“An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all of humanity.”

~Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Agreeing with these words illuminates how legacy giving in the Western context has lost its way. Like philanthropy, the original design of legacy giving has been eroded over time by the rise of individualism and slippery behaviours that abandon legacy giving’s original intent and purpose: human survival for communal benefit. The isolation that individualism demands leads us to a dangerously homogeneous and tedious place that only feeds white supremacist impulses and hoards wealth.

Contrasting the culture of present-day legacy giving, we find that the earliest notions of such giving emerged from deep within the human heart, illustrating a profound care for others. Legacy giving began as an expression of communal love, highlighting a unique relationship between love and legacy. Legacy and legacy giving are shaped by the way we live and love. Here’s the way I’ve started to think about it—as a kind of math equation.

I had some help expressing this from my son-in-love, Skylar, who has a degree in theoretical math. But don’t worry, there’s no need for calculators here. All you need is your heart, and the life you’re living.

What this formula means is — the sum of all your love, added to your life, creates an enduring legacy — making love the essential foundation one’s enduring legacy.

Love—or its absence—shapes the way we live. M. Scott Peck defines love in his self-help book The Road Less Traveled, as “the will to extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth.” He also writes, “Love is an act of will — namely, both an intention and an action.” Spiritual growth, in this definition, is not a religious reference but rather an expression of the most real parts of our humanity. Peck makes it clear that this act of will implies choice—we are not compelled to love, but must choose it. It is a deliberate choice—not an automatic instinct, as many assume.

Love is a conscious way of living.

In “Collecting Courage,” I reflected on the priority and nature of love.

“When you genuinely care for someone, it is never about you. It is always about the subject of your love. In my household, love was full and plentiful, but it wasn’t always easy, and it didn’t always feel good. Love is caring and expressions of affection. But it is also about hard truths, accountability, boundaries, challenges, stretching and growing.”

For me, love looks like meeting needs, showing up, reciprocal generosity, removing barriers, opening doors, telling the truth, making room for personal narratives, and remaining connected during conflict.

bell hooks, in her book All About Love, wrote, “To know genuine love, we have to invest time and commitment.”

Love requires effort and energy.

Motherhood offered me one of the most powerful demonstrations of love’s work, revealing its presence in the most vivid ways. Thirty years ago, on a clear fall day in November, after 21.5 hours of labour, my daughter Destiny earned centre stage in our lives and broke our hearts open in every necessary way.

That literal labour of love demanded the hardest work of my life. And in the aftermath of her birth, love swelled in me to bursting. It took on a more tangible quality, felt more fragile, and became absolutely laser-focused. Love’s price of admission was made known, and I was happy to pay it. A new path in life opened before me, with love taking its rightful place at the heart of everything.

Then, two weeks ago, love took centre stage once again as the beautiful, heart-piercing chaos of a mother’s love washed over my daughter, Destiny, when she met her son for the first time.

My baby had a baby.

Legacy is a journey, and mine now includes becoming a grandmother. I hope to share more about this in the coming weeks.

For a lifetime, parents commit themselves to nurturing little gorgeous souls that force our love to no longer reside solely in our hearts but to live on the outside of our bodies through them. When your heart lives outside of you, control gives way to vulnerability, yet you remain responsible for its care. No matter how well we nourish, listen to, care for, or protect them, our children inevitably become a defining part of the legacy we leave behind. Which reminds me that our love for them is lived, not simply financed. The same holds true on a broader scale.

Love for humanity must be practised, not simply bestowed.

When we choose to embody love, our legacies reflect its influence. Some of the most enduring legacies are born of a steadfast commitment to nurturing others’ growth. When generosity flows from love’s intention and action, legacy giving is not separate from what constitutes a meaningful legacy. Love, life, and legacy share a symbiotic relationship.

In the charitable sector, we understand that the root of philanthropy is a profound love for humanity—a love that acknowledges and uplifts our shared human experience. As a method of philanthropy, legacy giving holds the potential to be far more than it is today.

For too long, it has been shaped by a narrow narrative centred on the rich, the white, and the powerful. But legacy is not the exclusive domain of a privileged few. It is the birthright of communities who have given, created, resisted, and loved in ways history has often refused to record.

We have the power to reclaim the rich, communal roots of legacy giving—to tell fuller stories, to honour overlooked ancestors, and to invite everyone to see their lives as worthy of remembrance.

The question is no longer what are we waiting for? The question is…

What are we willing to build, together, from the love we already carry?

