There is one significant area where I disagree with conventional thinking: In organizations with professional fundraising staff, I generally do not want board members asking donors for money. (I would note that for organization that are completely volunteer led with no professional fundraising person/team, the Board must be engaged with soliciting philanthropic support).  That does not mean board members should stay away from fundraising. I want exactly the opposite.

Board members can be among an organization’s most valuable fundraising resources. They can identify prospective donors, make introductions, provide intelligence about relationships, attend donor meetings, tell their personal story about the organization, host gatherings, thank donors, and help deepen relationships.

The Chronicle article makes an especially good point about pairing board members with development professionals. One expert quoted in the article explains that board members can help pave the way for gifts, while recognizing that many lack the knowledge and skills necessary to finalize them.

That distinction matters.

One of my concerns about asking board members to solicit gifts is that they can unintentionally make the conversation transactional. A board member may ask someone for $10,000 because $10,000 feels like a significant gift to the board member. Or $25,000. Or $100,000.  The amount can be based more on the board member’s comfort level than the donor’s capacity, interests, philanthropic priorities, or potential.

The conversation becomes: “Will you give us $25,000?”  That question can actually limit the gift and the relationship.

A professional fundraiser should be approaching the conversation differently. What does the donor care about? What change does the donor want to create? Why does this particular mission matter to them? What would be meaningful to accomplish? How can the organization help the donor fulfill that philanthropic passion?

These conversations take time. They require listening, judgment, patience, preparation, and an understanding of how donors make significant philanthropic decisions. Eventually, the conversation may lead to a gift. But the amount should emerge from an understanding of the donor rather than from what someone sitting across the table feels comfortable asking for.

That difference can be the difference between a transactional gift and a transformational relationship. 

Fundraising is a profession.  Professional fundraisers spend their careers learning how to understand donor motivation, evaluate capacity, recognize signals, manage timing, connect donor interests with organizational priorities, and navigate complex gift conversations. Experience matters. Judgment matters. Knowing when to ask, what to ask, and when not to ask matters.

This is why the combination of a board member and professional fundraiser can be so effective.

The board member brings credibility, relationships, community knowledge, personal commitment, and access. In many cases, the board member is the reason the donor agreed to have the conversation in the first place.  The professional fundraiser brings the experience and discipline necessary to understand the donor, develop the relationship, and manage the philanthropic conversation.

Put those two people together and something powerful can happen.

There is an obvious exception. In very small nonprofits without professional fundraising staff, board members may have to make gift requests. Someone has to assume that responsibility. In those organizations, training and preparation become even more critical.

But when an organization has invested in professional fundraising staff, use that expertise.

Board members should open doors. They should build relationships. They should tell stories. They should listen. They should provide credibility. They should thank donors. They should help create opportunities for meaningful philanthropic conversations.

Then pair them with a professional fundraiser who knows how to turn those opportunities into long term donor relationships.

That is where the magic can happen.

I spent the day with a client in Southern California. The meetings were productive, the conversations were worthwhile, and I wrapped up feeling good about the work. Then reality arrived.

My flight was canceled.

Like thousands of other travelers every day, I suddenly found myself trying to solve a puzzle that kept changing. The best available flight wasn't from John Wayne Airport in Orange County where I had started. It was from LAX.

If you've made that drive from one side of LA to the other, you know it isn't a quick change of scenery. More than three hours later, I arrived at Los Angeles International Airport after navigating horrific Southern California traffic (I still can’t believe people do this every day). The rental car company wasn't exactly thrilled that I wanted to return the vehicle to LAX instead of taking it back to the airport only about 40 miles away where I had picked it up---they wanted to charge hundreds of extra dollars for really nothing. After that came another surprise. It took roughly 40 minutes just to get from the rental car return to the terminal using the shuttle bus system.

Then I walked into a terminal with no air conditioning. In the middle of a Southern California summer, the terminal was hot, crowded, and uncomfortable. After hours of driving, shuttle buses, and changing plans, standing in a warm terminal wasn't exactly the ending I had envisioned. It turned out that the best place to be was on the shuttle bus from the main airport to the remote terminal—the bus had great air conditioning – I almost made several trips back and forth

As a “just in case,” The airline had provided a hotel in Dallas if there was an additional delay. The list of hotels made me shake my head. Years ago, when my wife and I were just getting started and every dollar mattered, those would have NEVER been acceptable choices. Even the reviews were terrible. Now, they reminded me how far life has come and how much my expectations have changed. Let's just say I politely declined.

Frustrated, tired, hot, hungry, and exacerbated, I was ready to simply get on an airplane.

None of this should be as difficult as it often becomes. Yet anyone who travels regularly knows these experiences are more common than exceptional. Flights are delayed. Weather changes. Aircraft need repairs. Crews time out. Airports become overcrowded. Travel plans that looked perfect on paper can unravel in minutes.

The lesson isn't to expect everything to go smoothly. The lesson is to prepare for the moments when it doesn't.

Before every trip, I now spend a few minutes researching backup flights. If one airport becomes impossible, I already know my alternatives. I pack an extra day's worth of clothes (or two), just in case. I fill my water bottle every chance I get. I keep chargers, medications, and essentials in my carry on (to be candid, I haven’t checked a bag in decades). A little preparation doesn't eliminate the hassle, but it dramatically reduces the stress.

