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.

The idea stayed with me because it applies directly to the nonprofit sector.

Across healthcare, higher education, and many charitable organizations, the financial pressure is real. Inflation continues to push expenses higher. Some hospitals are closing service lines. Universities are consolidating programs that no longer attract enough students. Nonprofits are being asked to do more with fewer resources.

When organizations face pressure like this, difficult decisions follow. Positions change. Responsibilities shift. In some cases roles disappear altogether.

One practical response is upskilling.

Upskilling means intentionally learning new capabilities that make you more valuable in your current role and more adaptable if circumstances change. It is not necessarily about earning another degree. In many cases it involves practical learning that improves how you work.

There are several benefits.

First is career growth. The more skills you have, the more options you create for yourself over time. Second is job security. Individuals who can contribute in multiple ways tend to remain valuable when organizations need flexibility. Third is productivity. Learning better tools and approaches allows both the employee and the institution to operate more efficiently.

There is also a personal dimension. The psychologist Abraham Maslow described the concept of self-actualization. At its core it means understanding who you are and continuing to improve. Upskilling contributes to that sense of professional confidence.

In the nonprofit world there are many accessible ways to do this.

Infrastructure teams can strengthen their expertise in areas such as data analytics, cybersecurity awareness, or cloud systems. Tools like Power BI or Tableau are increasingly important for translating database information into insights that leaders can actually use.

Gift officers can develop new competencies in planned giving, financial literacy, or communication. Programs like Toastmasters remain a simple way to improve presentation skills. Visual storytelling tools such as Canva can also strengthen stewardship with donors.

Leadership roles often require another layer of development. Governance training, nonprofit finance courses, and executive leadership programs are widely available and often more accessible than many people assume.

The point is simple.

Upskilling does not require enormous expense. Many opportunities are free or relatively low cost. What it does require is intention.

As our sector becomes more complex and technology continues to reshape how work gets done, professionals who continue to learn will have an advantage. The only real downside is ignoring the opportunity.

Choose one or two areas to develop this year. Invest a little time. Build new capabilities.

In the long run, the person who benefits most may be you.

Gift officers gather to talk about activity:

• Who did you meet with?

• How many visits did you have?

• What gifts are likely to close?

• What is the next step with a donor?

These meetings have value. They create accountability. When people know they will report on their work, activity tends to increase. They also allow leaders to monitor progress toward goals and identify where someone might need support. Teams hear patterns in the community. They share tactics that worked. They help each other think through difficult donor situations.

All of that matters.

But recently in a conversation with a client, a different idea emerged about how these meetings could be more useful. Most moves management meetings focus on transactions. What gift are we asking for next. What proposal is coming. What is the dollar amount.

That conversation misses something more important: Do we actually understand what the donor wants to accomplish?

I suggested a small but meaningful change. In a moves management meeting, a gift officer should not be allowed to talk about asking for money until they can clearly explain the donor’s passion.

In other words, before discussing a solicitation strategy, the officer should be able to answer a simple question.

• What does this donor most want their philanthropy to accomplish?

When gift officers know that question will be asked in front of their colleagues, behavior changes. They start asking different questions during donor visits.

• What causes matter most to you?

• Where have you seen philanthropy make a real difference?

• What would you most like your giving to accomplish?

Those questions uncover motivations that rarely appear in traditional cultivation conversations.

In one example, a client shared a gift officer met with someone who already supported another organization. Rather than ending the conversation there, the officer leaned into curiosity. They asked what the donor hoped their philanthropy would achieve. The donor responded that no one had ever asked them that question before.

That conversation reopened the relationship.

This is where moves management meetings can become far more productive. Instead of simply reporting activity, gift officers return and explain what they have learned about the people they are working with. What motivates them. What they care about. What impact they hope to have.

The conversation shifts from transaction to alignment.

And when you understand passion, larger opportunities often follow. Donors who are clear about what they want to accomplish begin thinking beyond annual gifts. They consider multi-year commitments. They consider legacy giving. They consider how their assets might support the work they care about long after they are gone.

The structure of the meeting does not need to change dramatically. Metrics still matter. Portfolio management still matters. But the central conversation becomes different.

Instead of asking what the next gift will be, the team asks a better question: What matters most to the donor, and how can we help them accomplish it.

The glue guy does not always lead the team in scoring. He may not have the smoothest shot or the fastest first step. What he consistently brings is effort that quietly holds everything together. He fights for rebounds. He plays defense with persistence. He dives for loose balls. He sets screens. He does the work that is physically demanding and often goes unnoticed. He outworks everyone, while seeking absolutely no attention. These actions do not usually produce dramatic reactions, but they change games.

Every successful team depends on someone willing to embrace that role. Talent matters. Strategy matters. Coaching matters. Still, none of those elements function at full strength without players committed to the little things. Possessions are extended through effort. Opponents are disrupted through discipline. Momentum shifts through hustle. The glue guy influences outcomes in ways that are subtle but decisive.

Watching this unfold has led me to think about environments far removed from a gymnasium. Offices and organizations operate under remarkably similar dynamics. Results are celebrated. Recognition often gravitates toward visible achievements. Yet behind nearly every high performing team stands an individual who stabilizes, supports, and strengthens everyone else.

