• Send an email.

• Make a call.

• Contact your legislator.

Sometimes there’s a menu of actions. Sometimes it’s tied to tools like the “Five Calls a Day” model, in which advocates are encouraged to make one quick call to 5 lawmakers on an issue.

I can understand the appeal of that approach.

For many organizations, the biggest hurdle isn’t whether people care. It’s getting them comfortable enough to take that first step and engage at all.

That first action matters.

It lowers the barrier and helps people realize that contacting an elected official is something they can actually do. It builds confidence and participation.

That’s valuable.

But What’s the Actual Strategy?

But I keep coming back to the same question:

What strategy is that action actually part of?

Because if these actions are designed as an entry point into a larger advocacy program, great. You’re helping your supporters build the habit of engagement and creating a pathway toward deeper involvement over time.

But too often, it feels like the action itself becomes the strategy.

• An email goes out.

• People click a link.

• A few calls get made.

• Maybe a few legislators’ inboxes fill up.

And then what?

• Are we following up with those advocates?

• Are we telling them whether the committee vote changed?

• Are we identifying who’s ready for deeper engagement?

• Are we building relationships with the folks who consistently show up?

Or are we just sending another action alert two weeks later and starting the cycle over again?

That difference matters.

Because advocacy isn’t just about generating activity, it’s about building sustained influence and power over time.

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Your Supporters Can Tell the Difference

Your members and advocates can tell when they’re participating in a coordinated effort with a clear goal, and when an organization is simply trying to drive clicks or hit participation numbers.

If someone takes action and never hears what happens next, they eventually stop believing the action mattered.

If every advocacy ask feels disconnected from the last one, members stop seeing how their participation fits into a broader effort.

That’s when engagement starts to flatten out - not because people stopped caring, but because they stopped seeing progress, strategy, or purpose behind the asks.

The Action Isn’t the Strategy

The issue usually isn’t that organizations are asking people to do too much.

It’s that they’re not giving enough context around why the action matters and what comes next.

The action itself is not the strategy.

The strategy is:

• What you’re trying to change

• Who you need to influence

• Why this moment matters

• What role your advocates play

• And how you plan to build on that engagement afterward

Your supporters do not need a long policy memo. But they do need to understand the purpose behind the ask.

Something as simple as:

“We’re asking our members to contact legislators before Tuesday’s committee hearing because we need visible constituent support before the bill moves to a vote.”

Now the action has context and urgency and feels connected to something bigger.

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Start Simple. But Build From There.

There’s nothing wrong with starting with a low-barrier action. And in many cases, that’s exactly the right move.

But there should also be a next step after the action.

• Tell advocates what happened.

• Show them the outcome.

• Invite them deeper into the process.

• Give them another meaningful role to play.

Because if you are not building on that engagement, you risk falling into random acts of advocacy: disconnected actions that create activity in the moment but don’t build sustained influence over time.

Here is an example: “We asked you to contact your legislator ahead of Tuesday’s committee hearing, and lawmakers heard from hundreds of constituents before the vote. The bill successfully advanced out of committee, which was a major step forward for this effort.

Thank you for taking action. As we prepare for the floor vote next week, we’ll share additional opportunities for you to stay involved and help keep this momentum going.”

That’s how organizations move from one-time participation to long-term advocacy capacity - and build power over time.

Because if every advocacy effort begins and ends with a single click or a single call, organizations are not really building a movement or strengthening supporter engagement over time.

They’re just generating activity and not building power. And power is what changes laws and systems.

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How Snyder Strategies Can Help

If you’re reading this and recognizing some of these same tensions in your own work, you’re not alone.

This is exactly the kind of work I help organizations think through: how to be more intentional about strategy, how to meaningfully engage your supporters, and how to move forward in a way that actually builds power over time.

If that’s where you are, let’s talk.

Ready to Build What’s Missing?

Take the next step to move from reactive to strategic.

→ Start with the Advocacy Roadmap Readiness Guide
→ Book a Discovery Call
→ Get the Advocacy with a Side of Sass newsletter

After working in advocacy long enough, you learn that sine die has a very specific emotional effect on nonprofit staff.

Everyone walks out of the Capitol exhausted. You have been tracking amendments at weird hours, trying to interpret cryptic legislator comments, begging advocates to answer one more action alert, and surviving almost entirely on adrenaline and caffeine.

Then leadership announces Sine Die, the official end of session, and people immediately act like summer vacation just started.

And listen, I get it.

There is real relief when session ends. Especially after a hard year.

But one of the biggest mistakes organizations make is treating advocacy like it only exists while lawmakers are physically debating bills. The truth is that effective advocacy operates in seasons. The legislative session is only one of them.

When session gavels out, advocacy does not end. You are simply entering a new phase of the cycle.

That is especially true this year because we are also ending a biennium, the two year legislative cycle. Bills are now officially dead. Next January, lawmakers will return and begin introducing brand-new legislation again. There will be some turnover after the elections this fall, but realistically, most lawmakers will remain the same. Most committee structures will remain the same too.

Which means now is actually one of the most strategic moments of the year.

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Advocacy Has Seasons

One of the things I talk about often with clients is that advocacy work follows a predictable rhythm. Smart organizations stop treating advocacy like a series of random emergencies and start planning around that rhythm intentionally.

The cycle generally looks something like this:

Winter-Spring: In Session

This is the season most people think of when they hear the word advocacy.

Bills are moving, budgets are being negotiated, and lawmakers (and their staff) are overwhelmed.

This is when organizations are implementing the plan they should have already built months earlier.

You are:

• Meeting with lawmakers and staff

• Responding to fast-moving legislation

• Mobilizing advocates

• Providing testimony

• Sharing stories and data

• Coordinating messaging

• Reinforcing relationships

This is activation season. Not planning season.

Late Spring: Post-Session

This is where we are now (post written in May). And this is the season organizations consistently underuse.

Most teams immediately move into recovery mode, which is understandable. But post-session is one of the most valuable strategic windows you get all year because the session is still fresh enough to evaluate honestly.

This is when you ask:

• What actually worked?

• Which advocates consistently showed up?

• Which messages landed?

• Which lawmakers moved?

• Where did we lose momentum?

• Did our coalition coordination work?

• Did our board engage appropriately?

• Were we proactive or reactive?

• Did we have clear decision-making internally?

And perhaps most importantly: Did our advocacy feel strategic or did it feel reactive and episodic?

Because there is a big difference between being busy and being influential.

This is when you thank lawmakers and connect with your legislative allies to assess. And when you thank, follow up, and close the loop with advocates and supporters. And when you communicate outcomes clearly, even if you lost.

Especially if you lost.

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Summer-Fall: Off-Session

A lot of organizations mentally disappear during the summer.

That is usually a mistake. Off-session is relationship season.

Lawmakers are back in their home districts. They are more accessible.
They are attending community events. Their schedules are less chaotic.

This is the best time to build authentic relationships because you are not competing with a thousand immediate legislative crises.

This is when organizations should be:

• Identifying next year’s priorities

• Looking at likely target lawmakers

• Mapping committee leadership

• Building community partnerships

• Training advocates

• Inviting lawmakers into your work

• Showing up locally

• Strengthening grasstops relationships

And because we are entering an election season, this becomes even more important.

Some lawmakers are retiring or being primaried, and new lawmakers will emerge. But most will remain exactly where they are now.

Which means the organizations that start preparing early will enter January far more organized and influential than the ones scrambling during the holidays trying to figure out what to do.

Fall-Winter: Pre-Session

This is momentum-building season.

The organizations that tend to perform strongest during the session are usually the ones that spent the fall aligning internally.

This is when you:

• Finalize priorities

• Prepare messaging

• Train advocates

• Schedule pre-session meetings

• Build communication plans

• Educate your board

• Clarify internal decision-making

• Coalesce your coalition

Pre-session is where clarity and understanding are prioritized. And clarity matters because legislative sessions move fast. Organizations without clear priorities and decision-making structures tend to panic and lose momentum when the sh*t hits the fan.

Organizations with a plan can stay focused.

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Advocacy Is Not Seasonal. It Is Cyclical.

I think one reason nonprofits burn out on advocacy is that they unintentionally treat the legislative session like the Super Bowl, rather than as one phase in a long-term strategy.

But influence, relationships, and trust are created over time.

The organizations that consistently build power are usually not the loudest organizations in the room. They are the organizations that stay engaged throughout every season of advocacy, rather than only showing up during session chaos.

So yes, Sine Die is welcomed. Take a breath, get some rest, and have a beer.

But do not mistake the end of session for the end of advocacy until next January.

You are just entering the next season.

How Snyder Strategies Can Help

If you’re reading this and recognizing some of these same tensions in your own work, you’re not alone.

This is exactly the kind of work I help organizations think through: how to be more intentional about strategy, how to leverage each season, and how to move forward in a way that actually fits the moment you’re in.

If that’s where you are, let’s talk.

Ready to Build What’s Missing?

Take the next step to move from reactive to strategic.

→ Start with the Advocacy Roadmap Readiness Guide

→ Book a Discovery Call

→ Get the Advocacy with a Side of Sass newsletter

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So when I saw the musical Suffs last weekend, I expected to enjoy it. Maybe even learn a few new details and feel inspired in a general, historical sense.

I did not expect to walk out feeling like I had just sat through a masterclass in advocacy strategy.

And honestly, I feel a little naïve saying that. Because in hindsight, of course it was.

The lesson wasn’t just about history

Right away, I recognized the same age-old advocacy challenges and conversations we’re still having today, playing out on that stage—messy, unresolved, and incredibly familiar.

• The tension between pushing from the outside and working within the system

• The friction between generations of leaders trying to move the same work forward in different ways

• The question of when to collaborate and when to disrupt

Stuff we are still pondering and debating.

But watching it play out on the stage, through a real story with real people, made it impossible to ignore how cyclical this work is.

The debates we’re still having

There were moments in the show where I felt like I was watching real conversations I’ve had with clients, boards, and advocacy teams throughout my career.

• When do you shift your strategy, and when do you stay the course?

• Who gets to be the messenger, and why does that matter so much?

• How do you balance legislative strategy with electoral work and direct action?

And maybe the biggest one: how do movements grow beyond their original leadership and maintain momentum?

The show doesn’t flatten these questions into easy answers. It lets them be complicated. Which, if you’ve ever been in the middle of advocacy work, feels very accurate.