Today, is Earth Day. A day that first began in the U.S. in 1970 when 20 million (primarily young-adult) Americans were mobilized into the streets “…to demonstrate against the impacts of 150 years of industrial development which had left a growing legacy of serious human health impacts.” [Earth day website]. Today, Earth Day continues, having spread to several countries across the globe.

The 2026 theme for Earth Day is “Our Power, Our Planet” which is meant as a reflection prompt and reminder that “…environmental progress doesn’t depend on any single administration or election. It’s sustained by daily actions of communities, educators, workers, and families protecting where they live and work.” [Earth day website]. Though I appreciate the sentiment of this year’s theme, I can’t help but feel a tension that compels me to push back some because…

• How can ‘environmental progress’ be enacted for the people, and by the people when the true impacts and consequences of our exploitative society, especially in the Global North, are disguised?

• What happens when systems beyond our immediate control seem to conspire to keep us in the dark?

• What happens when people are uninformed or deliberately mislead toward daily Earth-harming, and ultimately unhealthy choices?

I believe that in so many cases what motivates us towards better environmental choices is understanding the problem(s) and all too often those are deliberately omitted from the dialogue which harms all of us.

Same Injustice, New Clothes

Earlier this month, Skylar Chauvin shared reflections on the carbon credit system as a continuation of colonial endeavours unjustly perpetrated by the Global North on populations often in the Global South. He shared:

“ For some 60 years there has been a specific violence dressed as good intentions.

It doesn’t wear hoods, badges, or carry torches. It arrives with clipboards, contracts, and conservation promises. It speaks the language of sustainability. It is photographed in front of ancient trees, with empty words printed on pins. It is applauded at climate summits and granted tax reliefs for those who invest.”

Much like the carbon credit/capture system, everyday people living everyday lives, even in the Global North, are faced with similar violence dressed in green, with words like eco-friendly, natural, biodegradable, sustainable and recyclable ringing in our ears. Greenwashing is an everyday example of a harmful practice meant to mislead without regard for the consequences.

Earlier this month, Nneka Allen wrote:

“If everyone shared the burden of environmental damage equally, more people might act, and more voices would speak with courage and anger, demanding a better world.“

I believe, perhaps naively, that the everyday person, when given the opportunity, cares about the land around them, their health, and the wellbeing of others and I think for this reason, rather than corporations and elites holding themselves to ethical standards of practice, they’d rather mislead the masses to keep money flowing into their pockets.

If more people knew better, more would demand better - much like the student-lead movement that birthed Earth Day in the first place. And because of the collective power we hold, we are all in danger of falling prey to deliberate environmental misdirections and ‘green’ lies, especially when money and power are at play. This is an active injustice.

Greenwashing at Work

There are countless examples of greenwashing in our societies, spanning from egregious lies to more subtle distortions of reality. For example, the idea that plastic can be recycled is a highly misleading, yet extremely effective, marketing campaign meant to keep us consuming plastic products. In actually, the vast majority of plastic products cannot and will never be recycled because the complex process of plastic recycling is not profitable. This means that regardless of its original placement in your blue or otherwise marked recycling bin, a huge proportion of these discarded products are bound for the landfill. On top of that, plastic does not effectively breakdown naturally in the environment, so it can only fragment into smaller pieces and accumulate over time. Enter microplastics - which are now found all throughout the human body, causing health impacts that are only just beginning to be studied and understood.

Consider this, why does recycling in Ontario versus British Columbia look so different?

I believe the answer lives in the underlying motivations of the programs. Having moved from Ontario to British Columbia, I was struck by the noticeable outcome of vastly different approaches to recycling. Where I lived in Ontario, recycling was not a major topic of discussion; I personally believe it’s largely a tool to keep Ontarians mindlessly consuming. You put your items in your bins and it was taken away - simple as that - your work was done. In BC on the other hand, regular recycling related commercials and advertisements are readily accessible in municipalities. The public is educated on what items can and (more importantly) cannot be recycled via at home recycle bins as well as the consequences and real impacts of recycling incorrectly (recycling being diverted to landfill).

In addition to this education, people are encouraged to participate in ‘special recycling’ programs where items that are ineligible for municipal blue bins (in our region that includes a wide range of plastics) can be brought to special sites for proper processing, recycling (when possible) and appropriate disposal. Returning beverage containers to receive your deposit back is also extremely common. All of this education and dedicated effort has resulted in a more environmentally considerate population in my experience. As a result, people ‘consume’ in different ways, people are far more inclined to bring their own containers out with them to reduce their need for disposable products and people also hang onto disposable products while out and about until they’re able to dispose of them properly.