Because in the end, none of us travels simply for the sake of traveling. We travel because of work, family, service, or opportunity. But when the day is over, there is only one destination that really matters. And I made it to where I wanted to be most.

Home.

The meetings matter. The clients matter. The work matters. But the people waiting at home matter most.

The state is beginning to put provisions into contracts for public university presidents that require them to pay money back if they voluntarily leave before completing their contracts. The payment can reach $200,000, depending on when the president leaves. The goal is straightforward: if a university makes a significant commitment to a president, the president should make a meaningful commitment in return.

My first reaction was: Good for Utah.

I had never heard of this approach with university presidents. The closest comparison I could think of was college athletics, where contracts have become increasingly complicated about who owes whom money when someone leaves. We have even seen the strange situation where a fired college football coach has a contractual obligation to "look" for another job because the university paying the buyout requires the coach to mitigate its financial damages. Someone can receive millions of dollars for no longer coaching while periodically demonstrating that he is searching for employment.

I have watched these golden parachutes for years, particularly in sports and executive leadership. Like a lot of people, I have occasionally wondered, "Where can I get mine?" I already know the answer. I can't. Most people can't.

For most of us, if a client no longer wants our services or an employer decides our performance is inadequate, nobody hands us several years of compensation on the way out the door. Yet, at certain levels of leadership, we have somehow accepted enormous, guaranteed payments as a routine cost of hiring someone.

That raises a question I find fascinating. Is the talent pool for these positions really so bereft of talented, experienced and capable leaders that organizations have virtually no negotiating leverage?

I find that difficult to believe.

A university presidency is unquestionably a demanding position. So is leading a major nonprofit, health system, corporation or athletic program. Talented executives deserve to be well compensated. Organizations also need competitive compensation packages to recruit people capable of handling complex leadership responsibilities.

But somewhere along the way, competitive compensation can become excessive protection. If an organization expects to pay a leader hundreds of thousands or millions of dollars when it ends the relationship, why shouldn't the organization receive some protection when the leader ends the relationship?

Consider what happens when a university president suddenly leaves. The institution may conduct an expensive national search. An interim president may be needed. Strategic initiatives can stall. Donor relationships may be disrupted. Faculty and staff face uncertainty. The institution invests significant time and money establishing a new administration.

Then another university can recruit that president away, leaving the first institution to absorb the consequences. Utah is essentially saying there should be accountability on both sides of the contract.

I like that idea.

This goes beyond university presidents. Boards and organizations should ask themselves whether executive contracts appropriately balance the interests of the leader and the institution. Negotiating leverage should not automatically belong almost entirely to the person being recruited simply because the position is difficult to fill.

There are talented leaders in higher education, healthcare, philanthropy, business and athletics. Organizations should compete for them and compensate them appropriately. They should also stop assuming that recruiting exceptional talent requires giving away nearly every contractual protection.

Good for Utah. Others, in and outside of higher education, should be watching.

How do you remain faithful to your founder while responding to a world the founder could never have imagined? 

The room was thoughtful. Everyone understood the weight of the discussion. Some believed the foundation should stay very close to its historical grantmaking. Others argued that today's challenges require different approaches. Neither perspective came from a lack of commitment.

Both came from a desire to honor the foundation's purpose.  Somewhere in that discussion is the real challenge of stewardship.   Foundations have an unusual privilege. Unlike most organizations, they can exist for generations. The people who established them are gone, yet their charitable resources continue working. That longevity is remarkable. It is also where responsibility becomes complicated.

A foundation created to improve the lives of vulnerable children may once have invested heavily in orphanages. Today, the same commitment could lead to family preservation, foster care, early childhood intervention, or mental health services. The mission has not changed. Our understanding of how to accomplish it has.

The same is true across philanthropy. Educational opportunity looks different than it did a generation ago. Community health extends well beyond hospital walls. Economic mobility involves challenges that many donors could never have imagined when they wrote their founding documents.

The responsibility of a board is not to preserve a grantmaking pattern. It is to preserve the purpose behind that pattern.

That does not mean change should be abrupt or careless. Foundations owe their longstanding partners honesty, thoughtful communication, and reasonable transitions whenever priorities evolve. Relationships deserve that respect.

At the same time, charitable dollars cannot become captive to tradition. If a foundation continues funding yesterday's solutions simply because they have always been funded, it slowly shifts from stewarding a mission to preserving a routine.

There is a difference.

Donor intent is often misunderstood as protecting specific grants, organizations, or programs forever. More often, donor intent reflects a set of values. Improve lives. Expand opportunity. Relieve suffering. Strengthen communities. Those values endure. The methods should continue to evolve as knowledge and circumstances evolve.

Every foundation eventually reaches a moment when it must decide whether it is honoring its past or simply repeating it. Those are not the same thing.

The greatest tribute a foundation can pay to its founder is not doing what they did. It is pursuing what they cared about with the same imagination, courage, and commitment they would expect if they were sitting in the boardroom today.

The retreat reminded me of something that technology can never replace. People need to be together. The agenda mattered. We discussed strategy, priorities, and challenges. We made decisions. We planned for the future.

But the most valuable moments happened between the agenda items. People who had worked together for years learned something new about one another. They shared stories about their families, career paths, and interests outside of work. They laughed together. They discovered common experiences they never knew they had.

Those conversations changed the dynamic in the room.

When people know each other beyond job titles and email signatures, they communicate differently. They ask better questions. They listen more carefully. They become more willing to offer help and more willing to receive it. Trust grows, and trust makes every organization stronger.