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The pieces we don’t always talk about enough

A few themes stuck out, mostly because they’re the ones organizations and movements still struggle to navigate:

The role of the sympathetic insider
We often focus on the decision-maker, but it’s often the staff, family, or other connections that make the difference.

President Wilson’s chief of staff, Joseph Tumulty, was a staunch supporter of women's suffrage and advised Wilson on it, often serving as the conduit for suffragists seeking an audience with the President.

Evolving (or not evolving) your approach
There’s a fine line between staying true to your strategy and staying stuck in it.

Alice Paul, the younger activist, didn’t want to keep doing the same old things. Carrie Chapman Catt had spent decades building an inside strategy and believed in staying the course.

Both made sense.

But that tension, between pushing for something new and sticking with traditional tactics, is where movements either gain momentum or stall out.

Leadership pipelines
Movements don’t just need strong leaders. They need a steady pipeline behind them.

Throughout the show, new activists are constantly stepping in. And by the end, some of the original leaders are stepping away, not because the work is done, but because life happens, burnout sets in, and priorities shift.

But the work must keep going because it has to. And that only works if you’re always building the next set of leaders.

Whose voices are centered
Black women in the suffrage movement were fighting on two fronts—racism and sexism—while also being pushed to the margins of a movement they were actively part of.

They were forced to march separately, excluded from leadership, and largely left out of the movement's history.

These challenges have a long history and continue to persist today. And if we’re not intentional about recognizing them, we will repeat them.

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And then there’s the timeline

It took nearly 70 years for women to secure the right to vote. 70 years!

That’s longer than most careers and organizations last. And definitely longer than most of us have the patience to endure when we’re in the middle of a fight that feels urgent and immediate.

If you’re feeling discouraged about where things are right now, or how slow progress can feel, remember the suffragists. 70 years!

This work has always been long and required people willing to stay, do the work, and pass the baton.

It’s all about the long game

I spend a lot of time thinking about how organizations can move from caring about an issue to being smart about fighting for it.

What Suffs reminded me is that the core building blocks of that work haven’t really changed.

• The questions are the same.

• The tensions are the same.

• The stakes are just as high.

If anything, what’s changed is how quickly we expect results and how easily we forget that the work we’re doing now is often just one chapter in something much bigger.

If you’re someone trying to make the world a little better and have a chance to see this show, go. Not just because it’s good (it is).

But because it might remind you that the challenges you’re navigating aren’t a sign that something is broken.

They’re a sign that you’re doing the work - and that it was never meant to be easy.

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How Snyder Strategies Can Help

If you’re reading this and recognizing some of these same tensions in your own work, you’re not alone.

This is exactly the kind of work I help organizations think through: how to be more intentional about strategy, how to navigate these tradeoffs, and how to move forward in a way that actually fits the moment you’re in.

If that’s where you are, let’s talk.

Ready to Build What’s Missing?

Take the next step to move from reactive to strategic.

→ Start with the Advocacy Roadmap Readiness Guide

→ Book a Discovery Call

→ Get the Advocacy with a Side of Sass newsletter

“Follow your passion!”
“Network like your life depends on it!”
“Always have a firm handshake!” (Okay, Grandpa)

But if I were giving the commencement speech? I’d skip all that.

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Here’s what I’d say: Never, ever get rid of a concert t-shirt.

That’s it. That’s the speech. Let me explain.

You’re about to enter the Real World™, a place filled with group texts about rent, long lines at the DMV, and endless meetings that could have been emails. Amidst all this, you’ll try desperately to cling to your youthful identity, your sense of cool, and your free spirit.

But slowly, the world will try to chip away at that. One day, you’ll blink and realize you own three beige cardigans and have started comparing air fryers for fun.

And this, dear graduate, is why the concert t-shirt matters.

That beat-up, bleach-stained, slightly-too-small tee from Bonnaroo 2002? That’s not just fabric. That’s a wearable time machine. That’s your 18-year-old self, front row, sweaty, screaming lyrics like they were gospel. That’s who you were before your job required two-factor authentication and you started saying things like “circle back” without irony.

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And trust me. I know the pain of letting them go.

RIP, dear concert tees (to name only a few):

• Beck 2001 – your quirky genius and wrinkle-resistant blend are sorely missed.

• Smashing Pumpkins 1996 – grunge, angst, flannel…perfection.

• Pink Floyd 1994 – The Division Bell tour lives on only in my heart and the replacement shirt I bought at Target a few years ago.

• U2 1995 – I still haven’t found what I’m looking for because I donated it during a tragic spring cleaning.

• Lillth Fair 1997– the most empowering tee I ever owned. You smelled like patchouli, sunblock, and liberation.

Each of these was more than a shirt. They were declarations of independence. A concert tee is a small act of rebellion. It says: “I was here. I raged. I had questionable footwear but excellent instincts.” And most importantly, it says: “I remember who I am.”

One day, you’ll go to clean out your closet, and that t-shirt will be in the “maybe” pile.

DON’T DO IT. That’s the slippery slope, my friend. First it’s the t-shirt, then it’s your spontaneity, your edge, your willingness to say yes to a last-minute road trip or cry during an Indigo Girls encore.

Now, am I saying your future depends on cotton? Kind of. Am I being a little dramatic? Also yes.

But listen: you’re about to grow in all sorts of ways. That’s beautiful. Just don’t let the world convince you that your quirks are clutter.

So go forth, graduates. Take the job, chase the dream, open the Roth IRA. But when you find yourself folding laundry late on a Tuesday, staring at that old concert tee and wondering if you should donate it? Don’t.

Fold it, smile, and put it right back in the drawer. You’ll thank me later.

P.S. If you’ve already Marie Kondo’d your band tee collection - no shame. Just promise me you’ll keep something that reminds you of the wild, unpolished, full-volume version of yourself. You’ll need that person. Especially when you’re stuck in a meeting called “synergy ideation.”

“August recess is the perfect time to meet with your member of Congress.”

And on the surface, that’s true. Lawmakers are back in their states and districts. They’re out of DC. It feels more accessible.

But here’s the part most folks don’t know: by the time you’re hearing that message (usually in June or July), you’re already behind.

I spent years staffing a U.S. Senator in his state office and helping build August recess schedules.

August is not a quiet month. It’s one of the most intense, tightly scheduled, high-demand stretches of the year. And planning starts months in advance.

If you understand that, you can position yourself to be part of it. If you don’t, you won’t get that coveted August recess meeting.

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August Is Not a Break

Let’s just clear this up.

August recess is not a “vacation” for lawmakers or their staff.

It’s one of the busiest, most visible months of the year. Schedules are packed with:

• Site visits that clearly showed impact

• Roundtables with the right mix of people

• Events that were already happening in the community

Much of the schedule revolved around anchor events such as the state fair, Farm Fest, and other large community gatherings. Think big local gatherings where a member of Congress could show up and connect with a lot of people at once.

If your work lined up with those moments, your chances went way up.

If you were asking for a standalone meeting in August, you were competing with everything else on a very crowded calendar.

What Actually Works

If you want to make August recess work for you, the strategy starts now.

1. Start with district and state staff

They are the gatekeepers for August.

They know what’s already filling up. They know what kinds of events their boss prioritizes. And they can tell you what the process actually looks like.

Here are a few helpful questions you can ask this time of year :

• “What’s the process for requesting a visit during August recess?”

• '“What types of events does your boss like to attend?”

And just to say it plainly, DC staff are usually not driving August schedules. If that’s where your relationships are, you’re missing the mark.

2. Think beyond the standard meeting

August is not built for sit-down meetings in an office. It’s built for being out in the community.

The kinds of things that worked best were:

• Site visits where we could see the work up close

• Roundtables with local leaders and stakeholders

• Hands-on opportunities that gave my boss something real to experience

Those are the events that gave him a story to tell and a way to connect with constituents.

3. Make it about people, not just policy

Yes, August events can have a policy focus.

But the ones that stick with the lawmaker are the ones that show impact.

The difference between a standard policy briefing and a conversation rooted in real stories is huge.

You can always schedule a more traditional policy conversation later. August is about visibility and connection.

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A Quick Note on Staff Meetings

State and district staff are slammed during August.

If you’re trying to schedule a one-off meeting with state and district staff during that time, it’s going to be tough.

You’re better off building those relationships now and then following up after recess when things settle down.

The Bottom Line

August recess can be a powerful opportunity. But only if you understand what it actually looks like behind the scenes.

The organizations that are successful are the ones that:

• Start early

• Build relationships with the right people

• Offer something that fits into what that month really is.

Following this advice will help you on the schedule and eventually lead to that policy win you are working towards.

One of My Favorite August Memories

One of my wildest August days as a staffer for Senator Al Franken started at dawn and didn’t really let up for 24 hours.

We kicked things off with a ribbon-cutting at an assisted living facility, then headed to a media interview at a local radio station.

From there, it was straight to the Minnesota State Fair, where we spent hours at our booth talking with constituents, shaking hands, and hearing their stories.

After that, I stayed to help staff the booth until 10 pm, making sure everything ran smoothly while surviving on fair food and adrenaline.

At the same time, I was on the phone, lining up meetings and confirming details for the next day and next week.

The next morning, we were back at it before sunrise, driving a couple of hours to a hospital system for a visit that turned into a deep conversation with hospital leadership about the Affordable Care Act.

On the way back, we squeezed in another stop at a senior living facility. And of course, we ended up at a small-town restaurant where my boss was immediately recognized and pulled into conversations over fried chicken.

And many selfies. So many selfies.

By the time I finally got home that night, I had just enough energy to set my alarm and do it all over again the next 20 days.

That’s August recess.

It’s packed. It’s unpredictable. And it’s planned long before it actually happens.

How Snyder Strategies Can Help

If you’re reading this and thinking, we should be doing this but aren’t quite set up for it, that’s the work I do.

I help organizations build the relationships, strategy, and structure to show up in moments like August recess in a way that actually lands.

If you’re ready to get more intentional about your advocacy, let’s talk.

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→ Start with the Advocacy Roadmap Readiness Guide

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Especially on issues that feel really personal. LGBTQ rights, reproductive rights, and environmental justice. The stuff that isn’t abstract for many of us. It’s our lives.

And I keep coming back to this realization that is not always comfortable.

Not every message is for me.

That doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It doesn’t mean it’s weak. And it definitely doesn’t mean the person saying it doesn’t care.

It might just mean I’m not the intended audience.

This Isn’t a New Feeling

I remember this really clearly from when I was living in Minnesota.

There was a constitutional amendment on the ballot to ban marriage equality. A huge coalition came together to defeat it, Minnesotans United for All Families, and they were running ads across the state.

And a lot of LGBTQ folks hated those ads.

They didn’t sound like us. They didn’t feel strong enough. They didn’t reflect the urgency or the reality of what was at stake.

I was doing LGBTQ outreach for Senator Franken at the time, and people would come to me frustrated. Saying this messaging isn’t right. This isn’t how we talk about this. This doesn’t represent us.

And honestly, they weren’t wrong. But they also weren’t the audience.

I remember asking one of the campaign leaders about it, and he said something that stuck with me.

This messaging isn’t for you.

It wasn’t dismissive. It was just…honest.

They were trying to reach people who were on the fence. People who weren’t already sure they supported marriage equality. People who might vote the other way unless something connected with them in a way that made sense in their world.

And the reality was, the message that resonated with me was not going to get them there.

So they made a choice. And they won. And LGBTQ Minnesotans won, too.

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Not Every Message Is For Me

I think about that a lot now.

Because I hear the same frustrations come up again and again when candidates talk about issues like LGBTQ rights or abortion or climate justice.

• People listen and think, that’s not strong enough

• That’s not saying what needs to be said

• That’s not how I would talk about this

And sometimes that’s true.

But sometimes, that message isn’t meant to reflect us. It’s meant to move someone else.

Someone who is unsure. Someone who is persuadable. Someone who might be reachable, but not if we start where we are. We need to start where they are.

Like a suburban mom from Dallas County, Iowa (oops, that is me lol).

That’s a hard thing to sit with, especially when the issue directly impacts you.

Because, of course, you want to hear your reality reflected back. Of course you want clarity and conviction and language that feels like it matches the moment.

But persuasion doesn’t always sound like that. And campaigns that ignore that reality usually don’t win. And then LGBTQ people can be furthered harmed.

Where That Leaves Us

This doesn’t mean we stay quiet.

We should absolutely push candidates. We should make sure they understand the impact of these issues in real ways. We should hold the line on values and outcomes.

But it also means we need to be more clear-eyed about strategy.

There’s a difference between messaging that affirms us and messaging that persuades someone else.

Both matter. But they serve different purposes.

And if we’re not careful, we start judging all messaging by whether it resonates with us personally.

When the real question is, who is this trying to move?

Because I’ve seen what happens when we get that right. And I’ve also seen what happens when we don’t.

So lately, when I hear something, and my first reaction is, I don’t like how that was said, I’m trying to pause and ask a different question.

Was that actually meant for me? And if it wasn’t…what is it trying to do?

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Where This Shows Up in Advocacy

This is where many advocacy efforts get stuck.

We focus on the words. The tone. The phrasing.
But skip over the more important question of who we’re actually trying to move.

And without that, even the best messaging won’t land the way we want it to.

This is a big part of the work I do with organizations.

Helping them get clear on their audiences, their strategy, and how to align their messaging so it actually drives outcomes, not just reactions.

Building a more intentional strategy

If you’re reading this and recognizing this tension in your own work, you’re not alone.

This is the work I do.

Helping organizations get clear on who they’re trying to move, and building advocacy strategies where messaging, timing, and audiences actually align.

Because when that’s in place, your advocacy stops feeling reactive. And starts making an impact.

→ Start with the Advocacy Roadmap Readiness Guide

→ Book a Discovery Call

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And I keep coming back to the same thought.

The LGBTQ community has been under threat for years now. This isn’t new. But there’s a level of fear right now that feels even harder to ignore.

Not abstract. Not political in the way people like to debate.

Real, day-to-day questions about safety, stability, and what comes next.

Our trans and nonbinary community members are carrying the brunt of it, as they have for a long time.

We’re having more conversations about safety than we should have to. And not in theory. In real, everyday decisions. Where to live, which schools to send our kids to, and which plumber we can invite into our homes.

So no, this June isn’t just a celebration. And it’s not business as usual. And it hasn’t been for a while.

Here in Iowa, we felt that clearly when gender identity was removed from the Civil Rights Code in 2025. But local communities could still maintain stronger protections.

But that door has closed too. The state removed that ability in 2026.

And this has real implications for people’s housing, employment, health, and safety.

And still, every June, we fall into the same pattern.

Rainbow logos. Pride merch. A few social posts.

And then, come July 1, it all goes quiet again.

If you don’t want to be part of that pattern, it’s worth thinking about what showing up actually looks like.

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What Not to Do This Pride Month

For Businesses

If your Pride plan starts and ends with a rainbow logo, please pause. This isn’t the year for symbolic gestures without anything behind them.

Not when policies are shifting in real time and people’s lives are directly impacted. And, to be honest, there is never a good time for performative allyship.

But there are some businesses that show up the right way.

One that comes to mind for me is the Valley Junction Chamber of Commerce here in Iowa.

They’ve shown up consistently on LGBTQ issues. They’ve organized letters. They’ve used their voice on behalf of the small business community in ways that actually matter.

So when they show up in June, it feels aligned. It doesn’t feel performative.

That’s the difference.

We aren’t asking for perfection or for everything to be exactly right every time. Just showing up in a way that people (esp LGBTQ people) can recognize as real.

If you’re thinking about what this could look like for your business, start there.

• Take a clear, public stance on anti-LGBTQ legislation. Now. Always.

• Make sure your internal policies support your LGBTQ employees beyond June.

• Invest in LGBTQ-led organizations in a way that is consistent, not seasonal.

• Use your influence, even when it’s uncomfortable - especially when it’s uncomfortable.

For Organizations

If you’re reaching out in May asking LGBTQ organizations to plug into your Pride programming, and there hasn’t been a relationship all year, take a step back.

I’ve already gotten a couple of those emails this year.

Folks want to partner in June, which I understand. Pride Month feels like the right time.

But the reality is, our community is already full that month. Every weekend is packed. There are Pride events across the state, family gatherings, and community events. People are stretched thin all month long.

When I respond, I usually say the same thing. Could we look at July? Or even September?

Because LGBTQ people exist every single month. And partnership should too.

Right now, LGBTQ organizations are carrying a heavy load. They’re supporting people in crisis, responding to policy changes, and trying to hold their communities together.

Adding one more ask without any prior investment isn’t a partnership. It’s just another thing on their plate.

There’s a different way to approach this.

• Build relationships outside of Pride Month.

• Use your platform to help your people understand what’s actually happening to queer folks.

• Ask LGBTQ organizations how you can support them, instead of assuming they have the capacity to support you.

• Make sure your internal policies support your LGBTQ employees beyond June.

For Individuals

Pride is joyful. That matters.

But it has never just been a party. It has always been rooted in protest and protection.

So before you change your profile picture or head to an event, take a minute.

Have you shown up for LGBTQ people this year?

Especially the trans and nonbinary folks in your life who may be feeling this most right now?

• Have you checked in on people who are directly impacted?

• Have you spoken up, even when it was uncomfortable?

• Have you supported organizations doing this work with your time or your money?

If the answer is no, that’s okay. But this is a moment to consider what it could look like to start beyond just attending your local Pride celebration.

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What You Can Do Right Now

Support organizations that are doing real, on-the-ground work, especially in places where the stakes are high.

A few I personally support:

• ​Family Equality: the only national organization solely dedicated to supporting and advocating for LGBTQ families.

• ​One Iowa Action (c4): Each session, we prevent dozens of bills attacking Iowa’s queer community. Help us elect more pro-LGBTQ lawmakers in November so we don’t have to work so hard.

• ​Iowa Trans Mutual Aid Fund: This critical org provides small grants to Iowans seeking gender-affirming care. Since the ban on youth gender-affirming care in Iowa, their work is more important than ever.

There are many ways to show up right now. This is one of them.

Pride is still about joy. It always will be.

But this year, it’s also about care. And courage. And being honest about what support actually looks like.

Because for a lot of people, this isn’t theoretical. It’s personal.

And people are paying attention to who is actually with them.

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Building something more consistent

If you’re reading this and realizing your organization wants to show up differently, this is the work I do.

Helping organizations move beyond one-off moments and build advocacy that is consistent, thoughtful, and actually makes a difference.

→ Start with the Advocacy Roadmap Readiness Guide

→ Book a Discovery Call

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At my kiddo’s school, the ninth graders are in a separate building from the rest of the high school. The sophomores, juniors, and seniors were organizing a walkout, and word started spreading among the freshmen pretty quickly.

Why aren’t we doing one too?

My kiddo came home talking about it because, apparently, the conversation among the freshmen had reached the very predictable stage where everyone agrees something should happen, everyone is fired up about it, and yet no one has actually stepped forward to make it happen.

At some point my kiddo finally said, “I don’t know why they don’t just organize one. It’s not that hard.”

And then, of course, she ended up organizing it.

Not because anyone formally appointed her to the role, nor because she had any special training in student activism. It happened because she crossed the invisible line between wishing something would happen and deciding to start making it happen.

As she told me the story, I found myself laughing a little because the moment felt so familiar.

I have lived that moment my entire life.

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The Waiting Room of Leadership

One of the most interesting things about organizing is how often a group of perfectly capable people will sit in a kind of holding pattern, waiting for someone to lead.

• Everyone can see the issue.

• Everyone has opinions.

• Everyone agrees that something should be done.

But many people are still quietly scanning the room for a signal that someone else is in charge.

They are waiting for a teacher to approve it, or a formal leader to announce it, or a more confident person to step forward and say what happens next. Even people who care deeply about the issue often assume that leadership must belong to someone else, someone more experienced or more qualified.

What I see over and over again in my advocacy work is that this moment of waiting is where momentum either stalls out or suddenly shifts.

The shift happens when someone stops looking around for permission and simply begins.

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The Leader Brain

Some of us seem to be wired in a way that makes that waiting phase almost unbearable.

When a conversation starts circling around a problem, our brains automatically start mapping the next steps. We start thinking about who needs to talk to whom, what the timeline might be, how people could be engaged, and what the first step might look like.

We are not necessarily trying to take charge. In many cases, we would actually be delighted if someone else did.

