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.

The reality is that the educational marketplace has changed dramatically.

For colleges and universities, the demographic trends have been discussed for years. There are fewer college age students than there were in previous generations, and the number continues to decline in many parts of the country. At the same time, higher education faces increasing skepticism from families who are questioning both cost and value. Students now have more alternatives than ever before. Some pursue trade programs. Others earn certifications. Some enter the workforce directly. Many are simply choosing different paths than the traditional four-year residential college experience.

Yet despite these changes, many institutions continue to operate as though nothing has happened.

The result is a growing number of colleges competing aggressively for a shrinking pool of students. Tuition discounting continues to increase. Marketing costs continue to increase. Administrative costs continue to increase. Institutions find themselves spending more money to recruit fewer students while simultaneously trying to maintain facilities, staffing levels, and programs that were built for enrollment numbers that may never return.

Independent private high schools face many of the same challenges. Demographic shifts affect them as well. Rising operating costs create pressure on tuition. Families have more educational options than ever before, including public schools, charter schools, online programs, specialized academies, and homeschooling. Competition for students has intensified while the cost of delivering a high-quality educational experience continues to rise.

What surprises me is not that some institutions are struggling. What surprises me is how resistant many remain to exploring alternatives.

In the corporate world, strategic combinations occur regularly. Organizations combine resources, eliminate duplication, expand capabilities, and strengthen their market position. No one automatically assumes that a merger represents failure. Often it is viewed as smart leadership responding to changing conditions.

Education should be willing to think the same way.

Not every merger makes sense. Not every partnership creates value. Some institutions should absolutely remain independent. But leaders should at least be willing to evaluate possibilities before circumstances force decisions upon them. A thoughtful merger undertaken from a position of relative strength is very different from a desperate merger pursued after years of financial decline.

The greatest risk may not be considering merger opportunities. The greatest risk may be refusing to consider them.

Educational institutions exist to serve students. Their purpose is not to preserve a particular organizational chart or corporate structure. If combining resources with another institution strengthens academic offerings, improves financial stability, enhances the student experience, and better positions the organization for the future, leaders have an obligation to examine the opportunity seriously.

History and tradition matter. They always will.

But history and tradition alone will not solve demographic challenges, declining enrollment, rising costs, or changing consumer preferences. The institutions that thrive in the coming decades may very well be those willing to have conversations that many others continue to avoid.

Tenure exists for a reason. It protects academic freedom and allows faculty to pursue research and teaching without political or financial pressure shaping every decision. That principle has value and remains central to how higher education functions.

At the same time, public universities, especially those supported by state dollars, operate within economic constraints. Families expect affordability, and legislators expect accountability. When enrollment declines in certain programs or student demand shifts, institutions cannot ignore those signals for long without consequences.

This is where the conversation becomes difficult but necessary. If a program consistently draws very low student interest or no longer aligns with workforce demand or institutional mission, maintaining full staffing levels creates financial strain. Over time, that strain shows up in tuition increases, reduced student services, or delayed investment in areas that matter more to current students.

There has to be some mechanism for adjustment within the system. That includes, in limited and well justified cases, the ability to reduce faculty positions. This should not be a blunt instrument or a reaction to short term pressure, but part of a deliberate and transparent process tied to enrollment trends, program outcomes, and long-term strategy.

This is not a dismissal of tenure but a recognition that it cannot be entirely insulated from the broader system it operates within. When the financial model shifts, every part of the institution has to be examined with some level of discipline.

Execution is where institutions will either build or lose trust. Decisions need to be grounded in data such as sustained low enrollment, declining majors, or duplication of programs. Process matters just as much, including faculty governance, clear criteria, and consistent application.

There is also a human cost that cannot be ignored. These are careers and livelihoods, not just budget lines. The loss of positions affects communities, research continuity, and the student experience, which is why these decisions carry weight.

Avoiding the issue does not preserve the system. It places pressure elsewhere and often on students. Public universities exist to serve students and families, and if affordability and relevance are priorities, institutions need tools to adapt.

The balance is uncomfortable, but without it, sustainability becomes harder to maintain.

What I see now is the outcome of years that did not always feel significant at the time.

Expectations were set early. Clear rules were established. Discipline was consistent. Consequences were tied to behavior and not to mood. None of that felt profound in the moment. It felt repetitive. At times it felt exhausting.