Technology is a tremendous gift. It allows organizations to recruit talent without geographic boundaries. It gives employees flexibility that many value deeply. It makes communication faster than ever. It does not, however, create relationships.

Relationships require shared experiences. They require observing how someone reacts under pressure, celebrates another person's success, or works through a difficult conversation. Those moments are hard to recreate through a screen.

I think about younger professionals entering today's workforce. Many have spent much of their education or early careers in virtual environments. Flexible work is normal to them, and in many cases it should be. At the same time, many have had fewer opportunities to experience the informal learning that happens when people simply spend time together.

Leadership is often learned through observation rather than instruction. Culture is built through countless small interactions that never appear on a meeting agenda. Mentoring frequently happens during lunch, while walking to another meeting, or in conversations that begin with work and end somewhere entirely different.

Organizations should continue using technology wisely. They should continue offering flexibility where it makes sense.

They should also be intentional about bringing people together.

Retreats are one of the best investments an organization can make because they accomplish far more than strategic planning. They strengthen relationships. They create understanding. They remind people that they are part of something larger than their individual responsibilities.

We live in an increasingly digital world. That makes genuine human interaction more valuable, not less. The strongest organizations are built by people who know each other, trust each other, and have spent enough time together to see one another as people first and coworkers second.

People often use the words morals and ethics interchangeably, but they are different. Ethics are the standards a community, profession, or society establishes about what is acceptable. Morals are personal. They are the values you choose to live by, even when no one is watching. Ethics answer, "What does society expect?" Morals answer, "Who am I going to be?"

That distinction feels more complicated than ever when you are raising children. With a 13-year-old and a 9-year-old, we spend a lot of time thinking about the kind of adults they will become. The world they are growing up in is noisy. Every device offers another opinion. Every social media feed presents another version of success. Every game, video, or influencer competes for attention. None of those things are inherently bad, but they can crowd out the conversations that help shape character. And that is why they are strictly limited and monitored.

Morals are rarely taught in dramatic moments. They are built in ordinary ones. They grow during dinner at the kitchen table, where everyone puts the phones away and actually talks. They develop when children hear adults disagree respectfully, admit mistakes, and apologize when necessary. They take root when parents do what they said they would do, even when it is inconvenient.

Children notice consistency long before they appreciate it.

That may be the hardest part for parents. We cannot simply lecture about honesty, kindness, generosity, or responsibility. We have to demonstrate them. Every shortcut we take, every promise we keep or break, every interaction with a waiter, cashier, neighbor, or stranger becomes part of the lesson. It is exhausting at times because parenting leaves very little room for pretending. Our children see us at our best and our worst. They know whether our actions match our words. It is SO hard when you know you have short comings and don’t want them “passed on” to young people who show so much promise and who you love so much.

The encouraging part is that every so often you see the lesson come back to you.…..a child stands up for someone who is being left out. They tell the truth even though it costs them. They thank someone without being reminded. They share something valuable because they believe it is the right thing to do.

These moments rarely make social media. They will never trend. Yet they represent victories that matter far more than any number of likes, followers, or gaming achievements. These are the moments when you realize that the conversations around the dinner table, the limits on screen time, the repeated reminders, and the daily effort to model the behavior you hope to see have been accomplishing something all along.

Teaching morals is slow work. It requires patience, consistency, and more self-discipline than most of us expected. It is rarely easy. It is, however, one of the few investments that can shape generations.

That makes every conversation, every example, and every imperfect attempt completely worth it.

If we measure generosity only by gifts made to registered nonprofit organizations, we are looking through a narrower lens than society actually lives.

A recent Chronicle of Philanthropy opinion argued that philanthropy is not broken, but that our funding models may be. The author challenged foundations to focus less on rigid grant structures and more on outcomes, giving organizations greater freedom to solve problems in the ways that work best. It is a compelling reminder that how we support good work matters as much as how much we give.

I would take the idea one step further.

The question is not simply whether we need new funding models. The question is whether we need a broader definition of philanthropy itself.

Crowdfunding offers an interesting example. Many in our profession dismiss it because it often bypasses nonprofits, lacks tax deductibility, or responds to individuals instead of institutions. Those concerns are legitimate. Transparency matters. Accountability matters. Sustainable solutions matter.

Yet it is difficult to argue that someone contributing to a family's medical expenses through GoFundMe is somehow less generous than someone writing a check to a traditional charity. The impulse is the same. The compassion is real. The desire to help is authentic. Surveys show millions of Americans are making these kinds of gifts even while expressing understandable concerns about oversight.

The same could be said for mutual aid groups, neighborhood giving circles, online communities that rally around a crisis, or people quietly paying a stranger's utility bill.

These acts often disappear from our data because they fall outside the categories we have created. That does not make them any less philanthropic.

As fundraising professionals, we should be careful about confusing the health of our institutions with the health of generosity itself. Our organizations need support, and declining participation in traditional charitable giving presents real challenges. We should work hard to reverse that trend.

At the same time, we should recognize that generosity has always adapted to the culture around it. Technology changes. Communities change. Trust shifts. People find new pathways to express the same enduring desire to improve someone else's life.

When we expand our definition of philanthropy, we gain a clearer picture of the society we serve. The challenge before us may not be convincing people to care. It may be learning to recognize all the ways they already do.