But once you notice that everyone else is still waiting, it becomes increasingly difficult to sit quietly and hope the moment organizes itself.

Eventually, someone says something like, “Someone should really organize this.”

And at that point, you have a choice. You can keep waiting for the mysterious someone to appear, or you can accept that you have probably just been nominated.

That moment is when many leaders, organizers, and advocacy professionals are born.

Organizers Are Not a Special Species

One of the strange myths about leading or organizing is that people often treat them as if they belong to some rare category of human.

They imagine that organizers or leaders must be especially charismatic, fearless, or naturally suited for leadership in ways that others are not.

In reality, leadership usually begins in a much more ordinary place. It begins when someone notices that everyone else is waiting for permission that is unlikely to arrive.

Most of the time, there is no formal green light, no official title, and no perfectly clear plan. There is simply a moment when someone recognizes that, if the group is going to move forward, someone needs to start moving things along.

Once that happens, something interesting usually follows. People who were hesitant a moment earlier suddenly become willing to participate. Energy that felt stuck begins to move again, largely because someone demonstrated that action was possible.

In other words, the difference between a room full of people talking about change and a group that actually begins to create it is often just the presence of one person who has decided not to wait anymore.

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Watching It Happen Again

As my kiddo was telling me about the freshman walkout, I joked with her that she had just had her first taste of what organizing feels like.

Not because organizing is inevitable, but because once you start noticing that gap between people waiting for leadership and people willing to step into it, you begin to see it everywhere.

You notice it in school hallways, in community meetings, in coalitions, and in advocacy spaces where everyone agrees the stakes are high. However, many people are still looking around to see who will go first.

And then that pattern repeats itself constantly.

A room full of people cares deeply about an issue. Yet the energy sits there, suspended, until someone decides that waiting for permission is no longer the most interesting - or fruitful - option.

In this case, that someone happened to be a ninth grader who was tired of hearing everyone talk about a walkout that no one had actually organized yet.

And if experience is any guide, she will probably encounter that same moment many times in her life, in rooms where adults are doing exactly the same thing.

This is the work

Most organizations are full of people who care and are capable of stepping in. But without clear roles and a path forward, they stay stuck in that waiting moment.

That’s the work I do. I help organizations move from waiting to action by building the structure and clarity that makes it easier for people to step up and engage.

Ready to Take that Leap?

Take the next step into leadership and move from reactive to proactive.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about community lately. Not just the idea of it. Not the way we talk about it. But what it actually looks like in practice.

Because the truth is, caring and showing up are not the same thing.

I see a lot of people who care. They say the right things. They show up in moments of crisis. They share posts. They express support.

But that’s not the same as being part of a community that can actually hold when things get hard.

And if I’m being honest, I don’t think we’re very good at that in a lot of places.

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What I Saw in Minneapolis

Watching what happened in Minneapolis stirred all of this up for me.

My heart is heavy for that city, for my old neighborhood, and for friends who have watched their community absorb hit after hit over the last several years. It’s exhausting to witness, especially from afar.

But alongside that grief, I keep noticing something else.

They know how to come together.

They know how to organize, how to respond, how to move quickly when something is deeply wrong.

And that doesn’t happen by accident.

It’s not spontaneous. It’s not just a surge of energy after something happens. It’s relationships and infrastructure. It’s people who have been in communication (and in community) with each other for years. It’s people who respond to emails and pick up the phone. Who already trust each other enough to act.

That kind of community is built long before it’s needed.

Where It Breaks Down

A lot of this comes back to leadership.

I’ve written before about how often leaders operate in silos. We sit on panels together. We show up at the same events. We recognize each other across the room.

But we’re not actually in relationship.

We’re not coordinating. We’re not aligned. And we’re definitely not building trust in any real way.

And when leaders aren’t connected, the community feels it.

Especially in moments when people are scared and looking for somewhere to plug in. Somewhere that feels steady. Somewhere that feels like it knows what it’s doing.

Disconnected leadership creates fragile communities.

Because when something breaks, there’s no muscle memory. No shared way of responding or trust to fall back on. Everyone is doing their own thing, even if they care about the same outcome.

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The Question I Can’t Let Go

I keep coming back to a question that makes me a little uncomfortable.

What if something like this happened where I live now? Would we know what to do?

Would leaders already be talking to each other? Would there be enough trust to move quickly and together? Or would we default to statements, silos, and a bunch of individual responses that never quite add up to anything collective?

I don’t ask that to call anyone out. I include myself in it.

I want to believe we would rise to the moment. But belief isn’t the same thing as preparation.

It Shows Up in Smaller Ways Too

And honestly, I see this same dynamic in my personal life.

I have people I consider close friends who I know care. They say they care. But they don’t really show up. Not consistently and not in the “in-between” times that build up trust.

And that’s forced me to think about what we actually mean when we say “community.”

Because it’s not just shared values and good intentions.

It’s reliability. It’s follow-through. It’s knowing someone has your back and being willing to have theirs, even when it’s inconvenient.

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The Boring Work That Actually Matters

Real community is built in the unglamorous moments.

It’s built when leaders:

• Pick up the phone instead of competing.

• Respond to simple emails about connecting.

• Invest in relationships that don’t have an immediate payoff.

• Practice coordination and trust before anything is at stake.

Someone recently told me, after moving from Des Moines to Minneapolis, “I didn’t realize what was missing until I got here. There’s just an activist culture.”

That stuck with me. Because you don’t miss what you’ve never experienced. But once you see it, it’s hard to unsee what’s absent.

What I’m Sitting With

That’s the muscle I’m trying to build. And I won’t pretend it’s easy.

But watching Minneapolis reminded me why it matters.

Because when things fall apart, the communities that hold aren’t the ones with the best intentions.

They’re the ones who have practiced being connected.

I don’t have a clean takeaway here. Just a question I keep coming back to:

What would it take to build that kind of community where you live now?

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Within the first few minutes of our conversation, both of them said some version of the same thing.

“I’m not really an expert.”
”I wouldn’t know what to say to a lawmaker.”
“I don’t think I’d be very good at advocacy.”

And then, for the next 40 minutes, they proceeded to explain - clearly, thoughtfully, and in remarkable detail - exactly how housing policy actually plays out in real life.

• They talked about what happens when someone is trying to stay sober and has a relapse.

• They talked about the barriers faced by a 62-year-old trying to reenter the workforce.

• They talked about how a criminal record affects someone’s ability to access housing.

• They talked about policies that sound reasonable on paper but would make it harder for people to get help.

In other words, they did exactly what policymakers need: they translated policy into real life.

And yet both of them were convinced they had nothing useful to offer in a policy conversation.

I see this dynamic all the time in nonprofit organizations. The people who feel least qualified to talk about policy are often the ones with the deepest expertise.

Frontline staff understand the systems better than almost anyone. They see what works and what fails. They see the unintended consequences of policy decisions long before the rest of us do. And definitely long, long before policymakers.

But most nonprofit advocacy programs rarely tap into this expertise.

Instead, advocacy gets concentrated in the executive director’s office, the policy team, the advocacy committee, or another small group. Meanwhile, the people with the most direct knowledge of the problem and the clearest understanding of which solutions would actually help are rarely invited into the conversation.

It’s a missed opportunity. And that’s an understatement.

If nonprofits want stronger advocacy programs and better policy outcomes, one of the most powerful things they can do is bring their frontline staff into the work.

Not as lobbyists. Not as political operatives. As experts.

Here are a few practical ways nonprofit leaders can start doing that.

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1. Start by reframing who the experts are

One of the biggest barriers is psychological.

Frontline staff often assume advocacy requires specialized policy knowledge or political experience. Many nonprofit leaders reinforce this unintentionally by treating advocacy as something that happens “over there” in leadership or government relations.

In reality, advocacy is often about something much simpler: explaining how policies affect real people.

Frontline staff do this every single day.

When a case manager explains why a housing requirement doesn’t work in practice, that’s policy analysis. When an outreach worker describes how people navigate services, that’s systems expertise. When a program staff member shares a story about a client’s experience, that’s the kind of information lawmakers remember.

A fact sheet rarely changes someone’s mind. Stories and real-world insight often do.

2. Provide basic advocacy training

Even when staff have the expertise, they may not feel confident speaking to policymakers.

That’s where training comes in.

Advocacy training for staff does not need to turn them into policy professionals. It just needs to give them a basic framework for participating in policy conversations. For example:

• How to explain their work in a policy context

• How to share a story while protecting client confidentiality

• How meetings with lawmakers actually work

• What to do when they don’t know the answer to a question

Once staff understand the basics, their confidence often grows quickly.

3. Create structured opportunities for engagement

Many nonprofits say they want staff involved in advocacy, but never create clear opportunities for participation.

Instead of waiting for staff to volunteer to talk to their lawmakers (um, who would do that?!?), leaders can build simple structures that make engagement easier. That might include:

• Inviting staff to participate in legislative meetings

• Hosting occasional “policy briefings” for staff to explain current issues

• Including staff perspectives when developing policy priorities

• Asking staff to help prepare talking points or real-world examples

When staff can see how their expertise contributes to the organization’s advocacy strategy, the work feels less abstract and more meaningful.

4. Bring policymakers closer to the work

Another powerful approach is to flip the model entirely and bring policymakers to the staff.

Site visits, program tours, and immersion experiences allow lawmakers to see programs in action and hear directly from the people doing the work.

Frontline staff are often the best guides for these conversations because they can explain both the human impact and the operational realities of programs.

These interactions also help build relationships between policymakers and nonprofit organizations in a way that feels authentic rather than transactional.

5. Remember that advocacy is an extension of your mission

Some nonprofit leaders hesitate to involve staff in advocacy because they worry it will feel political or adversarial.

But advocacy does not have to be either of those things.

At its core, advocacy is simply another way of solving the problem your organization exists to address.

Direct service helps people today. Advocacy helps change the systems that created the problem in the first place. And will help thousands in the long term.

When framed this way, many staff members see advocacy not as an extra task but as a natural extension of the work they are already doing.

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The expertise is already in the building

The conversation I had this week ended the same way many of these conversations do.

By the end of the interview, both staff members were beginning to realize something.

They already had the knowledge and the stories. They already understood the policy implications of their work.

They just hadn’t been asked to use that expertise in that way before.

