often enters spaces that once felt removed from those dynamics. Boards expect more. Communities expect more. And increasingly, CEOs are expected to be effective fundraisers as well

The conversation usually focuses on the stress this places on leaders. That concern is valid. But there is another issue that receives less attention. Short CEO tenure creates real challenges for donor relationships and long term fundraising strategy.

Philanthropy depends on continuity. Major donors rarely make transformative commitments quickly. Trust builds over time through conversations, site visits, strategic discussions, and personal relationships with leadership. Donors want to understand where the organization is going and who will be responsible for executing that vision.

Frequent leadership transitions interrupt that process.

When a new CEO arrives, priorities often shift. Campaign timelines adjust. Messaging changes. Even when the mission remains the same, donors need time to understand how the new leader views the organization’s future. Relationships that were moving toward major commitments may slow while donors recalibrate their confidence in leadership.

Development teams experience the disruption as well. Every CEO brings a different level of comfort with philanthropy. Some arrive ready to engage with donors immediately. Others need time to understand the role philanthropy plays in advancing strategy. During that learning period the advancement team is often balancing donor expectations while helping the new leader develop confidence in fundraising.

None of this means leadership transitions are unhealthy. Organizations need new ideas and new leadership at times. But when turnover becomes frequent, it creates instability in areas that rely heavily on trust and long term relationships.

That reality places additional responsibility on development leaders.

We cannot simply wait for a CEO to define philanthropy’s role. Advancement leaders must understand the organization’s strategy and financial model. They must help align boards around philanthropic priorities. They must stay connected to community leaders and donors who can provide valuable perspective on how the organization is perceived.

Equally important, development leaders must produce clear metrics and dashboards that demonstrate how philanthropy contributes to institutional outcomes. When leadership transitions occur, those systems provide continuity.

Strong advancement leadership does not eliminate the disruption created by CEO turnover. But it can reduce the impact. In a time when nonprofit leadership tenure continues to decline, maintaining stability in donor relationships may be one of the most important responsibilities the advancement profession carries.

This concept is not new to me. My own philanthropic habits began roughly thirty years ago when I was early in my professional career. My resources were limited, my enthusiasm was not. I committed to contributing twenty dollars from every two week pay period. The amount was modest, but the discipline mattered. That single decision created a pattern of giving that never required reconsideration. It simply became part of how I managed my finances and how I expressed my values.

Over time my income changed, my responsibilities changed, but the mechanism of giving did not. Today I still maintain recurring contributions to a small number of organizations that remain personally meaningful. The delivery system is now my credit card rather than payroll deduction, yet the behavior is identical. The gift occurs automatically. There is no repeated decision point, no friction, no emotional debate about timing. The support continues.

From the organizational perspective, recurring donors represent something more durable than transactional generosity. They provide revenue continuity. They reduce forecasting volatility. They allow leadership teams to plan programs with greater confidence. Acquisition costs are amortized across a longer relationship. Stewardship becomes more relational and less event driven. Retention patterns typically exceed those of one-time donors. These are operational advantages, not merely philosophical preferences.

The relevance of recurring giving becomes even more pronounced during inflationary periods. Economic pressure alters donor psychology. Households grow cautious. Large commitments may feel risky. Yet smaller automated contributions often remain acceptable because they integrate smoothly into monthly cash flow. For many donors, adjusting a recurring amount upward or downward feels manageable compared with evaluating a new standalone gift. The structure supports continuity even when financial conditions tighten.

Recurring programs also create constructive engagement opportunities. Organizations can communicate impact through regular updates rather than periodic solicitations. Donors receive reinforcement that their steady participation produces steady outcomes. The relationship is sustained by evidence of progress rather than urgency alone. This dynamic tends to deepen trust and extend lifetime value.

None of this eliminates the need for major gifts or campaign strategy. Instead, recurring giving functions as an essential layer within a diversified revenue model. It stabilizes baseline income while other fundraising efforts pursue growth and transformation. In uncertain economic climates, stability itself becomes a strategic asset.

The Chronicle of Philanthropy article correctly framed recurring donors as a form of fundraising infrastructure. That description aligns with both data and lived experience. Small, repeated commitments accumulate into something financially significant and behaviorally resilient. My own history as a donor reflects that trajectory. A simple recurring decision made decades ago continues to produce philanthropic results today.