If we can see generosity more broadly, we may also discover new opportunities to invite people into deeper and more lasting forms of giving, rather than insisting there is only one acceptable way to make a difference.

Colleges and universities have a responsibility to create safe campuses. That means protecting students, faculty, staff, visitors, and property. Cameras, emergency notification systems, access controls, and other security tools all have an appropriate place. As the parent of a child who will be on a college campus within the next decade, I expect institutions to make those investments.

Safety is not optional. It is a core responsibility.

The challenge comes when technology moves beyond safety and begins influencing expression.

Higher education has always been more than a collection of classrooms. It is one of the few places where people from different backgrounds, experiences, beliefs, and cultures come together with the expectation that they will wrestle with ideas. Some of those conversations are uncomfortable. Some challenge long held assumptions. That is part of the educational process.

If surveillance tools are used to discourage lawful protests, monitor political viewpoints, or make students and faculty wonder whether expressing an unpopular opinion will bring unwanted scrutiny, the institution has crossed an important line. The purpose of a university is not simply to educate people about subjects. It is to teach people how to think, evaluate evidence, and engage respectfully with those who see the world differently.

Over the past several years, we have heard people across the political spectrum say they do not feel comfortable expressing their opinions on campus. Depending on who is speaking, the blame shifts from one side to the other. That conversation misses a larger point. When any group believes it cannot speak openly, the institution has work to do.

A healthy campus does not require agreement. It requires respect.

Students should be able to ask difficult questions without fear of ridicule. Faculty should be able to present competing ideas fairly. People should leave conversations understanding another perspective, even if they ultimately disagree with it. Listening does not require agreement. It does require curiosity.

Some of the most valuable moments in higher education happen when someone encounters an idea they have never seriously considered before. Sometimes that experience strengthens their existing beliefs. Sometimes it changes them. Either outcome is evidence that learning has occurred.

The balance is clear. Use technology to keep people safe. Protect buildings. Respond quickly to emergencies. Prevent violence when possible. Those are appropriate uses of campus security.

But never allow security to become a substitute for open dialogue.

The best colleges prepare students for a world where they will work with people who think differently, vote differently, worship differently, and live differently. That preparation begins by creating campuses where respectful conversation is encouraged, ideas can be challenged, and every member of the community has the freedom to participate without fear.

Over the past several years, our family has been thinking differently.

Instead of asking, "What should we buy?" we have started asking, "What can we do together?"

That simple shift has changed the conversation.  Some of the best gifts we have planned this year are not wrapped in paper. They are wrapped in time.

A family “going to the movies” with the music score played live by the symphony. A mother and daughter spending a day getting manicures and enjoying lunch together. A father and son traveling to an unrelated football game hundreds of miles away just because it is a legendary match-up or stadium.  Planning and going to a NHL hockey game because for some unknown reason the son loves a certain team (no idea where this came from).  A father and daughter sharing season tickets to our local university volleyball team, creating a standing appointment throughout the season to cheer, laugh, and spend a few uninterrupted hours together.

None of those experiences will sit on a shelf. None of them will eventually end up in a closet, a garage sale, or a donation box.   Instead, they become stories.

Years from now, I doubt anyone will remember which electronic gadget was opened on Christmas morning or which sweater was under the tree. They will remember the road trip. They will remember laughing during a terrible restaurant meal. They will remember getting caught in the rain walking back to the car after the game. They will remember the conversations that happened because there were no distractions.

Experiences have a way of appreciating in value.

The first memory creates the second. Then comes the tradition. Before long, the event itself becomes less important than the expectation that, once again, we will spend time together.

Our lives are already crowded with possessions. Most of us do not need another thing.  What we often need is another memory.

Time together has become one of the rarest gifts we can give each other. Schedules compete with relationships. Phones compete with conversations. Work competes with family. Choosing to set aside a day, a weekend, or even an evening says something much more meaningful than buying another package.

It says, "You are worth my time."  That message lasts.

I am not suggesting there is anything wrong with giving gifts. There is joy in generosity. There is excitement in opening a present.  But I am increasingly convinced that the greatest gifts are those that cannot be unwrapped.

They can only be experienced.

Long after the newness of another purchase fades, memories continue to grow richer. They are retold around dinner tables. They become family jokes. They connect generations.  The older I get, the more I believe our lives are measured less by what we accumulated and more by the moments we shared.

Those moments become our real inheritance. And that is a gift worth giving.

I recently had the opportunity to see some of the first two years of results from the National Alumni Survey, and I walked away with the same reaction I have when I encounter truly useful research: I wanted to keep reading.

Too much of higher education advancement relies on assumptions. We often believe we know what alumni think, why they give, or what motivates them to stay connected. The National

Alumni Survey is taking a different approach. It asks alumni directly and does so at a scale that gives the findings real credibility. With more than 155,000 responses collected across its first three years, it is becoming one of the most significant research efforts focused on alumni engagement and philanthropy.

Several findings stood out to me.

• One is that alumni generally feel positive about the education they received but are less enthusiastic about their ongoing relationship with their institution. That distinction matters. A satisfied graduate does not automatically become an engaged alumnus. Relationships require attention long after commencement.

• Another finding reinforces something many advancement professionals have sensed for years. Alumni are generous people. They are giving to charitable causes. The challenge is that many are choosing organizations other than their alma mater. That shifts the conversation from "How do we ask better?" to "How do we build stronger relationships and demonstrate greater impact?"