Nonprofit organizations often spend a lot of time looking outward when they consider building advocacy capacity.

But sometimes - often - the most powerful advocates are already inside the organization.

They’re just busy doing the work.

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Start With the Framework

Want to leverage the expertise you already have? You probably need an advocacy roadmap. Take a look at this Advocacy Roadmap Readiness Guide. It outlines what you need in place to be ready for the full roadmap process.

If you are ready to move from reactive advocacy to strategic leadership, schedule a discovery call. We will discuss your current grassroots advocacy capacity and structural gaps, and determine whether a customized Advocacy Roadmap is the right next step.

Ready to Build What’s Missing?

Take the next step to move from reactive to strategic.

→ Start with the Advocacy Roadmap Readiness Guide

→ Book a Discovery Call

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I’ll also be sending my newsletter every other week with the best tips and resources so you can stay in the loop either way.

A couple of weeks ago I was sitting at the gate at Reagan National Airport in DC, waiting for a flight back to Iowa, when the guys sitting behind me started talking.

They had clearly had meetings on Capitol Hill, and they were heading home, comparing notes about their meetings with Senator Grassley’s and Ernst’s offices and their House members. From the conversation, it sounded like they were part of some kind of agriculture group. I never caught exactly which one, but definitely farmers.

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And they were irritated.

One of them said something along the lines of, “Every time we come out here, they make us meet with staffers. It’s bullshit. If we’re flying all the way to Washington, we should be meeting with the Senator.”

The others chimed in, agreeing. They mentioned their lobbyist had warned them ahead of time that this might happen. Still, they were annoyed.

My first instinct was to roll my eyes, because if you’ve spent any time around federal advocacy, you know that meeting with staff is normal.

Senators and members of Congress have packed schedules, and there is simply no way they can personally meet with every group that comes through their office.

But the longer I listened, the more I realized something else was going on.

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The Part They Were Missing

What these folks were really revealing, without meaning to, was that they were missing the most important part of the relationship.

Because if you have met with a staffer several times and you still feel like you are stuck in the staffer meeting loop, the next step is not to complain about it.

The next step is to ask the staffer how to get to the next level.

“Hey, we’ve really appreciated meeting with you and keeping you updated on what’s happening in our communities. We’d love to get in front of the Senator at some point. What would make that possible?”

That question opens an entirely different conversation.

Maybe the staffer will say the Senator is traveling to your state during the next recess and would be interested in a site visit. Maybe there is an upcoming roundtable. Maybe there is a policy moment where your group’s perspective would be useful.

Or maybe the staffer will tell you honestly that it is unlikely anytime soon, but they will keep you in mind.

Either way, you have moved from complaining about the system to working within it.

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What Staffers Are Actually Doing

Here is the part people often miss.

As a former United States Senate staffer, I would not schedule a meeting with my boss for a group I had never met.

Not because I was trying to be difficult. Because I was the one writing the memo for that meeting and would be organizing it.

I needed to know who these people were, what they cared about, whether they were credible, whether they would use their 5 minutes of face time effectively, and whether there were any surprises my boss needed to be prepared for.

And even if the Senator did attend the meeting, I would still be there, sitting next to him, staffing it, taking notes, asking questions, and doing the follow-up.

Staffers are not gatekeepers in the dramatic sense people imagine. They are translators, filters, and advisors. They are the people who help the boss understand what matters and why.

Which is exactly why building relationships with them matters so much.

The Job of the Organization

But here is the other piece that struck me while listening to that airport conversation.

Their organization and their lobbyist should have been helping them move up that ladder.

If your members and advocates keep coming back from DC saying, “We only met with staff again,” that is useful feedback. It is a signal that the relationship might need to deepen, that the strategy might need to evolve, or that there may be opportunities to create a moment where the elected official can engage directly.

Advocacy is rarely one meeting. It is a series of relationships that deepen over time.

Staffer meetings are usually the first step. But if you want to get to the boss, the way there is not with frustration.

It is a partnership with the staffer who already has the key to the door.

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How I Can Help

Sometimes it is a relationship problem. But more often, it is a strategy problem showing up in your relationships.

If your advocates keep getting meetings that don’t go anywhere, it is time to be more intentional about how you build those relationships and what you are building toward.

That is exactly the work I do.

If you are ready to move from spinning your wheels to actually building influence, let’s talk.

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→ Start with the Advocacy Roadmap Readiness Guide

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The recent ICE presence in Minneapolis created one of those moments. Institutions across the region were suddenly faced with a choice that did not come with a tidy playbook.

Speak clearly and risk backlash, or stay carefully neutral and preserve comfort. Align publicly with communities under threat, or retreat into language so balanced it effectively said nothing at all.

And the difference between those choices will matter long after the headlines move on.

I spent fifteen years living in Minneapolis. I built friendships there, built my career there, and built a professional network that still runs deep. Many of the nonprofit leaders and advocates responding to this moment are people I know personally. So when ICE showed up, I was not observing from a comfortable distance. I was watching in real time as organizations I care about decided who they would be.

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The Hard Moments are the Test

Some organizations chose to be clear - and take a risk.

They issued statements that named harm and named values. They did not default to process language or hide behind procedural neutrality. They were willing to risk donor discomfort, political friction, and board anxiety to align with the communities most affected.

They understood that leadership in a moment like this is not about being dramatic or inflammatory. It is about being honest.

Those organizations are now part of the story of what happened. They can say, truthfully, that they stood up. They can say they were part of the collective resistance that made it clear Minneapolis would not quietly absorb this occupation. That matters, not for branding purposes, but for legacy.

Others, like the business community, opted for what I can only describe as milquetoast statements. They issued a statement, but worded so carefully that it felt weightless. You could read it twice (like I did) and still struggle to identify what they actually believed. There was concern, perhaps, but no conviction. Empathy without meaning and without risk.

I understand how that happens. I have worked with boards and leaders navigating complicated environments. I know the internal conversations that unfold when risk is on the table.

But here is the part that keeps tugging at me.

When the story of this chapter in Minneapolis is told, those cautious statements will be forgotten. The organizations that chose comfort over clarity will not be remembered as courageous, and they will not be remembered as central. They will simply fade into the background.

Try, just for a moment, to think of a leader you deeply admire who never took a meaningful risk. Someone who made a lasting difference while avoiding discomfort, sidestepping conflict, and carefully preserving every relationship at all costs.

It is almost impossible.

The leaders we remember, whether in movements, in cities, or in organizations, are the ones who stepped forward when it would have been easier to step back. They are the ones who understood that risk is not a side effect of leadership but a core ingredient of it.

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The “Risky” Choice We Keep Avoiding

Last year, I watched a national nonprofit hire a new CEO who is already energizing her organization and strengthening the broader sector. She is clear, values-driven, and not hiding.

When I commented on how smart the hire was, someone from the search committee responded, “She was the risky choice.”

I have not stopped thinking about that phrasing.

I recognize that framing because I have been on the receiving end of it more than once. I know that in <many> rooms I am the risky choice. I am clear about my values; I push organizations to be bolder than they sometimes are comfortable being, and I do not pretend neutrality when the stakes are obvious.

That has absolutely cost me opportunities.

I know there are times when a board or hiring committee has quietly decided they would prefer someone who feels a little safer, a little less likely to rattle the room. I understand the instinct.

But it also illustrates the exact pattern we keep repeating across the sector: we say we want courageous leadership, and then we reward caution when it comes time to choose who actually leads.

What does it say about us that the kind of leader who is capable of catalyzing change is so often framed as risky?

And how many times, in conference rooms across the country, has a board chosen the safer candidate, the one who will not rock the boat, the one who will not push too hard, only to wonder later why the organization feels stagnant or invisible?

There is a direct line between who we choose to lead and how our institutions behave when the heat is on. If we consistently hire for comfort and predictability, we should not be surprised when our organizations default to carefully neutral statements in moments that demand moral clarity.

And then they are not recognized as leading in that moment.

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You Do Not Get to Join the Victory Later

Minneapolis reminded me that you do not get to sit out the hard part and later claim a share of the victory. You do not get to remain neutral while communities are under threat and then retrofit your narrative once the dust settles.

History rarely remembers the cautious.

The organizations that took risks in Minneapolis are already woven into the collective memory of this moment. They will be remembered as part of the resistance, part of the pushback, part of the reason the city did not quietly acquiesce.

The others will likely be remembered, if at all, as cowards.

Leadership is not the absence of risk. It is the willingness to accept that risk in the service of something larger than institutional or personal comfort.

If we want to be part of the stories that matter, if we want our organizations to be more than well-run administrative bodies, then we have to stop pretending that safety and leadership are the same thing.

They are not. And Minneapolis just gave us a very clear reminder.

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That level of detail absolutely matters inside the Capitol. It does not automatically translate into meaning for the people opening your email at 9:30 pm. after a long day.

Last week, I received another bill summary that was so clearly written from an inside-the-building lens that I could almost hear the committee clerk calling the roll.

It was technically accurate. It tracked the bill’s movement with admirable precision. It was so boring.

And when I finished reading it, I still had no idea what the organization actually thought about the legislation.

• Was this aligned with their mission?

• How will it impact the people they serve?

• Is the organization supportive, opposed, or cautiously monitoring?

• Do they want advocates preparing to engage?

There was no action. No interpretation. Just process. Ugh.

And here is the irony: I have a Master’s in Public Policy. I actually was legislative staff. I spent years reading bill text, tracking amendments, and living in the weeds of process. I understand exactly how this works.

And I still do not want to read this boring update.

If someone who used to do this professionally does not want a procedural recap in her inbox, I can promise you your average supporter does not either.

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The Fear of Looking Partisan

So, naturally, I reached out and offered my completely unsolicited advice, which I am sure was received with immense gratitude. 🙂

I gently suggested that educating advocates about what legislation means for your mission is not partisan. That explaining impact is not the same thing as endorsing a political party. That clarity is, in fact, part of the job.

Their response? They told me about the delicate balance they must strike to maintain a bipartisan or nonpartisan approach.

And I had to take a breath.

Because somewhere along the way, nonprofits absorbed the idea that stating how a bill affects their mission is a dangerous political act. As though saying, “This will harm the families we serve,” is equivalent to hanging a campaign sign in the lobby.

It is not. Explaining impact is not partisanship. It is basic leadership.