For me, the difference in recycling culture was not very difficult to adopt when I moved to the province; I found the shift to municipal composting to be a more significant change to get used to, but several years later when my mom moved to BC, I got to see her recycling mindset shift in real-time. From confusion, to frustration, to acceptance and now conscious decision-making to reduce the amount of waste (recycling or otherwise) she creates; this is exactly why our understanding of environmental problems matters - they motivate us towards meaningful action. These motivations change our behaviours and can often move us subtly away from consumerist tendencies.

Another example of a greenwashing tactic is the use of misleading language like ‘biodegradable’ to establish a sense of reassurance that a product or item will naturally breakdown in nature, rendering its environmental impact insignificant. In reality, most things can technically be described in this way, the truth in this case lies in a set of assumptions being made about the conditions under which the product/item will degrade. Think for example about at home composting - food scraps if placed in a heap outside, and exposed to the elements (rain etc.) will eventually break back down into soil. Now consider, if the heap were also rotated regularly, exposed to heat from the sun, and a diversity of decomposers (like earth worms) were able to access the heap, the food scraps would decompose that much faster because the surrounding environment became more favourable for the chemical processes (of decomposition) underway. Decomposition is heavily dependent on the surrounding environmental conditions. A common issue with the use of the word ‘biodegradable’ when it comes to products is that it’s often assigned without context and without citing the specific environmental conditions under which optimal, efficient and/or timely biodegradation occurs. Let’s face it, in some cases, it could take hundreds of years for some items to degrade under normal landfill conditions or outside the confines of an experimental laboratory setting… that added context could be the difference between someone making a purchase or not. And I believe these types of contextual omissions are by design.

Regardless of where corporate actions fall on the spectrum, these tactics are harmful and erode public trust in products, marketing, and regulators to name a few. These deceptions can also often rob people of their sense of autonomy over critical aspects of their lives and over the choices they make. These lies not only pull at our societal fabric but also endanger the Earth and our health in the process, and often times without our consent or knowledge.

On a Personal Note

Recently, I learned that aluminum beverage cans are actually lined in plastic. This may be common knowledge for some but for me this came as a shock. I had believed that cans were environmentally safe to use since plastic wasn’t involved and I appreciated the idea that these cans could be easily melted back down and reused in other applications; thus limiting their environmental burden on the planet. But alas, I was unaware of the secret plastic hidden within, and this to me feels like a deliberate omission meant to mislead.

As someone who actively avoids plastics in as many products as possible, I found this revelation to be particularly disturbing. You see, I’ve struggled with autoimmune system challenges for years and have always had a sensitive and easily-reactive physiology. As I’ve managed my health over the years I’ve had to be decidedly cautious. I avoid, synthetic fragrances, toxic cleaning products, and clothing made from non-breathable, synthetic and man-made fabrics. As part of this management, plastics are inevitably avoided as much as possible due to their endocrine disrupting qualities, gut irritating properties when ingested and their inability to be broken down in nature. Environmental misdirections and deceptions such as these are always personal and are a form of violence we can and should no longer accept.

If you’re interested in learning more about plastics, greenwashing, and consumerism check out the following documentaries/docuseries as a starting point:

• “The Plastic Detox”

• “Greenwashing: The Climate Killer”

• “Buy Now: The Shopping Conspiracy”

• “Broken”

• “Flint’s Deadly Water”

A Final Thought

As a way of connecting with the land, my ancestors, and as an act of environmental stewardship, I garden. By gardening, I reduce by reliance on the grocery store, and thus, reduce the amount of plastic brought into my home through various product wrappings, produce labels, and bags. But I also garden, for the sake of having more autonomy over the foods I consume. As I contemplate, these motivations for my current garden, I can’t help but also consider the inherent danger that would have been present had it been planted decades ago in the yard of my early childhood home. You see, my early years were spent in a historically Black neighbourhood which like so many Black and Indigenous communities in North America, is in close proximity to an environmental hazard - an international border crossing - North America’s busiest.

Heavy, continuous traffic means that air quality is poor and garden crops would be coated in particulate pollution. This is a hazard I would not have been able to see back then, nor were we informed of the notion of any potentially related concerns. Much like communities proximate to major development projects and pollution causing industries, do not benefit from the carbon offsets and far away conservation efforts they maintain, these communities are made vulnerable by environmental injustice being enacted upon them, often times, without their knowledge.