Who is that person in your office?

Who takes on the tasks others avoid? Who steps in when something simply needs to get done? Who offers encouragement without calculation? Who celebrates the success of colleagues without redirecting attention? Who seeks satisfaction in collective accomplishment rather than personal visibility?

These individuals are invaluable. They enhance culture. They increase trust. They elevate performance. When leaders are perceptive and thoughtful, they recognize the disproportionate impact of such contributors. When leaders are not, these same people may remain invisible despite shaping team success every day.

Finding people who naturally operate this way is difficult. The traits involved are demanding. Consistency, humility, resilience, and discipline are not easily taught. They are even harder to sustain. They have to be comfortable with themself in their own skin, confident but not cocky, and almost leaning into what Maslow called “self-actualized.” Yet when a glue guy is part of the effort, they become foundational to organizational effectiveness.

As a father and his coach, observing my son embrace this identity fills me with great hope. Not because of athletic outcomes alone, but because of what the behavior signals about his character and his depth of self-understanding. And he knows the value of this contribution. A willingness to work hard. A comfort with shared credit. A commitment to team success. And he revels in the role. These patterns extend well beyond sports and will serve him well---and the teams he is on throughout his professional career.

Life offers countless arenas where the little things determine long term results. Habits of effort, reliability, and generosity tend to compound over time. If being the glue guy becomes part of how my son approaches challenges, relationships, and responsibilities, the implications are significant.

That prospect makes me excited for what might be possible in his life…and very, very proud.

For decades, the NCAA’s stance was clear: student-athletes could not bet on any sport—college or professional. The reasoning was simple and sound: protect the integrity of competition, insulate athletes from outside influence, and reduce temptation in an environment already filled with pressure, fame, and money. Now, in an era where sports betting is legal in most states and accessible with one tap on a phone, the NCAA’s decision represents a dangerous retreat.

It’s fair to acknowledge the counterpoint: college athletes are citizens too. They are adults, entitled to the same rights as anyone else to engage in legal activities, including betting on professional sports. In a system where athletes now earn money through name, image, and likeness (NIL) deals and where universities profit enormously from their efforts, it’s understandable that some bristle at being told what they can or cannot do in their personal lives. The tension between individual rights and institutional integrity is real—and that’s what makes this so complicated.

But acknowledging athletes’ rights doesn’t make this decision wise. Just because something is legal doesn’t mean it’s healthy, prudent, or free of consequence. Already, the results are showing. In the past few weeks, the NCAA confirmed that it is investigating around 30 new cases of college athletes suspected of betting on themselves, their teams, or their own games. This comes on top of a string of scandals over the past year involving athletes at Iowa, Iowa State, and Alabama, where gambling behavior crossed clear ethical—and sometimes legal—lines.

Technology has only poured gasoline on this fire. What used to require a shady bookmaker and cash in an envelope now happens through slick, legal apps with push notifications, bonus bets, and social media influencers urging participation. The accessibility is total; the guardrails are not. Combine that with the massive sums of money now circulating in college athletics—from NIL deals to media rights—and the potential for corruption skyrockets.

So no, no one should be surprised. When the NCAA allowed betting on pro sports, they didn’t “update” their policies—they invited chaos. The slope isn’t slippery; it’s a cliff. And as investigations mount, and more athletes get caught in the web of gambling’s allure, the organization may finally realize that once you let the wolf in the hen house, there’s no such thing as controlling the feast.

We seldom talk about what it costs when key people leave because the language of budgets tends to frame compensation as a cost rather than a strategic investment. But leaders departing is expensive, often far more expensive than paying competitive wages would have been.

Cost of turnover varies by role, but research makes one thing clear. Replacing a staff member can cost between thirty and two hundred percent of the employee’s annual salary when you account for recruitment, onboarding, lost productivity, and indirect impacts on culture and morale. For leadership roles the numbers rise steeply. Boards and consultants estimate that replacing an executive director or senior leader often costs between one and a half times and three times the annual salary.

There is also research specific to fundraising professionals. One widely referenced estimate suggests that replacing a fundraiser can cost more than $160,000, and if they exit in the middle of a major campaign the organization may miss out on millions in donor revenue tied to that individual’s relationships. That is not an abstract number. That is real donor trust, community commitments, and program impact left unfinished.

With figures like this in view it is worth asking a simple question. What is the comparative cost of improving compensation so a leader stays? An extra $10k to $15k dollars in salary or total compensation for a nonprofit executive or senior fundraiser typically amounts to a fraction of one percent of total expense for even a modestly sized nonprofit. Yet that level of incremental compensation can meaningfully narrow the gap between a job that feels like survival work and one that feels professionally and personally sustainable.

Investor logic looks at retention as return on investment. In contrast, traditional nonprofit budget thinking treats compensation as an overhead line to be suppressed. That inversion of logic works against mission. When you lose someone, you lose more than salary dollars. You lose relationships with donors who trusted that leader, you lose community partners who valued continuity, and you lose organizational memory that is hard or impossible to rebuild.

The Philanthropy.com article is a corrective to the narrative that low nonprofit pay is a virtue. It invites donors, boards, and leaders to see fair pay as central to mission success.