The Work Between the Headlines: A Love Letter to Nonprofit Leadership

If you’re starting a nonprofit or considering working for one for the first time know this: there are easier ways to make a living. There are careers with predictable schedules, clearer boundaries, and responsibilities that can be left at the office when the workday ends. Nonprofit leadership is rarely one of them.

Hear me out... because if you asked many of us whether we would choose this path again, I

suspect the answer would still be yes.

Not because it's easy. But because somewhere along the way, this work stopped being just a profession. It became a promise.

• A promise to the young person who has never had someone consistently show up for them.

• A promise to the parent searching for safety after unimaginable hardship.

• A promise to the staff who choose purpose over comfort and compassion over convenience.

• A promise to our communities that someone will keep believing in them, even on the days when hope feels difficult to find.

If you've ever followed a nonprofit, you've probably seen the moments worth celebrating.

• A family receives the keys to a new home.

• A young adult graduates.

• A participant finds employment.

• A grant is awarded.

• A room is filled with laughter during a Community Meal.

  
  

Those moments deserve every ounce of celebration they receive. They remind us why we started, but they are only a fraction of the story.

Most of the work happens between the headlines. It happens long after the photos are posted and the applause fades. It happens in grant narratives written long into the night. It happens in budgets revised one more time, in board meetings, compliance reports, emergency phone calls, payroll calculations, insurance renewals, contract negotiations, and shifts that need to be covered because care doesn't stop when someone calls out. It happens in quiet moments that rarely make social media but make every success story possible.

The month of July was one of those months.

In fact, if I'm being truthful, I struggled to write this August blog. Usually, I have an idea before I ever sit down at my computer. This month, I didn't. I stared at a blank page, I asked my COO what I should write about, I wondered what I could possibly offer that hadn't already been said. There were grants waiting to be written, budgets to review, meetings to prepare for, and a growing list of responsibilities competing for my attention. The words simply weren't coming. Sometime recently, because the days seem to mesh together, as I was entering the building a staff member looked at me and said something that, in the moment, I allowed to just wash over me but I thought about it later.

She said, "You look defeated."

I don't remember exactly what had happened in the moments before I walked into the building. I couldn't tell you what email I had just read, what phone call I had just finished, or what problem I was trying to solve. But chances are... That's exactly how I felt. Not because I had stopped believing in the mission. Not because I wanted to walk away - maybe, but because sometimes the weight of carrying the mission becomes heavy enough that it shows on your face before you ever say a word. I imagine many nonprofit leaders know exactly what that feels like.

As nonprofit CEOs, we carry a weight that is often invisible. It isn't simply the responsibility of leading an organization. It's knowing that payroll isn't just numbers on a spreadsheet—it's groceries on someone's table, rent that's due next week, and a family counting on a paycheck. It's wondering how you'll sustain the incredible staff who have chosen this work alongside you. It's covering shifts because care doesn't stop when someone calls out. It's celebrating every success alongside your participants while quietly mourning the opportunities you couldn't preserve because resources simply weren't enough.

Every budget has names behind the numbers.

Every grant has faces behind the statistics.

Every difficult decision carries consequences that extend far beyond the boardroom.

People often say, "You chose this work." They're right. We did, but I don't think most people understand why. We didn't choose nonprofit leadership because we wanted titles. We chose it because somewhere along the way, another person's success became just as important as our own. Their victories became our celebrations. Their setbacks became our motivation. Their stories became part of ours. That is both the greatest privilege and the greatest responsibility of this work. The truth is, leadership can be lonely. There are moments when the weight of every decision rests squarely on your shoulders. You are expected to remain hopeful while navigating uncertainty, confident while carrying unanswered questions, and steady while those around you look to you for reassurance. You comfort your staff. You advocate for your participants. You reassure your board. You solve the crisis in front of you while preparing for the one that hasn't arrived yet. And then, somehow, you're expected to walk into the building smiling.

This isn't a complaint.

It's a love letter.

Because despite everything I've written, there has never been a moment when the weight outweighed the privilege. I have had the honor of celebrating families as they received keys to a home. I've watched young adults discover strengths they didn't know they possessed. I've witnessed staff members give pieces of themselves to people they had only just met because compassion came naturally to them. I've seen complete strangers become community. I've watched hope win. Again and again. That is why we keep writing the grants. That is why we keep balancing the budgets. That is why we keep covering the shifts. That is why we continue showing up. Not because the work asks little of us, but because it gives so much back.

To every nonprofit leader reading this: if you've looked in the mirror lately and seen someone who also looked a little defeated, know this—you are not alone. Being tired doesn't mean you've lost your purpose. Feeling the weight doesn't mean you're carrying it wrong. It means you've cared deeply enough to feel it.

And to those who believe in nonprofits but have never stepped behind the curtain, I have one request. Don't just celebrate the victories with us. Help us build them. Volunteer your time. Share our stories. Open a door. Introduce us to someone who believes in the work. Advocate for organizations serving your community. Invest in missions that invest in people. Because nonprofits are never sustained by one leader. They're sustained by communities that decide the work is worth carrying together. The work between the headlines belongs to all of us.

And if there's one thing July reminded me, it's that even on the days we feel defeated, love has a remarkable way of reminding us why we started in the first place. For me, that reminder will always be the people, and they will always be worth it.

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