In all my early years, I have no memory of the air quality concerns in the neighbourhood being raised or discussed in relation to the associated health risks and consequences of regular exposure. It was only once we moved, and I began studying earth and natural sciences that these sorts of thoughts and questions even began to cross my mind… and that’s much too late in my opinion. People should have choices and be informed rather than essentially being subjects in an ill-conceived, non-consensual experiment.

As shared in “Environmental Injustice is racism”, Nneka Allen wrote:

“These interlocking systems—environmental injustice, racism, capitalism, and colonialism—predate Flint and will outlast it unless challenged. They have always marked environmental injustice on Turtle Island, devaluing Black, Indigenous, and other marginalized lives. Tackling this requires hope, and more importantly, her daughters: courage and anger.”

With this in mind, let this Earth Day be a reminder not only of the environmental progress being “sustained through daily actions of communities, educators, workers, and families…” but let it also be a call to righteous rage so that we might demand honesty and truth from those with power to effect large-scale change for Earth and all of us. Both aspects, together in my view more accurately reflect the 2026 theme of “Our Power, Our Planet” - and it’s a goal well-worth collectively chasing.

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Environmental harm in communities of colour is a crisis rooted in racial injustice. And it is a crisis often…

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A few years ago, the Black Canadian Fundraisers’ Collective invited Debra Thompson, the associate professor of political science at McGill and author of The Long Road Home: On Blackness and Belonging, to join us for a discussion about her book. (If you’re interested in exploring the experiences of another Black descendant of enslaved people who offers an unfiltered perspective on race politics in the United States and Canada, this book will resonate with you.) Towards the end of our hour-long group conversation, Debra shared some other book recommendations with us. One of those recommendations was “In the Wake: On Blackness and Being” by Christina Sharpe.

As a perpetually curious person about the ideas and wisdom of Black people, especially Black women, and an avid reader, I quickly purchased a copy of this book. The title In the Wake symbolizes the experience of living with the lasting effects of slavery—enduring not only its immediate aftermath but also the ongoing reality of being treated as property and facing persistent anti-Black violence. In the book’s first chapter, she writes, “…living in the wake means living in and with terror in that in much of what passes for public discourse about terror we, Black people, become the carriers of terror, terror’s embodiment, and not the primary objects of terror’s multiple enactments’; the ground of terror’s possibility globally…This is Black life in the wake; this is the flesh, these are bodies, to which anything and everything can be and is done.”

Sharpe’s response and invitation to the trauma that is living in the wake is wake work, which is a way to exist within yet disrupt this paradigm through “our known lived and un/imaginable lives”. Our existence in the wake while disrupting the pattern begins with our relationship to ourselves, and, namely, with our bodies, because our bodies are the battleground of radicalized trauma. Resmaa Menakem in My Grandmother’s Hands writes, “If we are to upend the status quo of white-body supremacy, we must begin with our bodies…white-body supremacy, and the trauma that causes and perpetuates it, lives primarily in the body, not the thinking brain.” For the past five years, I have been focusing on addressing my trauma rooted in anti-Blackness, of which white-body supremacy is an architect. To heal from this pain, it is essential to reconnect with the body, the very source of the suffering. This is my journey.

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Frantz Fanon, the French West Indian psychiatrist and political philosopher, in Toward the African Revolution, published in 1964, wrote, “We revolt simply because… We can no lo…

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My adult daughter, who finds …

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My mother would always say, “Watch your words, they have power.” Increasingly, I see the wisdom in her warning. Our words have the power to create and they can also destroy. …

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My writing ritual often begins with a conversations with my elders to share my thoughts and seek their wisdom. In No…

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As 2026 begins, I am re-structuring my monthly writings into two parts.

In the first short monthly essay, I will share my perspectives and curiosities about a particular social justice issue. This is…

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In 2017, I began serving on the Board of Directors for a membership organization in Toronto that supports the education and professional development of fundraisers. The focus of my efforts, along wit…

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There’s a poem by Micky ScottBey Jones that opens a chapter in the book Holding Change by adrienne maree brown. It’s called An Invitation to Brave Space. I believe it unveils a more authentic and relatable way of connecting with others in this world. The poem’s words invite us to extend beyond our comfort zones and embrace our imperfect humanity within the communities we inhabit.