Now it looks different.

He generally makes solid decisions. Not perfect decisions. Not even close. But there is a noticeable pattern of thinking before acting. There is an emerging ability to weigh risk and reward. That does not eliminate poor choices. It just reduces how often they happen and how severe they become. For a teenage boy, that is meaningful progress.

There are still moments that remind me exactly how young he is. Impulse shows up. Logic disappears. Confidence exceeds competence. That is part of the process. The difference now is that he can often recognize it after the fact. Sometimes even in the moment. That is a shift.

What I realize most now is how little I appreciated those early parenting decisions (completely informed by my father, the war hero, military officer, and West Point instructor) when we were making them. Holding a line on behavior when it would have been easier to let it go. Enforcing consequences when it would have been simpler to ignore it. Repeating expectations over and over when it felt like nothing was sticking.

It was sticking.

His mother and I did not try to be his friend. That was not the role. The role was to be his parent. That meant making decisions he did not always like. It meant short term friction for long term development. It meant creating structure even when flexibility would have been easier in the moment.   The environment was not soft. It was not designed to remove discomfort. It was designed to teach him how to handle it. At the same time, it was grounded in care and consistency. And in unconditional love.  He always knew where the lines were. He also knew why they were there.

Looking at him now, I see a teenager who is far from finished but moving in the right direction. He is capable of thinking through choices at a level I did not expect this early. That does not prevent mistakes. It just means those mistakes can become learning points instead of problems.

I am still not convinced I am ready for this stage. But I am more confident that he is equipped for it. That confidence does not come from hope. It comes from years of decisions that did not feel significant at the time and now realize they clearly were.

That shift matters. Too often, disaster philanthropy is reactive, fragmented, and heavily concentrated in the earliest days when attention is highest and needs are still being assessed. The Omaha approach recognized a different reality. Recovery is not an event, it is a long process that requires structure, patience, and coordination. The foundation helped convene stakeholders into a shared system that reduced duplication and addressed gaps that individuals and families often fall through after initial relief dollars are spent. That is disciplined leadership.

The article also describes the use of case management as a central feature, where trained professionals worked directly with impacted households to navigate insurance, federal aid, and rebuilding decisions. This is not glamorous work, but it is effective. It moves philanthropy closer to outcomes rather than activity.

As a five generation Nebraskan and Omahan, I felt a sense of pride reading this. There is a practical mindset in Nebraska that values getting things done, often without a need for recognition, and this model reflects that orientation. It is thoughtful, coordinated, and grounded in what people actually need over time.

What stands out even more is that this approach did not require new resources as much as it required new thinking. Pooling funds, aligning decision making, and focusing on navigation rather than fragmentation are choices. They are available to many communities if leadership is willing to challenge default behaviors.

This is where the broader lesson sits. Nonprofit organizations and philanthropic institutions need to become more creative in how they structure solutions. Creativity in this context is not about branding or messaging. It is about design, how systems are built, how decisions are made, and how resources move to where they are needed most.

The Omaha example shows that when organizations step into a coordinating role, rather than a narrowly defined program role, the results can improve. It also shows that community foundations can serve as infrastructure, not just intermediaries, and that distinction matters for the future of the sector.

The article gives full credit to a local response, but the implications extend well beyond Nebraska. Communities everywhere face complex challenges that do not fit neatly into single organizational missions or funding streams. Those challenges require integration, discipline, and a willingness to rethink how work gets done. This is a strong example of what that can look like in practice, and it is one that deserves attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the conversation feels incomplete.

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

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

That perspective shaped how I approached everything that followed.

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

That is a piece often missing in the underemployment conversation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The risk is not philosophical. It is operational.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is where organizations lose moral standing.

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

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

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

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

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

The first wrong act can create a crisis.

The cover up can and does negatively define the institution.

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

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

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

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

The delay acknowledges that gap.

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

That dynamic appears to be at play here.

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

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

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

The mandate did not change. The timeline did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is not weakness. That is the job.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is less room for neglect.

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

More preparation. More awareness. More care.

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

There is value in paying attention.

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

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

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

I am up to it.

I am worth it.

And so is everyone.

It does more than most organizations realize.

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

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

There are practical advantages.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That shift matters at the principal gift level.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Participation followed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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