• I was equally interested to see that connection and meaningful information are among the strongest predictors of giving. Alumni who feel informed and connected are significantly more likely to support their institution. The report also highlights that many alumni do not feel "known" by their university. That is a powerful reminder that personalization is no longer a luxury. It is becoming an expectation.

What excites me even more is what this project represents for the higher education sector.

Most colleges and universities, especially smaller institutions, could never undertake research of this magnitude on their own. The cost, logistics, statistical expertise, and benchmarking would be beyond reach for many advancement shops. By creating a national framework that institutions can join, the National Alumni Survey gives smaller colleges access to insights that would otherwise be unavailable. They gain not only their own results but also meaningful comparisons against national data.

That has the potential to improve strategy, inform boards, guide investment, and challenge long held assumptions with actual evidence.

For years, advancement has talked about becoming more data informed. This feels like a meaningful step in that direction. It is research designed not simply to describe alumni, but to help institutions build stronger, more authentic relationships with them.

I have a feeling we are only seeing the beginning of what this work will produce. If the first few years are any indication, the National Alumni Survey will become one of the most valuable resources available to advancement professionals. I, for one, cannot wait to see where it leads next.

A new study from BBB's Give.org found that 62 percent of donors who use giving platforms say a charity's presence on a well-known platform increases their trust in the organization. That is a remarkable finding. It means the platform itself has become part of the donor's decision-making process. The donation channel is no longer just a piece of technology. It has become a trust signal.

Many nonprofit leaders have viewed giving platforms primarily as transactional tools. Donors appear to see them differently. They associate established platforms with legitimacy, security, oversight, and accountability. In a crowded marketplace where thousands of organizations compete for attention, donors often use shortcuts to determine whom they can trust. A recognizable platform has become one of those shortcuts.

The study also revealed something that should concern every nonprofit executive. Nearly half of giving platform users assume that charities themselves create and manage the donation pages that appear on these platforms. In reality, that is not always the case. Many donors do not distinguish between the platform and the nonprofit. If information is outdated, inaccurate, or misleading, donors often hold the charity responsible regardless of who actually created the page.

That finding helps explain why transparency remains so important. More than half of donors said their trust is driven by clear information about charities and transparency regarding fees and the use of funds. Donors want to know where their money is going. They want to understand who is handling their gift. They want confidence that the organization represented on the screen is the same organization they believe they are supporting.

Another result deserves attention. A majority of donors prefer platforms that obtain a charity's permission before creating a profile or fundraising page. In other words, donors value consent. They want nonprofits to have a voice in how they are represented online. This is not simply a legal or operational issue. It is a trust issue. Donors appear to believe that organizations should have some control over their own identity and presence in the digital marketplace.

The lesson for nonprofit leaders is straightforward. A giving platform is not just a payment processor. It is part of your brand. It is part of your reputation. It is part of the donor experience. Organizations that carefully select trusted platforms, monitor how they are represented online, and prioritize transparency are doing more than improving technology. They are strengthening donor confidence.

In philanthropy, trust remains the most valuable currency. Increasingly, the platform carrying the gift is helping donors decide whether that trust has been earned.

I often convince myself that one more email, one more article, one more project review will somehow make things better. There is always another task waiting. The problem is that work expands to fill whatever space we give it. If left unchecked, it can quietly consume time that belongs to other parts of life.

I have never valued vacations enough. I have viewed them as interruptions rather than investments. Even when away, I have often remained tethered to my laptop and phone, checking messages, solving problems, and keeping one foot firmly planted in the office. Physically absent, mentally present.

This summer, I am trying to do something different.

My family and I are getting away together, and I am making a conscious effort to pull back from work. Not eliminate it completely. That may be unrealistic for me. But reduce it significantly. Spend more time with my wife. Be more present with my children. Have conversations that are not squeezed between meetings. Enjoy a meal without checking notifications. Sit outside without wondering what is waiting in my inbox.

I may even attempt something that feels surprisingly foreign: reading a real book for pleasure.

Not a business book. Not a leadership book. Not a philanthropy book. A book chosen simply because I want to read it. The fact that I cannot remember the last time I did that says something about how thoroughly work has occupied my attention.

Research consistently shows that time away from work is not merely enjoyable; it is healthy. Regular breaks and vacations can reduce stress, lower the risk of burnout, improve sleep quality, and support cardiovascular health. Mental recovery improves creativity, decision making, and focus. The brain benefits from periods of rest just as muscles benefit from recovery after exercise. Constant output without recovery eventually comes with a cost.

I know all of this intellectually. The challenge is putting it into practice.

So, this summer, I am going to try. I am going to try to be more present, more available to my family, and less connected to work. I am going to try to value rest as much as productivity. I am going to try to remember that life is larger than the next project or the next deadline.

It will not be easy. Old habits rarely surrender without a fight.

But I am going to try anyway.

Schools invested millions of dollars in laptops, tablets, smart boards, digital learning platforms, and online assignments. Parents were assured that more technology meant better learning. Communities celebrated one-to-one device programs. Technology became a symbol of innovation, progress, and educational excellence.

Now, in a twist that few could have predicted, educators, researchers, and policymakers are increasingly asking a different question: Have we gone too far?

This conversation is not theoretical in our house. We have a 13-year-old and a 9-year-old, and we see the challenge firsthand. Much of their school day involves screens. Assignments are completed digitally. Reading is often done online. Notes are taken electronically. Even activities that could easily be completed with paper and pencil frequently find their way onto a device.