It reads…

Take a moment to notice how the words of this poem make you feel. Do you feel safer, maybe braver - freer?

For me, this poem pierces myths and surfaces several truths. First, the fallacy of safe space. Second, the responsibility we all have in cultivating a healthy and courageous environment. Ultimately, it brings forth optimism that together, we can collaboratively create something far more lasting and genuine, should we decide to pursue it.

The language of “safe space” has become a growing part of our EDI or equity lexicon. Some believe establishing a safe space is essential for genuine “inclusion” to be realized. But I’m always left with the question: who are these spaces really for? They’ve never been for me! A safe space doesn’t recognize the unique needs of diverse people when collaborating to pursue a goal. My requirements as a Black Afro-Metis woman to feel secure in an environment may differ from those of someone who does not share my identity. My needs are seldom prioritized or considered in the creation of these so-called sanctuaries. Too often, “safe space” is confused with a conflict-free space—a place where the comfort of those in power is prioritized. In environments where honesty and disagreement are frowned upon, silence frequently replaces people’s voices. There is nothing safe about that. I believe we can create safer spaces, but I prefer brave spaces because only they invite authenticity and offer durable connections with others. And in the end, brave spaces are safer.

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George Packer challenges these perceived “progressive” expressions in his article The Moral Case Against Equity Language, where he writes, “The whole tendency of equity language is to blur the contours of hard, often unpleasant facts….Equity language doesn’t fool anyone who lives with real afflictions. It’s meant to spare only the feelings of those who use it.” The words “safe space” disguise the design and strategy of insecurity. The uncomfortable truth is that no place is completely secure. People who feel the weight of inequity know the truth about the delicate nature of their safety and its ultimate uselessness in addressing the injustices they experience. Safe spaces feel fragile and precarious to maintain. It feels like walking on eggshells, never sure where to step next. Conflict avoidance is the main objective. These spaces refuse ourselves’ entry, and require a contortion of our identities to generate a brittle environment at best.

In our culture, we have an obsession with security and for good reason. Insecurity is manufactured in our society to keep us participating in economic systems that harm us by constantly leaving us longing for safety, generating further insecurity. bell hooks, in her book Teaching Community: A Pedagogy of Hope, writes, “Dominator culture has tried to keep us all afraid, to make us choose safety instead of risk, sameness instead of diversity. Moving through that fear, finding out what connects us, revelling in our differences; this is the process that brings us closer, that gives us a world of shared values, of meaningful community.” hooks unveils the destructive culture that breeds the fear we experience, yet she also illustrates how to foster courageous environments even amidst the fear.

The truth is, WE keep us safe. Not through removing everything that has the potential to harm us, but by confronting danger - together. Being honest about what we see, need and dislike, being truthful about our own shortcomings and failures. It takes courage to be honest. We need boldness to ask for what we need. A true sense of security stems from brave deeds that collectively can inspire brave communities.

You, me, us; together we have the potential to nurture and grow brave spaces.

So what are brave spaces?

Jones’ poem admits they transcend being merely protective havens. In fact, they deny the reality of safe spaces. Instead, brave spaces are created by confronting the realities of the moment, being honest about the harm we’ve felt and caused, cultivating connections with one another while resisting external voices and inviting each other to deeper truths and expressions of love.

The line of the poem that always grips me is “We call each other to more truth and love.” Truth and love are invitations that stir the soul and inspire change, transformation, and action. The connective tissue between truth and love is always accountable, secure, trustworthy, and kind. In the same chapter of Holding Change, brown describes how brave spaces encourage us to “be very in touch with our needs and our energy, to give as we are able, to heal ourselves as we offer healing to each other and the world, and to practice in ways that open up the possibilities of transformation.” Embracing what is essential requires compassion, healing, honesty, disagreement, and transformation. These are the nurturing elements for any brave space.

I often use Jones’s sharp thought-provoking poem with clients because it elicits and welcomes our human messiness, imperfections, blind spots, fear, and brokenness. It reminds us that we are each other’s “magnitude and bond,” as Gwendolyn Brooks wrote. It encourages us to lay down our defences, invites us into our bodies, and compels us to connect with ourselves and others more bravely. The posture inspired by these lyrics prepares us to learn, connect, grow, and change in community.