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Explaining Process Is Not Sharing Impact

What is happening in these moments is not principled neutrality. It is a failure of translation and explanation. Lobbyists are trained to track mechanics, and that skill set is essential inside the building. They count votes, assess amendments, and read power dynamics with precision.

But advocacy communication is a different discipline. It requires stepping back from the mechanics and answering the questions your supporters are actually asking, even if they don’t know it:

• What does this mean for the community?

• How does this affect the mission?

• Should I be paying attention, preparing to act, or simply staying informed?

When updates are written entirely from a process lens, supporters get a description of what happened but no explanation of why it matters.

And why it matters is the only reason they opened the email in the first place.

You can maintain bipartisan relationships and still say, calmly and clearly, that a bill raises concerns for the people you serve. You can value working across the aisle and still articulate when something aligns with your mission. That is not extreme; it is transparent.

And it’s your duty and moral obligation to your organization and the communities you serve.

Their trust in you is the only reason they are on your email list at all.

If someone reads your legislative update and cannot discern your bottom line, they will not decode it like policy staff would. They will delete it and move on with their lives.

Your advocates are not legislative staff. They do not need a play-by-play. They need you to connect the dots clearly, without ambiguity.

Want to see an awesome one? Check out this one from the Greater Twin Cities United Way. I want to print this off and put a gold star on it.

See the difference? One version tells you what happened. The other tells you why it matters. Only one of those builds an engaged base and power for the organization.

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A new year invites reflection about what we might change or do differently. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, not in a resolutions way, but in an honest, grounded way after years of watching the same patterns repeat themselves in rooms full of smart, committed people.

Because if I’m being honest, what I see all around me are organizations, leaders, and systems continuing to do what they’ve always done, even as they name how much harder everything feels. There’s frustration about engagement, concern about funding, anxiety about political conditions, and real worry about the future.

And yet, very little willingness to admit: we keep reaching for the familiar, even when it’s no longer working.

That’s uncomfortable to admit. It’s also true.

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The Results We’re Getting Aren’t Confusing

I spend my days talking with nonprofit leaders, advocates, funders, and board members. These are thoughtful, capable people who care deeply about their missions and communities.

And yet so many conversations land in the same place. There’s a recognition that something isn’t translating the way it needs to, paired with a deep reluctance to do anything that feels risky, unfamiliar, unproven, or different.

We are operating in a radically different environment than we were even a few years ago. Politically, culturally, economically, emotionally. People are overwhelmed and skeptical. Attention is short. Capacity is limited. And yet, many organizations still communicate, fundraise, organize, and lead as if nothing has changed. Business as usual.

I had a conversation recently with a fellow nonprofit colleague who said something that landed hard for me. “I don’t understand why people don’t get why things are so bad here. We haven’t changed leadership. We haven’t changed ideas. We haven’t changed our strategy. Of course, we’re getting the same outcomes.”

That’s the part I can’t unsee. The outcomes we will likely get in 2026 aren’t mysterious or confusing. They’re predictable. When we don’t change the inputs, the outputs don’t magically improve.

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What I Hope We’ll Do Differently

So when I say I have one wish for 2026, it’s not aspirational in a vague, someday sense. It’s immediate. It’s practical. And it’s overdue.

I hope we each choose one thing to do differently, on purpose, without waiting for perfect conditions or universal buy-in. Or wishing there was no risk.

I’m not talking about blowing everything up or abandoning what’s worked in the past. I’m talking about resisting the reflex to say “we tried that before” and instead asking why it didn’t work, what’s changed since then, and what this moment is actually calling for.

I’m talking about being honest about what isn’t working anymore and being brave enough to let go of strategies, structures, and activities that are mostly being held in place by comfort and fear.

What I see, especially here in Iowa but not only here, is a deeply entrenched culture of risk aversion.

A fear of standing out.
A fear of being wrong.
A fear of upsetting the wrong funder, board member, or stakeholder.

That fear is understandable. And it has a cost. But the “safe” choice is often just the most familiar one, not the most effective.

But being safe also has a cost. And we are seeing the results of being safe. And it ain’t pretty.

I know this post sounds frustrated, because I am. But underneath that frustration is care, urgency, and a real belief that things could look different if we were willing to loosen our grip on the familiar and try something new, even in small ways.

So here’s what I’m hoping for this year, even if I’m still not holding my breath. That we stop pretending the results are surprising. That we take an honest look at what we keep repeating.

And that each of us, in our own corner of this work, chooses one thing to do differently.

Not safer.
Not quieter.
Not more polished.

Just different enough to change the pattern.

What is one small thing you can do differently in 2026? Share with me!

Like what you read? Let’s turn that inspiration into action. Find more practical, no-BS advocacy hot takes at SnyderStrategies.me.

For many people, protest is where that instinct takes shape. And for good reason.

But I’ve only been to a handful of protests my entire life. That’s it.

When I share this with folks, it usually lands awkwardly, especially in moments when the pressure to visibly care is high.

And let me be clear before anyone starts coming at me: I’m obviously not anti-protest. I talk about the role of resistance and protest in my advocacy work all the time. They matter and they serve a purpose.

I also know that protests can be deeply cathartic. There is something powerful about standing shoulder to shoulder with your community, naming harm out loud, and showing solidarity in a visible way.

And if I were still living in Minneapolis, I would absolutely be going to protests, vigils, and community gatherings right now. Not because I believe protest alone is sufficient, but because those moments matter. They offer connection, hope, and light in the middle of something overwhelming.

I showed up during the George Floyd uprisings for exactly that reason. I needed to be with people. I needed to see my neighbors naming harm together and working toward a shared sense of purpose. That collective presence wasn’t performative for me. It was grounding.

And it can’t be the end of the work. It has to be the beginning.

That tension has been sitting with me for a while now, sharpened by a 2020 episode of Hidden Brain called Passion Isn’t Enough, and brought back into focus more recently by what is unfolding in Minneapolis.

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When Feeling Deeply Starts to Replace Doing Anything

While driving around over the holidays, I re-listened to the 2020 episode of Hidden Brain called Passion Isn’t Enough.

The episode digs into something many of us recognize but don’t love naming: how much of our political engagement has become performative. We feel something strongly, we express it publicly, and in doing so, we get a sense of release. A sense of having participated.

That participation isn’t meaningless. Emotion and visibility matter and outrage has a role.

But the harder question is whether it actually changes anything.

One idea the social-psychological expert discussed in this episode that resonated with me is how drawn people are to national politics. It’s dramatic and the villains are clear. The stakes feel enormous.

Local politics is slow, relational, and deeply unglamorous. It looks a lot like this scene from Parks and Recreation, where Leslie Knope goes to war over the “smallest park in Pawnee” in Season 4, Episode 8 (and yes, I’m serious. And yes, this is how change happens).

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The Work Starts After the Chanting Stops

Then this month, more horrific events occurred in my adopted home state, Minnesota, just blocks from the neighborhood where I used to live. A woman was killed by ICE. And then more killings.

In the news coverage, I heard an NPR interview with a mother and daughter in Minneapolis, both longtime community organizers, and one exchange in particular stayed with me. When they were asked whether they planned to attend protests in response to the shooting, they said no.

Not because protests are bad or wrong, but because they’ve chosen to do their change-making in a different way, focused on neighborhoods, relationships, and long-term community investment.

That choice resonated with me.

People are often surprised to learn that I don’t attend many protests. Maybe they assume I’m cautious (lol) or somehow less committed (also lol).

But the truth is simpler: I’ve chosen to put my (limited) energies into a path that prioritizes longevity over visibility.

My advocacy work lives in board rooms, committee meetings, strategy sessions, policy change, and the long game. It’s helping organizations understand how to actually build power. It’s changing systems for the long-term, not for the headlines (ok, hopefully there will be some headlines).

Protests, I hope, are an entry point. They help people find each other. They signal shared values. They can crack something open and inspire folks to dig deeper and engage more.

But they will not, on their own, make long-term, sustainable change.

Staying Is the Hard Part

I think about this often when I reflect on the Women’s Marches in early 2017. The scale was breathtaking. Millions of people showing up, energized, furious, and hopeful. And I still wonder what might have been if even a fraction of that energy had been captured and funneled into school boards, city councils, zoning commissions, and state legislatures.

What if more people had stayed active?

Because staying is the hard part.

There is no shortage of anger. Outrage comes easily, especially when the harm is obvious and ongoing. What’s harder is committing to the slow, unglamorous work of community change.

Learning how your city actually functions. Building relationships with people you don’t always agree with. Showing up when no one is watching. Doing the unsexy work that doesn’t turn heads.

I don’t believe passion is useless. I believe it’s necessary. But passion opens the door. It’s the runway, not the destination.

If protest is where someone starts, that’s great. Truly. We all start somewhere. I just hope we stop treating that moment as the finish line rather than the beginning of the work that actually creates change.

Maybe the change you want to see will begin with a chant. But more often, it happens quietly, locally, and over time, carried forward by people who decided that feeling strongly wasn’t enough and chose to stay anyway.

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What Are We Actually Choosing?

I don’t say any of this to discourage protest or to diminish the power of collective outrage. I say it because I think we have to be more honest with ourselves about what kind of engagement we’re actually choosing.

Are we looking for a moment of release, or are we building something that can last?

That question isn’t theoretical. It shows up in small choices, over time. And how we answer it determines whether our movements grow roots or burn out.

Like what you read? Let’s turn that inspiration into action. Find more practical, no-BS advocacy hot takes at SnyderStrategies.me.

Here it is: I think I might be an unintentional bulldozer.

Not the kind who steamrolls people on purpose with intention and malice. No.

I’m the kind who genuinely wants input, asks for it repeatedly, swears up and down that an idea is not fully baked…and then realizes later that folks didn’t feel invited to disagree with me.

It’s a strange kind of leadership paradox: I want collaboration, but I also really, really want to get things done. And those two instincts don’t always play nicely together.

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The Confidence Trap

A colleague recently reflected something back to me that stopped me in my tracks. They said, “Bethany, the way you share ideas, they sound like decisions. Even when you say they’re just rough drafts.”

And the moment they said it, I knew they were right.

When I bring an idea to a board or a team, it’s usually because I’ve thought it through enough to have a direction but not a conclusion. And apparently my version of “here are some options!” lands more like “this is the plan; please approve.”

And then I find myself shocked later when people quietly share, “Actually… that’s not what I wanted to do.”