At home, we have chosen a different path.

We limit screen time dramatically. Our children read books printed on actual paper. They complete schoolwork with pencils and paper whenever possible. Gaming time exists, but it is limited. We are not anti-technology. We simply believe that technology should serve learning, not replace it.

The irony is difficult to ignore.

For decades, educators and policymakers worked tirelessly to bring more technology into classrooms. The goal was understandable. Computers would prepare students for the future. Digital tools would increase engagement. Access to information would expand learning opportunities.

Today, some of the very same systems that once celebrated more screens are questioning whether screens have become an obstacle to learning.

Consider Sweden. After years of aggressively embracing digital learning, the Swedish government recently shifted course. Officials announced investments in printed textbooks and a renewed emphasis on traditional learning methods. Concerns about reading comprehension, attention spans, and foundational academic skills contributed to the decision. One of the world's most technologically advanced nations concluded that technology alone was not producing the educational outcomes many expected.

That same conversation is now unfolding across the United States. Several states are considering or implementing limits on classroom screen time, particularly for younger students. The focus is not on eliminating technology. It is on restoring balance.

There is a lesson here beyond education policy.

New does not automatically mean better. Innovation should always be measured against outcomes. If students read more deeply from paper, retain information more effectively through handwritten notes, and engage more meaningfully with teachers and classmates without a screen between them, we should have the courage to acknowledge that reality.

Technology remains a remarkable tool. But tools are most effective when used intentionally.

The future of education may not be about adding more screens to classrooms. It may be about rediscovering when to put them away.

Recently, I worked with a nonprofit organization with annual revenue exceeding $10 million and more than 100 employees. The board was filled with intelligent, committed, caring people. They wanted the organization to succeed. Yet much of their time was consumed by issues that should never have reached the board table.

Board members debated hiring decisions involving staff several layers below the CEO. They discussed specific program offerings and service delivery details. They questioned accounting processes, expense coding, software choices, and operational procedures. Meeting after meeting, talented volunteers spent valuable time discussing matters that belonged to management.

The problem was not their intentions. The problem was their focus.

As organizations grow, governance and management must become increasingly distinct. The board's role is to establish direction, ensure financial sustainability, oversee organizational performance, hire and evaluate the CEO, and protect the mission. Management's role is to execute

When a board spends its time discussing which staff member should be hired, how a program should be structured, or what accounting process should be followed, it has crossed from governance into management. The result is often frustration on both sides. Staff members feel second guessed. Executives become hesitant to make decisions. Board meetings become crowded with details that generate little strategic value.

More concerning is what gets neglected.

Every hour spent discussing accounting software is an hour not spent discussing long-term financial sustainability. Every debate about a staff vacancy is time not spent examining talent development across the organization. Every conversation about a specific program offering is a conversation not being had about changing community needs, emerging risks, competitive positioning, or future opportunities.

Organizations rarely fail because of a single hiring decision or a software platform. They struggle because they miss larger shifts in their environment. They fail to adapt. They postpone difficult strategic decisions. They lose sight of long-term priorities while concentrating on short-term details.

Board members often believe they are protecting the organization when they immerse themselves in operations. In reality, they may be creating risk. The organization's greatest vulnerabilities are usually found at the strategic level, not in the daily management decisions entrusted to staff.

A strong board asks different questions. Where is the organization headed? What risks threaten the mission? How will we remain financially healthy five years from now? What opportunities are emerging that we should pursue? Is leadership equipped to execute the strategy?

Those are governance questions. Those are board questions.

The future of an organization is rarely determined by who was hired into a mid-level position or how an expense was coded. It is determined by whether leadership and the board spent enough time looking over the horizon instead of staring at the dashboard.

Children often surprise us by doing things we assume are easier for them than they really are. We look at a school play and see excited kids in costumes. What we do not always appreciate is the vulnerability involved. A child walks onto a brightly lit stage, fully aware that every eye in the room is directed toward them. They know they must remember their lines, hit their marks, sing at the right time, and move with confidence. They understand there is a possibility of making a mistake in front of a crowd.

That reality struck me as I watched my daughter perform. The audience was filled with parents, grandparents, family members, and friends. It was a supportive crowd that wanted every child to succeed. Yet a friendly audience does not eliminate anxiety. Anyone who has ever spoken publicly, performed, or presented knows that nervousness is often present regardless of how welcoming the audience may be. There is still a moment when you have to walk into the spotlight and trust yourself.

I am not sure I could have done what she did at nine years old. And even though I speak to 100’s and 1000’s of people in a professional presentation, getting on stage today at 55 years old (in front of a positively biased crowd) would be more than daunting.  In truth, I am not sure many adults could do it comfortably today.  Public speaking routinely ranks among people's greatest fears. Add singing, dancing, memorization, costumes, and stage lights, and the challenge becomes even more significant. Yet there she was, confidently stepping into a role and embracing the experience.

What impressed me most was not the performance itself. It was the willingness to be seen. That may be one of the most difficult forms of courage we ever develop. Many people spend years avoiding situations where they might be judged, evaluated, or exposed to criticism. We gravitate toward what is familiar and comfortable. We often underestimate how much personal growth requires a willingness to risk embarrassment or failure.

Traits such as confidence, resilience, and internal fortitude are difficult to teach directly. We can encourage them, model them, and talk about them, but they are ultimately built through experience. Confidence rarely appears before the challenge. More often, it is the result of facing the challenge. A person discovers they can handle something difficult only after they have done it.