Spaces that foster a sense of belonging, similar to environments that welcome courageous acts, invite us to express our entire selves, grounded in a spirit of inquiry and humility. When reflecting on the relationship between spaces of belonging and bravery, I perceive a kinship. Brave environments rarely offer the comfort we often confuse with safety, but perhaps surprisingly deliver that much-desired mutual protection.

In “Atlas of the Heart,” Brené Brown enlightens us with this definition: “True belonging is the spiritual practice of believing in and belonging to yourself so deeply that you can share your most authentic self with the world and find sacredness in both being a part of something and standing alone in the wilderness. True belonging doesn’t require you to change who you are; it requires you to be who you are.”

In their book, What It Takes To Heal, Prentis Hemphill expressed, “Belonging isn’t an experience we can opt out of or live without. For our species, it’s as necessary as the air we breathe.”

What if we considered bravery just as vital as belonging? Yes, our sense of belonging is critical to our thriving, but creating brave belonging spaces among us is a necessary practice in daring wholeheartedness. Choosing and co-creating brave spaces is an option we can all choose. The cost of entry is embracing and revealing our true selves, and connecting with others in that same sincerity. Brave spaces are essential if we are going to live authentic and meaningful lives.

So how do we co-create brave spaces?

In last summer’s issue of Nonprofit Quarterly, Keesha Harris wrote an article entitled, “Co-Creating Conditions for Trust and Change: An Opportunity for Black Women Leaders.” In it, she wrote, “Expansive leadership is defined by brave relationship building while setting community agreements to co-create the conditions that thread the needle of trust. It is about figuring out how to move together—frailties, flaws, and all—to courageously create change.” The essence of inviting others into a courageous space fundamentally involves a mutual commitment to collaborate with others genuinely.

Community agreements are critical living records that guide our interactions with those we work with. Too often, we focus on the “what” of the work we do and not on the “how.” The nexus of many interpersonal conflicts revolves around “how” something happened, yet “what” we do is too often the primary focus. I believe we should be accountable for both what we do and how we do it, but the approach frequently goes unnoticed despite often causing some of the most contentious conflicts.

Community agreements are co-created by all team members and outline clearly how they want to interact with one another. Because it is a living document, all members are invited to revisit, revise and invoke it regularly especially during times of conflict, crisis, tension or change. Harris, in that same article, wrote,“Because change requires a foundation of trust, discussions around community agreements help level-set and guide our relationships to enhance the strategic value for all. Community agreements are consensus statements on what every person in a group needs from one another and commits to one another in order to feel safe, supported, open, productive, and trusting.”

If we invest time in understanding what our colleagues need to feel seen and heard, and capture that in the form of written community agreements, the quality of our work experiences will change. When we make the implicit ideas and expectations we have about how we want to work with others explicit, we are asking for what we need while also acknowledging the needs of others. This is how brave spaces begin. This might sound simple, but its complication is rooted in a world that persistently centres on the needs of a select few. Exercising autonomy by raising your voice in a community requires courage. When you choose to be brave, and another person does the same, brave and bold environments can emerge. This is best highlighted through a practical example in my life, the birth and co-creation of a community for Black Canadian fundraisers.

To be continued next week…

Notes is a new space on Substack for us to share links, short posts, quotes, photos, and more. I plan to use it for t…

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Last month I gave a keynote speech at the Atlantic Canada Fundraising Conference, hosted by the Association of Fundraising Professionals - Nova Scotia Chapter. The path to that stage was a test of tr…

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Last month I gave a keynote speech at the Atlantic Canada Fundraising Conference, hosted by the Association of Fundraising Professionals - Nova Scotia Chapter. The path to that …

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Last month I gave a keynote speech at the Atlantic Canada Fundraising Conference, hosted by the Association of Fundraising Professionals - Nova Scotia Chapter. The path to that stage was a test of trust in itself. I share the speech here in its original form as a practical lesson in how trust is earned and re-earned in relationships and how kinship tethers us to each other and is crucial to movements for change. This is also a tribute to the activists I recognize as The Co-Conspirators.

For those who have followed my tumultuous relationship with AFP over the last eight years, you may recall when, in 2024, I bid them farewell in my Awakening Empathy blog. It was entitled, “Unbought, Unbossed and No Longer Bothered, Goodbye to AFP. I meant those words when I wrote them, but all things in life evolve, and we must adapt to change as it occurs. As you know, the nature of relationships are never straightforward or linear; they are dynamic, messy, onerous, and unexpected. Finding myself here today at the Atlantic Canada Conference, organized by AFP Nova Scotia, was a twist I hadn't anticipated, and thus, a reaction of surprise at me standing before you is quite understandable.