As we get older, taking care of ourselves becomes both more necessary and more complex. Aging brings changes in cell function, immune response, tissue repair, and regulation of inflammation. The immune system loses efficiency over time, reducing its ability to respond to threats and recover from stressors. This process, called immunosenescence, alters how the body reacts to surgery, illness, and even minor insults like allergens. As a result, something as simple as hives can be a sign of a deeper imbalance rather than a passing irritation.

When I first noticed the hives 10 weeks after surgery, I assumed I was overreacting. I assumed it would pass on its own. But data on recovery in older adults offers a cautionary note. Functional recovery after surgery in people over 60 can take months. And even though I was walking well, not taking medicine, my body needed more support and rest. For basic daily activities it may take three months or more to return to baseline. For more complex tasks the recovery period can extend longer. These timelines are a reminder that the body needs time and thoughtful care to rebuild strength.

This episode of hives were my body’s way of saying I was in a state of chronic stress. Inflammation was heightened and my immune system was already working hard to heal the surgical site. Rather than pushing through workouts and social commitments at full speed, I needed to adjust. I needed more sleep, more deliberate rest, and closer monitoring of my diet and hydration. And be more healthy overall.

Data from aging research supports this shift in approach. Chronic health conditions become more common with age, and the risk of overlapping issues increases. Roughly one in four older adults experiences falls each year. More falls, more chronic conditions, reduced functional capacity, all reflect the underlying shift in body resilience as we age.

Listening to your body at any age makes sense. As you get older, it becomes a practical necessity. The alerts are real. Pain after activity that used to feel easy. Fatigue that lingers. Rashes that show up out of nowhere. They are signals, not nuisances.

If there is a lesson in my episodes of hives it is this: treat symptoms as data, not distractions. Your body is giving you information about what it needs. Respect recovery timelines. Make adjustments when signals change. As age advances, self awareness becomes not just helpful but central to staying healthy.

That observation feels highly relevant in my household.

Technology entered our family life gradually and then all at once. Devices became study aids, entertainment systems, and portals to infinite information. The advantages are undeniable. Research is immediate. Communication is effortless. Educational resources are abundant. Yet the lived experience of parenting inside this environment has complicated the narrative of uninterrupted benefit.

My sixth grader navigates schoolwork with speed and fluency, often accompanied by a constant backdrop of searches, notifications, and digital multitasking. My third grader exhibits the same comfort with screens, moving seamlessly between games, videos, and assignments. Neither behavior is unusual. Both are entirely consistent with the design of modern technology. The issue is not capability. It is cognitive posture.

As parents, we have increasingly concluded that limits are not restrictive. They are protective.

In our home, homework now begins at the kitchen table. Devices may still play a role, but the physical setting matters. Sitting together creates visibility. We can observe attention drift, confusion emerge, and problem solving unfold in real time. More importantly, our children experience sustained focus without the constant option to disengage. The table becomes more than furniture. It becomes a boundary around concentration.

We have also adopted a simple evening ritual. Technology checks in at night.

Phones, tablets, and other devices have a designated resting place outside bedrooms. This practice is not framed as punishment or distrust. It reflects recognition of how powerfully screens compete with sleep, reflection, and mental recovery. Even adults struggle to disengage from digital stimulation. Expecting children to regulate this independently is unrealistic. Structure substitutes for willpower.

These adjustments arise from observation rather than theory. When screens are limited, attention lengthens. When attention lengthens, frustration occasionally increases, followed by problem solving that is more deliberate and durable. The learning process becomes more visible. So does the development of patience and persistence.

Technology remains central to our lives. It will remain central to our children’s futures. The objective is not elimination. It is balance. Tools should extend thinking, not replace it.

Convenience should not erase the productive struggle through which understanding is formed.
The professors returning to pencil and paper are not rejecting innovation. They are prioritizing attention. The same logic applies at home. Learning depends on engagement that cannot be fully outsourced. No application or algorithm can replicate the developmental value of sitting with a problem, working through uncertainty, and arriving at clarity through one’s own effort.