As I watched Town Person #5 deliver her lines, sing her songs, and play her part, I saw something larger than a school production. I saw a young person who I adore and love demonstrating a level of courage that many adults continue to struggle with. It was a reminder that bravery is not always found in dramatic acts. Sometimes it is found in a child who takes a deep breath, steps onto a stage, and trusts herself enough to begin.

As the father of a 13-year-old and a 9-year-old, I increasingly find myself having conversations about protecting themselves from people who do not have their best interests at heart. I want my children to grow up believing in people. I want them to be trusting, optimistic, and open to new relationships and experiences. At the same time, I have a responsibility to prepare them for reality.

Part of that reality is understanding that there are people in this world who will take everything they can if given the opportunity. They will deceive, manipulate, and steal. They will take advantage of trust. They will exploit kindness. They will look for vulnerabilities and use them for their own gain.

That is a difficult lesson to teach a child because it runs counter to the values most parents hope to instill. We spend years encouraging empathy, generosity, and compassion. Then, at some point, we have to explain that not everyone operates from those same values.

Recently, I read an article about scammers creating fake Venmo accounts that closely resemble legitimate nonprofit organizations. Donors believe they are supporting a cause they care about. Instead, their gifts are diverted to criminals who have no connection to the organization. While the financial loss is concerning, what struck me most was the complete disregard for the people involved. These scammers are willing to exploit generosity itself. They see someone attempting to help others and view that act of kindness as an opportunity for personal profit.

There is something particularly troubling about that.

Those of us who work in philanthropy spend our careers building trust. Donors trust organizations to use their gifts wisely. Organizations trust donors to partner with them in meaningful ways. Communities trust institutions to fulfill their missions. Trust is the foundation upon which philanthropy operates.

Unfortunately, trust also creates opportunities for bad actors. The same people I warn my children about are willing to target nonprofit organizations, donors, volunteers, and staff. They do not care about the mission. They do not care about the people being served. They do not care about the consequences. They care only about what they can gain.

The lesson for nonprofits is the same lesson I teach my children. Protect yourself.

Protect yourself personally by remaining aware of risks and verifying information before acting. Protect yourself professionally by following sound practices and maintaining healthy skepticism. Protect your organization through strong policies, staff training, donor education, and effective oversight.

Most importantly, never assume it cannot happen to you.

Every victim of fraud once believed they were not a likely target. Every organization that experiences a scam thought it happened somewhere else. Complacency is often the vulnerability that criminals exploit most effectively.

I wish I did not have to teach my children that some people will take advantage of others. I wish nonprofit organizations did not have to dedicate time and resources to protecting themselves from fraud. Yet both realities exist.

The best response is neither fear nor cynicism. It is awareness. Trust remains essential in families, communities, and philanthropy. But trust should always be accompanied by vigilance. In today's world, protecting what matters requires both.

For years, many parents have quietly wondered what happened to honest feedback in education. Recently, Harvard faculty voted to limit grade inflation, acknowledging a problem that has been building for decades. When nearly everyone receives top marks, grades stop measuring achievement and start measuring participation.

As a parent, I have watched a version of this play out much earlier in the educational process.

More than once, I have looked through my children's homework and assignments only to find them returned with no corrections, no comments, and no indication of what was done well or poorly. Sometimes there is a check mark. Sometimes there is a smiley face. Occasionally there is simply a grade that seems disconnected from the actual work.

When I have asked teachers about it, I have heard explanations that sound familiar to many parents. “We want students to feel good about themselves.” “They were close.”  “We focus on effort.”  “We do not want them discouraged.”

I understand the intent. Every parent wants their child to feel confident. Every educator wants students engaged and motivated. Confidence matters.

Learning matters more.

The purpose of school is not to protect children from every disappointment. The purpose of school is to help them grow. Growth requires feedback. Feedback requires honesty.

If a math problem is wrong, it should be marked wrong. If a paper has errors, those errors should be identified. If a student earns a “B,” that grade should communicate that the work was good but not excellent. If the work earns a “C,” that should signal that improvement is needed.

An “A” should mean something.

When every effort receives the same praise and every assignment receives a top mark, students lose valuable information. They lose the opportunity to understand where they excel and where they need to improve. They lose the connection between effort and outcome. Most importantly, they lose the chance to develop resilience.

Some of the most important lessons in life come from falling short of a goal. A disappointing grade can teach preparation. A missed opportunity can teach discipline. Constructive criticism can teach humility. These experiences are not obstacles to growth. They are growth.

The real world provides feedback constantly. Employers provide evaluations. Customers make choices. Markets reward excellence. Organizations promote performance. Shielding children from honest assessment does not prepare them for that reality. It delays their encounter with it.

Children are more capable than we often give them credit for. They can handle correction. They can recover from disappointment. They can learn from mistakes. In fact, those abilities are among the most important outcomes education can produce.

The goal should never be making students feel bad about themselves. The goal should be helping them become better versions of themselves.

That requires encouragement. It also requires honesty.

An “A” should represent excellence. A “B” should represent solid work with room for improvement. A “C” should signal the need for greater effort or mastery. When grades carry meaning, students learn. When everyone receives an “A,” nobody really does.

