by Dr. Kevin Dean, President & CEO
Tennessee Nonprofit Network
It feels imperative, in this moment, to name a truth, a truth that echoes in the hushed conversations, the strained smiles, and the late-night emails that have become the soundtrack of my life these past weeks: I am not okay. We, the nonprofit community, the tireless advocates, the unwavering service providers, the heart and soul of so many communities across Tennessee and this country, are not okay.
It sucks sometimes being a leader because you have to be strong all the time for everyone. After three weeks of sleepless nights and triaging emails from nonprofits (50/hour minimum nonstop), I have found myself feeling like I might melt into a puddle. I’ve been strong until now, but it’s catching up to me. The imposter syndrome is strong today, and the 5th grader buried deep inside is scared that I’m going to fail or that the pressure is too much.
But I can’t keep this feeling to myself. We all need to say it out loud. We need to say it to our coworkers. We need to say it to our funders. We need to say it our boards. WE. ARE. NOT. OKAY.
Breathe, Kevin, breathe.
I spent the day today, as I have spent so many days recently, going from meeting to meeting, a grim circuit of updates. I spoke to funders, foundations, fellow nonprofits, and other stakeholders about the realities facing our sector. I felt like an ominous harbinger, a messenger carrying news that, while rooted in factual data and observable trends, felt heavy with an unspoken, pervasive dread. Each statistic, each anecdote, each carefully worded report felt like another stone added to the weight pressing down on our collective spirit.
Twice today, as I spoke to groups of people on Zoom, the now-familiar platform for our increasingly distanced interactions, I felt the familiar prickle behind my eyes, the tightening in my throat, the lump that rises and makes it difficult to speak. I felt like I was going to burst into tears, to succumb to the overwhelming wave of emotion that threatens to engulf me daily. But I kept myself together. I swallowed the rising tide of grief and frustration. My messages, I reasoned, are more important right now than my own feelings. This is bigger than me, bigger than any one of us. I have to hold it together. We all have to hold it together.
The weight of this responsibility is immense. It’s the weight of knowing that behind every carefully crafted budget, every strategic plan, every grant proposal, there are real people, real needs, real lives hanging in the balance. It’s the weight of witnessing the very organizations designed to uplift and empower being systematically undermined, their voices muffled, their resources dwindled.
Nonprofits, the very embodiment of community spirit and compassion, are being vilified by powerful people, individuals and organizations with hundreds of billions of dollars more than we have. Those under attack are not abstract entities; they are people with names, faces, families. They are driven by a deep-seated desire to make a difference, to heal, to empower, to serve. And yet, they are increasingly portrayed as something other, something less, something suspect. New legislation, political rhetoric, and social media feeds seems to be ominously portraying many nonprofits as criminal enterprises who are fleecing the government and harboring dangerous criminals. I can assure you that the people in nonprofits don’t want dangerous criminals like everyone else.
All we want to do is serve. That’s it. That’s the core of our being and the heart of the nonprofit sector. We want to help. We want to be the voices of our communities, especially those voices that are too often marginalized and ignored. We want to fill in the gaps, the widening chasms where government and for-profits, by their very nature and structure, cannot or will not tread. We are the safety net, the advocates, the healers, the bridge builders. We are the ones who stay when everyone else has left.
As President & CEO of Tennessee Nonprofit Network, and, more importantly, as a human being with a big heart, I’m shouldering the burden of witnessing the struggles of so many nonprofits across the state. I hear their anxieties in their voices, see their exhaustion in their eyes. They are panicking about their funding. They are panicking about the people they serve, the vulnerable populations who rely on them for everything from food and shelter to legal aid and mental health support. And they are panicking about this new world, this rapidly changing landscape that is moving at a pace we cannot even process, a world where the very principles we hold dear seem to be under attack.
The ground is shifting beneath our feet. The familiar landmarks are disappearing. The rules of engagement have changed, and no one seems to have a clear understanding of what they are anymore. The uncertainty and panic is palpable.
But while I carry the weight of witnessing this widespread struggle, while I feel the pressure of trying to support and advocate for so many organizations, I know, deep down, that the people on the ground, the ones doing the direct service, the ones facing the daily challenges, are hurting far worse. It’s not my pain I’m most concerned about. It’s theirs.
It’s the organizations fighting tooth and nail to protect their constituents – often legal immigrants – from being detained by ICE, families torn apart, lives thrown into chaos. It’s the nonprofits who have received death threats, their staff living in fear for their safety, their mission threatened by intimidation and hate. It’s the nonprofits who have received letters from the federal government demanding that they scrub their websites of words that are now considered taboo, words that speak to the very essence of their work, words like “refugee,” “diversity,” and “inclusion.” These are the real stories of this moment, the real sources of the profound unease, the deep sadness, the quiet desperation that I carry with me.
These are the organizations that are working tirelessly to address the root causes of poverty, inequality, and injustice. They are the ones who are providing food to the hungry, shelter to the homeless, and hope to the hopeless. They are the ones who are advocating for the rights of the marginalized, the voiceless, and the forgotten. And they are the ones who are being targeted, silenced, and undermined.
We are stretched thin. We are exhausted. We are worried. We are dedicated, yes, but we are also human. We have limits. We have vulnerabilities. We have emotions. We are, in short, not okay. We are running on fumes, fueled by passion and a deep commitment to our mission, but we are running on fumes nonetheless.
So, I’m asking you, imploring you, begging you: check on your nonprofit friends, folks. Check on the people who are always checking on everyone else. Ask them how they’re really doing. Listen to their answers. Offer them your support. Offer them your help. Offer them your understanding. Offer them your compassion.
We are not okay, and we need each other now more than ever. We need to lean on each other, support each other, and remind each other that we are not alone in this struggle. We need to remember why we do what we do, why we dedicate our lives to serving others, why we believe in the power of community, why we refuse to give up hope.
We are not okay, but we will get through this. We will get through this together. We will continue to fight for what we believe in. We will continue to serve our communities. We will continue to be the voice of the voiceless. Because even in the face of adversity, even when we are not okay, we will not give up. We will not back down. We will not be silenced. We will continue to be the heart and soul of our communities. Because that is who we are. That is what we do. And that is what we will always do.