Meanwhile I’m over here genuinely confused, because I swear I asked for input more than once.

So why aren’t folks sharing?

It’d be easy to chalk this up to group dynamics, timing, personalities, whatever. But the honest truth is: something about my leadership style creates hesitation.

I don’t mean to. I don’t want to. But I clearly do.

And it forces me to sit with the very real possibility that my confidence - the same confidence people often praise, the same confidence that helps me navigate advocacy and board leadership and political strategy - might also be unintentionally shutting down the room.

It’s the leadership equivalent of having Resting Decisive Face.

Duty, Responsibility, and the Urgency I Carry

At a recent board meeting, we did the classic icebreaker: What’s one reason you serve on this board?

People said community, connection, advocacy. Totally valid answers.

I said: duty and responsibility.

And as soon as the words left my mouth, I felt their weight.

Because that’s exactly what drives me and exactly what shapes the way I lead.

I feel a deep, almost cellular sense of responsibility to my community.

• To LGBTQ+ folks in Iowa.

• To queer parents and families.

• To people living under harmful policies.

• To everyone trying to survive systems that were not designed with them in mind.

And when you lead from a place of duty, urgency becomes a constant companion. Urgency pushes you to move fast. To offer solutions. To anticipate the next threat. To get ahead of the storm.

It also, apparently, makes your ideas sound like foregone conclusions.

The Tension Between Urgency and Invitation

There’s a version of leadership that says “slow down, make space, let things breathe.”

There’s another version that says “the legislature gavels in on January 12th; we do not have time.”

I live in the middle of those two.
And sometimes? I lean too hard toward the second.

Not because I don’t value people’s insights. I absolutely do.
But because I’m wired to protect, to prepare, to push forward. And in my head, asking for input is the way I invite people in.

In practice? My urgency makes the invitation feel optional at best, performative at worst.

Even when I mean it.

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So now what?

I’m not writing this because I have a neat resolution to tie it up with. (This is not that kind of blog.)

I’m writing it because I’m trying to become more aware of the gap between my intentions and my impact. A gap every leader has, but one I’m trying to examine out loud.

I want people to disagree with me.
I want people to poke holes.
I want the better idea to win, not my idea.

And if my confidence, or my clarity, or my urgency is getting in the way of that, then I need to adjust how I ask, not just how many times I ask.

A question for the rest of you

If you’re a leader - formal or accidental - have you ever found yourself in this spot?

• Where you think you’re being collaborative, but somehow collaboration isn’t happening?

• Where people see your ideas as “final” even when you swear they’re not?

• Where your strengths accidentally become friction?

I’d love to hear how you navigate it.

Because this work we do - advocacy, community-building, movement leadership - is too important to let our blind spots lead the meeting.

And maybe naming mine out loud is the first step toward doing better.

Like what you read? Let’s turn that inspiration into action. Find more practical, no-BS advocacy hot takes at SnyderStrategies.me.

“We really need you to contact your legislators this session.”

Lobbyists say it with such conviction. Such urgency. Such gravitas.

And every single time, I think:

Contact them… how? About what? And do the people in this room even know who their lawmakers ARE?

Spoiler: they do not.

And neither do I half the time, which says A LOT because I do this for a living and still mix up committee assignments like my pets’ names.

Ready for some tea-spilling about the strange, hilarious, maddening ways lobbyists set their clients up for failure - and why nonprofits keep falling for it.

(With love! I say this with love. Truly. But also with my hand hitting my forehead.)

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The Classic Move: “Call Your Legislator!” With No Other Information Provided

It happens at every event: Keynote, muffins, light policy updates… and then the big finale:

“Make sure to reach out to your legislators so they know this is a priority.”

Okay! Love the enthusiasm!
But also: How? When? About what? And how do folks figure this out?

This is the part where lobbyists accidentally turn advocacy into a scavenger hunt - minus the clues, instructions, or treasure map.

And this problem? It’s not new. I ranted about it in Bad Advice Lobbyists Give.

Because here’s the truth no one wants to say out loud:

People will not contact their lawmakers unless you literally hand them the correct name, message, timing, and reason.

That’s it. That’s the list.
Everything else is wishful thinking and a prayer.

Lobbyist-Only Strategy: The Vibes-Based Approach to Democracy

If you’ve been around here long enough, you know one of my core messages:

A lobbyist is a tactic, not a strategy.

If your entire plan is “We hired a lobbyist, therefore we’re good,” then no - you are not good. You are outsourcing your advocacy to vibes - and power.

Because here’s the thing: Lobbyists are fantastic at what they do - relationships, intel, the inside game.

But access is not influence. Access is a hallway or a meeting. Influence is what happens when the people in that hallway or meeting can feel the pressure and can’t ignore it.

The Other Classic Move: Letting Lobbyists Write the Advocacy Emails

No. Absolutely not. Let me say it again:

Do. Not. Let. Your. Lobbyist. Write. Your. Advocacy. Emails.

Unless they are the rare unicorn who can communicate with people who are not policy staffers or other lobbyists.

Look, I was a lobbyist. I get it. I speak the language.

But lobbyist-written advocacy emails? They read like someone rearranged committee notes into full sentences and hoped no one would notice.

They’re not written for humans.
They’re written for people who already know the bill number.

And you wonder why supporters don’t click “send.” And here are other tips for working with lobbyists.

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My Favorite Lobbyist Genre: “We Don’t Need Grassroots, We Have Me.”

The confidence. The swagger. The audacity.

Every time an organization says, “We already have a lobbyist,” it’s said with the same energy as, “We’ve solved it.”

Meanwhile, absolutely nothing has been solved. Here’s what people don’t know:

Grassroots and lobbying aren’t interchangeable — but they are inseparable.

Your lobbyist needs your grassroots power.
And honestly? They’re relieved when you bring it.
They may not admit that to you, but trust me - they feel it in their bones.

And because this question still comes up - “Do we need you if we already have a lobbyist?” - allow me to respond in list form:

• Your lobbyist cannot generate pressure out of thin air.

• They cannot conjure community voices or constituent stories like some kind of advocacy sorcerer.

• They cannot turn one good conversation into a policy win without more supporters behind them.

Inside game + outside game = actual influence.
That’s the formula.
There’s no workaround.

The Real Tea: Lobbyists Aren’t the Problem. The Mythology Around Them Is.

Lobbyists are incredibly valuable.
I partner with great ones all the time. Heck, I was one!

Some of them are brilliant partners who understand they need support to successfully activate grassroots power.

But the mythology around lobbyists – the “We hired someone so we’re covered,” the “They’ll handle everything,” the “They told us which lawmakers to contact, so that’s enough.”

THAT is what keeps nonprofits from building real influence (in addition to not doing advocacy at all….).

Lobbyists are part of the work. They are not the work.

We don’t need fewer lobbyists (ok, well maybe). We need fewer illusions about what they can do alone.

So, What’s My Point?

Because I want nonprofits to win.
Because I want your lobbyists to be successful.
Because I want your policy priorities to actually move.
Because I want fewer 8 am breakfasts where someone yells “Call your lawmaker!” as if that sentence alone will save democracy.

And because you are all about to head into another legislative session and I would like you to be slightly less feral than usual.

Here are a few questions to ask your lobbyist to find out whether you have a strategic partner - or just someone wandering the Capitol with a badge.

If you enjoyed this little tea spill, go ahead and click the little ❤️.
If you were personally attacked by something in here…good. That means you’re listening.

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How Snyder Strategies Can Help

If any part of this felt a little too familiar, don’t worry — this is exactly what I help organizations fix.

I work with your lobbyist to build the clarity, structure, and grassroots power that makes their inside-game work far more effective.

Here’s what that looks like:

• A clear advocacy plan you can share directly with your lobbyist: Priorities, timelines, targets, and the pressure points that actually move policy.

• Grassroots strategy that amplifies your lobbyist’s work: Because influence happens when inside and outside strategy run in sync.

• Action alerts and messages that people will actually act on: No more vague “call your lawmaker” appeals.

• Alignment across staff, board, and your lobbyist: So everyone knows their role and no one is operating on vibes.

When nonprofits bring real people power, lobbyists gain real leverage.

Before you sign that contract, ask the right questions. This free guide helps you vet whether your lobbyist builds real power - or just talks a good game.

If you want your legislative strategy to be stronger and your lobbyist to be even more effective – I can help you get there.

Like what you read? Let’s turn that inspiration into action. Find more practical, no-BS advocacy strategy at SnyderStrategies.me.

When I became board chair of our state’s LGBTQ political organization, I thought a lot about what kind of leader I wanted to be. Iowa’s been through it these last few years — dozens of anti-LGBTQ bills every session, devastating attacks on trans youth, and the rollback of civil rights protections we once thought were untouchable.

It’s been exhausting, infuriating, and at times, deeply isolating.

So I had a thought: maybe the people who’d understand this best were the other board chairs leading Iowa’s LGBTQ and progressive organizations. We’re all fighting the same fights, trying to support our communities while keeping our organizations afloat. Wouldn’t it make sense for us to actually know one another?

Not to merge or form some grand coalition — just to have a line of communication, a place to compare notes and share the load.

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Crickets.

I reached out to eight board chairs.

Two wrote back.
One actually met with me. Over zoom. Begrudgingly.

That’s it.

No drama. No notes. No “we’re too busy” or “now’s not a good time.” Just silence — the professional, polite kind that fills your inbox like static.

At first, I shrugged it off. People are busy. These are volunteers. Maybe my message got lost in the sea of unread Gmail promotions and organizational newsletters.

But after a few more weeks (and a few more ignored follow-ups), it started to sting.

Not because I need validation, but because it made me question whether we’re as connected and coordinated as we say we are. Or at least should be.

If the people leading our movement can’t find the time — or the interest — to talk to one another, what does that mean for the movement itself?

It made me sad. And if I’m honest, it made me lose a little faith.

The silence speaks loudly

I know what it’s like to be tired. To juggle work, life, and advocacy in a state that feels like it’s slipping backward by the week. I know what it’s like to pour every ounce of energy into surviving the next legislative session or fundraising cycle.

But I also know that movements don’t fall apart because of one bad bill. They fall apart because we stop showing up for each other.

The silence wasn’t just about missed meetings or ignored emails. It was a symptom of something bigger: disconnection, burnout, and maybe even fear. The kind that makes good people retreat into their silos because they can’t imagine taking on one more thing.