As I read the email, I was reminded that this idea first gained traction years ago as wealth screening became more sophisticated and more widely adopted. What began as a useful research tool gradually evolved in some organizations into something much larger. Instead of informing strategy, capacity ratings began driving strategy. Somewhere along the way, some leaders started believing that if a donor had the capacity to make a six figure or seven figure gift, the organization should simply ask for it

The problem is that fundraising has never worked that way.

A donor's capacity and a donor's inclination are not the same thing. Neither are capacity and commitment. A wealth screening can provide useful information about financial resources, but it cannot tell us whether someone cares deeply about the mission, trusts the organization, feels connected to its leadership, or sees philanthropy to that institution as part of their identity. Those factors are often far more important than the numbers found in a screening report.

Imagine a donor who has given $50 annually for years. Their lifetime giving totals less than $1,000, but a wealth screening suggests they could make a gift of $250,000 or even $500,000. Some leaders now seem willing to jump directly from the donor's giving history to the capacity estimate and build a solicitation strategy around the larger number. That approach ignores everything we know about donor behavior. Most significant philanthropic relationships are built over time through engagement, trust, demonstrated impact, and increasingly meaningful investments. Donors rarely wake up one morning and decide to move from a modest annual gift to a transformational commitment simply because someone asked.

And even one step further, this all ignores the fact that 85% of the wealth in the US, and at higher levels with some of the wealthiest people in the world, is not in cash or marketable securities.  It is in 401k’s, IRA, real estate, antique cars, wine collections, farmland, etc.  And to get to those conversations, a gift officer better develop trust.  Almost no one is going to dip into their assets to make a gift based on a single or two conversations—no matter how good the discussions were.

What concerns me most is that this philosophy reflects a misunderstanding of the gift officer's role. Professional fundraisers are not human versions of wealth screening software. Their value comes from understanding people. They listen. They learn. They connect donor interests with institutional priorities. They help donors move along a journey that is often measured in years rather than months. When organizations reduce fundraising to asking for the largest number attached to a donor record, they diminish the professional judgment of the very people they hired to build relationships.

The consequences extend beyond donor relationships. Gift officers know when they are being asked to do something that lacks strategic sense. They know when a solicitation amount is disconnected from a donor's history, engagement, and demonstrated interest. When leadership consistently ignores that judgment and imposes unrealistic expectations, frustration follows.

Eventually some of the most talented professionals decide to leave for organizations where relationship building is still valued.

What makes these directives particularly frustrating is that they often originate from leaders who are insulated from the consequences. In large organizations, senior advancement executives frequently oversee portfolios filled with the institution's most loyal donors and strongest relationships. They operate from a position of credibility built over decades. It is easy to issue broad directives about asking at capacity when someone else must sit across the table, make the ask, repair the relationship if it goes poorly, and continue managing the donor afterward.

Will this approach produce some large gifts? Of course it will. Almost any strategy will generate occasional success stories. The danger is that leadership often focuses on those victories while ignoring the far greater number of donors who become confused, uncomfortable, or disengaged.

At the same time, gift officers become increasingly frustrated by expectations that substitute algorithms for professional judgment.

Fundraising is ultimately about relationships, not capacity ratings. Organizations that forget that distinction may secure a few impressive gifts in the short term. The longer-term outcome is often much less attractive: strained donor relationships, declining trust in leadership, increased staff turnover, and a culture that values transactions more than genuine philanthropic partnership.

At first glance, that seems like a commentary on charts, dashboards, and annual reports. In reality, it is a commentary on nearly every aspect of modern fundraising.

Fundraisers operate in a world where attention has become one of the scarcest resources available. Donors are overwhelmed by emails, texts, social media posts, videos, advertisements, and endless notifications competing for their time. The challenge is no longer simply communicating impact. The challenge is earning enough attention to communicate impact.

Think about annual giving.

A donor opens an email. You have roughly three seconds for the subject line, opening sentence, image, or headline to answer a simple question: "Why should I care?" If that answer is not immediately apparent, the donor moves on.

The same principle applies to direct mail. Before a letter is read, it is scanned. The donor looks at the envelope, headline, images, and opening paragraph. A decision about relevance is made almost instantly.

Videos face the same challenge. Many organizations spend considerable resources creating excellent content only to lose viewers in the opening moments. The first few seconds determine whether the audience stays engaged long enough to understand the message.

Even major gift fundraising is not immune.

Consider a cultivation call with a prospective donor. The first few moments often establish whether the conversation will be transactional or meaningful. The prospect begins forming impressions immediately. Do you understand their interests? Are you bringing value? Is this conversation worth their time?

The first few seconds create momentum or resistance.

Some may interpret this reality as a reason to simplify messaging. I view it differently. The

objective is not simplification. The objective is clarity.

Donors still want substance. Major donors still want detailed outcomes. Foundations still expect evidence. Board members still require thoughtful analysis. None of that has changed.

What has changed is the path to getting there.

Organizations must communicate impact in layers. The first layer captures attention. The second builds understanding. The third provides evidence. Too often, nonprofits begin with layer three and never earn enough attention to reach it.

The organizations that will thrive in the coming decade will not necessarily be those with the most data. They will be those that connect data to meaning most effectively.

Fundraising has always been about helping donors understand the difference their investment makes. Today's environment simply requires us to do it faster.

Whether it is an email, a stewardship video, a direct mail appeal, a social media post, or the opening moments of a donor conversation, the same question exists:

Can you communicate relevance before attention disappears?  In many cases, the answer determines whether the conversation continues at all.