As I learn and grow in activist communities, deeper insights emerge that reject rigid thinking and invite recognition that, within broken systems, people are fighting and struggling for change. Those people need co-conspirators to join them in their efforts. If we’re going to achieve racial justice in the charitable sector, then we’re likely to find ourselves needing to work with deeply flawed organizations. If we refuse to enter those spaces, our hope for change is diminished. Hope is critical in this struggle.

Two reasons led to my decision to join you today. The first happened in 2023, while my activist friends and I were swimming in a sea of AFP silence, your chapter bravely spoke out to support the Co-Conspirators’ calls for change. That was risky and brave. Yours was the only chapter to speak up; I never forgot that. However, the greater reason is the courageous innovators and racial justice activists gathered here today. You are the brave change makers here in Atlantic Canada. My presence and message are for you.

We know as fundraisers that the heart of our work is relational, and at the root of every durable relationship is trust. This makes defining trust and discovering ways to foster it in supportive environments crucial for us all. Lend me your attention as I share a story that illuminates the fragile nature of trust and its powerful role as an anchor of kinship.

As a descendant of African freedom seekers who escaped slavery and as a daughter of the Underground Railroad, the writings of Audre Lorde, a civil rights advocate, womanist, and author, have profoundly influenced my life. Her poem "Litany for Survival" conveys a vital truth that guides the stories I tell and actions I take in my quest for justice, generally and, as I will share with you today, specifically related to AFP.

In the final stanzas of Lorde’s poem, it reads:

…and when we speak, we are afraid

our words will not be heard

nor welcomed

but when we are silent

we are still afraid

So it is better to speak

remembering

we were never meant to survive.

I know my survival is perpetually tethered to the words of truth. That’s why I am a Griot, a storyteller. To survive. My expressions of honesty serve as both a blade and a barrier.

In the book Be A Revolution, Ijeoma Oluo interviews Favianna Rodriguez, a Latine Artist of Peruvian and Afro-Peruvian descent. When talking about art as story and the need for storytelling, Favianna says, “… by us saying the story, releasing it, we make it not only available to other people, to tune into it and feel it, but we [also] don’t hold it so much. And I think that’s so important in our healing.”

Today, I am here to share a story about trust and relationship, but I’ll acknowledge that my sharing offers a means of healing for me, for you and our sector. That’s the power of first-person narratives. They play a crucial role in communication because they allow us to understand who we are and better comprehend the world we live in. In releasing this story, I hope it opens up a new way for you to see your responsibility and potential. I am eager to inspire a more profound comprehension and experience of trust, while also tightening your grip on kinship so that you can meet the needs of this moment in our evolving landscape of philanthropy.

Two Black feminist philanthropic leaders in a recent conversation hosted by The Global Fund for Women during Black Philanthropy Month discussed a pivotal truth. They said, “…progressive philanthropy must make solidarity and trust the centre of moving money.” Meaning solidarity, a fundamental element of kinship, combined with trust, can revolutionize philanthropy as it is known in the Western world. Trust - the stuff of commitment, confidence, hope and faith. Solidarity - the unity or agreement of feeling or action. Together, it's a powerful duo that can move us closer to the love we espouse in the philanthropic sector.

Here’s what I know: relationships move at the speed of trust. These words reach my ears and ring true every time. I feel their veracity in my bones. I live it in all my relationships - the evaporated connections lacking explanation, the ones stalled at intersections, seemingly and surely unsurpassable, and those relationships that never let go, even when the forces pulling us apart are strong and persistent. It’s simple: trust governs our bonds; it’s in the fabric of our kinship, and it reveals the end from the beginning of all our relations.

It can often sound and feel like ‘all-or-nothing’. We either trust someone completely or not at all. But we know there are indeed grey areas of trust. Isn’t it as much about sensing as it is about knowing? Matters of trust ignite my sixth sense so I can navigate that grey space that threatens fellowship; it helps me respond to that faint inner plea that whispers, “I want to trust you.” Here is where hope confronts our intuition. We feel either confident in or apprehensive about behaviours we witness that persistently answer the many questions that trust asks. The hard part is accepting this invitation to look soberly and believe what people show you.

The pursuit of connection or kinship is inherent in the questions of trust.

“Can I depend on you, or will you do what you say?

Do you believe the best of me?

Can I ask for what I need?