And honestly? I get it. I’ve done it, too. We all have. But if everyone’s too tired or too wary to simply respond to an email, we start losing the very thing that makes this work possible: connection.

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The smallest connection still matters

I never did get the conversations I hoped for, and that’s okay, I guess. What stuck with me wasn’t the silence itself, but what it revealed.

It reminded me how easy it is to retreat when things get hard. To convince ourselves that someone else will step up, that our presence doesn’t really matter, that it’s fine to skip the meeting, the email, the coffee.

But it does matter.

So here’s my challenge, to myself and anyone else leading in advocacy right now: answer the email. Return the call. Say yes to the coffee. Especially when you don’t have the energy.

Because this work is lonely enough without pretending we don’t need each other.

Movements aren’t built by statements and strategies alone.

They’re built by people who show up, and sometimes, by the ones who answer the phone.

A note from Snyder Strategies

At Snyder Strategies, I get to partner with nonprofits and coalitions who are fighting hard fights and I never forget that behind every strategy, there’s a person. Someone who’s tired, hopeful, and still trying. My job isn’t just to build better advocacy plans; it’s to help people feel a little less alone while they do it.

Because connection is strategy.

And showing up for each other is how we win and how we keep going when we don’t.

If this resonated with you, hit the heart, leave a comment, or share it with another leader who could use a reminder that they’re not alone.

Want practical tools and tips for your advocacy work? Subscribe to Advocacy with a Side of Sass — short, useful, and (usually) a little sassy.

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You know the drill: all the reasons why advocacy matters.

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It’s how we change systems, influence funding, and protect the people and missions we care about. Yada, yada, yada.

Then came the questions:

“How do we handle the reporting if all 25 of our sponsored projects engage in advocacy or lobbying?”
“What if they do too much lobbying and we have to track it?”
“What if we don’t report correctly and our nonprofit status is revoked?”
“It’s too complicated; can we even do this?”

And look — I get it. Reporting and compliance can be confusing. The fed and state governments aren’t exactly known for clear instructions or friendly interfaces.

But here’s what I said out loud, because someone had to:

“You know who isn’t having this conversation? The right wing.”

They’re not sitting around worrying about whether their fiscal sponsor dashboard can track lobbying expenditures.

They’re not paralyzed by questions of what’s too much.

They’re out there shaping policy, defining narratives, and moving agendas forward — every single day.

And just to drive it home: Turning Point USA is a 501(c)(3).
Let that sink in for a minute.

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Now, to be crystal clear: I’m not suggesting anyone should break the law—or even flirt with the gray areas (some folks definitely do).

But I am saying this:

If something is that important to your mission, you figure it out.

Progressive and human service organizations solve impossible problems every day — poverty, hunger, inequity, climate, caregiving systems — you name it.

Yet when it comes to advocacy, too many of us throw up our hands and say, “Oh, that’s too complicated.”

No.
It’s not too complicated.
It’s just uncomfortable.

Because advocacy forces us to confront power, risk, and what it means to take a stand.

And we’ve become so used to being cautious that we’ve confused compliance with cowardice.

One of the folks in that training emailed me afterward and said,

“When you said that the right-wing groups aren’t having these conversations—that was a punch in the gut.”

Good. It should be.
Because it’s true.

We don’t have the luxury of sitting on the sidelines while others organize, legislate, and narrate their way to power.

So if you’re a fiscal sponsor, a foundation, or a nonprofit leader asking, “What if we get it wrong?”

Try asking instead, “What happens if we keep doing nothing?”

Because the real risk — the one we should all be losing sleep over—isn’t in lobbying too much.

It’s in advocating too little.

About Snyder Strategies

I’m Bethany Snyder, MPP - founder of Snyder Strategies and creator of Advocacy with a Side of Sass.

I help nonprofits, foundations, and associations build the advocacy muscle they need to create real change. Whether it’s developing an Advocacy Roadmap, training your board to use their Advocacy Superpowers, or designing a Rapid Response Plan that actually works, I help turn your mission into momentum.

Make your advocacy smarter, louder, and a little sassier. Let’s talk.

And with so many foundation and funder representatives in the room, I thought: Finally. Maybe this is the moment when philanthropy gets serious about advocacy.

Spoiler: it wasn’t.

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The uncomfortable truth

As I’ve said before (and I’ll keep saying): funders are one of the main reasons our sector is in crisis.

Now, I’m not here to “blame the victim.” Nonprofits are doing what they can with the limited resources they have. But I can’t help wondering:

If philanthropy had truly invested in advocacy — not token grants or project-limited funding, but real, sustained funding for power-building — would we be in this position?

I don’t think so.

I wrote about this a few months ago in How Did We Get Here: Why Nonprofits Are on the Menu, Not at the Table. The sector isn’t powerless by accident — it’s by design. When we underinvest in advocacy, we leave our seat empty and then wonder why we’re on the menu instead of at the table.

We are under attack precisely because those in power know how much potential power we have… and that we’re not using it.

What I heard in Atlanta

Every time I met a funder at the Summit, I asked one simple question:

“So, how are you investing in advocacy?”

And friends — I wish I could say I was inspired. But 99% of the answers were a masterclass in deflection.

Excuses. Caveats. Hand-wringing. Avoiding eye contact.

“Oh, we’re a 501(c)(3). We can’t do that.”
“That’s not really what we do.”
“Our sister organization handles advocacy.”
“We have a lot of DAFs, and that isn’t our donors’ passion.”

Meanwhile, the preservation and reputation of the entire nonprofit sector is on the line because so few funders are willing to use theirs.

To help funders get this, I created a session specifically for them — walking through research that proves advocacy isn’t just legal and essential, it’s a high-ROI investment.

And who showed up?

Not funders.

Nonprofits.

Nonprofits hungry for advocacy content, craving clarity, and looking for guidance their funders should have been there to hear.

At the Independent Sector Summit, Dr. Akilah Watkins asked what’s holding advocacy back. The room didn’t hesitate: Funding. The solution is just as clear: Funders.

The hypocrisy of the moment

So, as I was heading home, I was hoping maybe — just maybe — this conference would reignite my optimism. Maybe something sunk in.

And then I opened LinkedIn.

Right there, a funder association was urging people to contact their senators and representatives about the federal shutdown and its devastating impact.

My first thought: WFT. Seriously?

• You’re calling on the public to act when your own network won’t invest in the people and organizations equipped to lead that action.

• If philanthropy funded advocacy at even a fraction of what it spends on PR, we wouldn’t need these last-minute pleas.

Where are the people with the power and the pocketbooks – who claim to care about equity, democracy, and community resilience – when it actually counts?

It’s not just ironic — it’s heartbreaking. And infuriating.

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The cost of staying quiet

I want to be wrong about this. I want to believe philanthropy will step up before it’s too late.

Hope springs eternal.

But when I watch foundations and funders shrink from advocacy — when I see leaders hide behind lawyers and rich donors instead of leading with courage — I start to wonder if we’ll ever break this cycle.

Because the truth is: we don’t just need bigger checks — we need braver ones.

Silence is not neutrality. It’s complicity.

And philanthropy’s silence is costing us our credibility, our influence, and, frankly, our democracy.

I said it earlier this year in Funders, This Is Your Defining Moment: Will You Step Up?, and I’ll say it again: we don’t need cautious philanthropy — we need courageous philanthropy.

The kind willing to risk comfort for change.

What the data tells us

If you need more proof that advocacy pays off (and some of what I shared during my session meant for funders):

• Advocacy ROI: Every $1 invested yields roughly $115 in community benefit (National Committee for Responsive Philanthropy, Leveraging Limited Dollars).

• Advocates give more: Supporters engaged in advocacy donate seven times more and give 60% more overall than non-advocates (VoterVoice / FiscalNote, 9 Ways Advocacy Helps Fundraising).

• Nonprofits want to act: Yet only 31% of nonprofits say they’ve engaged in advocacy or lobbying in the past five years — down from nearly 70% two decades ago (Bridgespan Group, Using All the Tools in the Toolkit: Funding Advocacy for Social Change).

• Knowledge gap: Just 32% of nonprofits know what advocacy activities are legally allowed (Bridgespan Group).

• Advocacy and engagement: Advocacy emails earn 5–6× higher open rates and advocacy-engaged donors keep giving (iMission Institute, Nonprofit Advocacy: Yes You Can, Yes You Must).

• Boards matter: Boards that encourage and model advocacy lead to stronger policy impact (BoardSource / Alliance for Justice / National Council of Nonprofits, Stand for Your Mission).

The math is simple: low funding + low confidence = low power.

Yet, our sector has all the tools to be an advocacy powerhouse – we just need more of the funding and less of the fear.

What needs to happen next

Funders, if you truly believe in the communities you serve, stop writing RFPs for symptoms and start resourcing systems change.

Here’s where to start:

1. Fund power, not projects. Fund multi-year general operating dollars and rapid-response funding. Invest in MYGOD funding (thanks, Vu Le).

2. Say the quiet part out loud. Tell grantees: We expect advocacy. We’ll back you if there’s blowback.

3. Pay for lived expertise. Advocacy without stipends is exploitation.

4. Fund coalitions. Big wins are coalition wins. Make funding coalition work easier - this is where the advocacy magic can really flourish.

5. Get comfortable with timelines you don’t control. Policy change isn’t a one-year deliverable. Be responsive and flexible.

The bottom line

Programs help hundreds.

Advocacy changes policy and helps hundreds of thousands — for decades.

If you want outsized impact, stop underwriting symptoms and start underwriting systems change.

Advocacy isn’t optional. It’s the job.

So fund it like it matters.

Because it does — for your grantees, your communities, and the future of our democracy.

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About Snyder Strategies

At Snyder Strategies, I help nonprofits, foundations, and coalitions turn advocacy from an afterthought into an action plan.

I’ve spent my career helping courageous nonprofit leaders find their voice, build their power, and act boldly when it matters most — because policy change doesn’t happen by accident; it happens because someone had the courage (and the plan) to make it happen.

If you’re a funder or nonprofit leader ready to move from playing it safe to playing to win, let’s talk. Advocacy isn’t just what I do — it’s what I teach, what I live, and what our sector desperately needs more of.

Learn more at snyderstrategies.me.