Will you keep my stories in confidence?

Will you own your mistakes and repair what has been broken?

Will you choose to be brave instead of comfortable?”

Trust has a lot of questions! And these questions aren’t asked once; they are perpetually being asked. Trustworthiness is observable over time; it is measurable. The patterns of our behaviours inevitably emerge for others to see and experience. This is where trust lives or dies - in what we do.

And as much as trust is about observing the “other,” it is equally about us. Do we trust ourselves? The curiosities of trust must first be explored within. My relationships, your relationships, can never surpass our ability to trust ourselves. So, the test of trust begins here. It most certainly did for me.

I grew up in a home where trust was inspired and violated to varying degrees. My father exemplified consistency and commitment in my life. My mother’s generosity toward people was unending. They were reliable and courageous parents. Not always confidential and non-judgmental, but as divorced parents go, they ventured to reestablish the broken trust resulting from their separation. With time and despite their faults, my parents did their best to restore the trust lost. They were present. They prioritized our needs. In their eyes, we were wonderful despite our imperfections, and they were both brave in their lives and parenting. And in those times when trust felt flimsy between us, I always had an auntie or an uncle who reassured me that I had a safe place of retreat. Trust was the fabric of our kinship. I could trust my family. I did then, and I still do.

Their transparency as Black people in a white-dominant world also boosted my trust in them. They never hid their social activism from us; they instead ensured we knew about their community movements and how we could be a part of the change they were seeking. My younger self remembers visiting my father on the picket line, canvassing in our local elections; my mother serving the needs of single Black mothers, feeding neighbourhood kids, and serving in our local church. They showcased methods of generous sharing and love within our community, nurturing all crucial forms of relational ties.

Their commitment to community taught me that trust is also a collective endeavour that includes acts of solidarity and accountability, which results in an abiding connection. Trust is not simply an individual or interpersonal experience. It is also a communal and systemic experience. People create communities and design systems. And it is people in these communities who create the systems that either inspire or violate our trust. Systems have the potential to inspire rooted relationships. While interpersonal trust is critical to the fabric of communities, the effect of systemic trust or mistrust has a weighty collective impact on matters of social justice and institutional confidence. Making the necessity of communal solidarity crucial.

Six years ago, my experience with the Toronto chapter of the Association of Fundraising Professionals (AFP) highlights a community and system that frequently violated trust and showed little interest in building resilient relationships that could endure conflict, truth-telling and dissent.

For those who are familiar with my journey, know that Muthoni Kariuki, Mide Akerewusi, and I faced both blatant and subtle anti-Black racism during our time on the Toronto chapter board. I discussed these experiences in a lecture called "Us and Them: What It Really Means to Belong," which I composed as a Scholar in Residence at the University of British Columbia, but below is a brief overview to offer some necessary background.

In 2017, while mentoring for the AFP Toronto Chapter fellowship program, I began to see a troubling pattern. Over three years, all my Black mentees were facing unmasked racism within their organizations, which was no doubt a reflection of the historical residue of colonialism and chattel slavery. Despite my persistent appeals to AFP to tackle these racial injustices in Toronto's charitable community, my feedback was ignored.

Alongside this experience, and to my surprise, I was invited to join the Board of AFP Toronto. Although I harboured skepticism towards the organization and its leadership, I chose, with encouragement from Mide, to accept the offer to become a Board member, aiming to facilitate just transformation.

About a year after I joined, Caroline Riseboro became the Board Chair, while in her day job, she was also the CEO of an organization where my mentee had just been hired. My mentee, a talented Black woman, quickly began facing racism in this new job, as she had in two previous organizations. I quickly appealed to Caroline for help, but was rebuffed, forcing my mentee out of yet another organization. My vocal dissent was the dawn of a conniving campaign against me in my role as an AFP Toronto Board Member.

Two years into my board term, my distrust of AFP was validated, and all confidence had been crushed. Mide, Muthoni, and I resigned in solidarity before Congress 2019, seeking mediation with the Board. The Board never responded to my mediation request, underscoring that change is impossible without trust.

While my AFP Toronto story is rife with emotional and social violence, pain, and exclusion, telling it led to the most unexpected gift: the creation of a thriving community of activists committed to the continual exercise of truth-telling and unity. Today, I endeavour to honour these activists who choose to live bravely with me by demanding a more just and liberated charitable sector. The birth story of the Co-Conspirators is a story about trust and solidarity in action.

~ To be continued

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