A Love Letter to the Accidental Fundraisers.

Last weekend I ended up at a graduation party for a kiddo I’ve literally known since she was born, and saw two fellow nonprofiteers at the soiree.

Fundraisers in the wild.

Wait, that needs to be a show. I know, like, 7 people who would definitely watch that.

Anywho, we hadn’t seen each other in a while. We were catching up. Normal stuff. Kids. Life. Whether the Vikings will find a way to hurt us again this fall since we all read the same fluffy “Two Days Into OTA’s This Looks Like a Superbowl Team” article. (Spoiler alert, they will hurt us, as they always do.)

And somewhere between the fourth beer and my second pass through the burrito bowl bar, my friend mentioned that his nonprofit was struggling with donor retention. Just casually. Like you’d mention this odd 98 degree weather we’re having in late May…in Fargo.

Forty-five minutes later, I had basically drawn a donor stewardship framework on a cocktail napkin, explained a way more complicated three-bucket donor system, walked him through why his thank-you letters were probably arriving too late, and asked if he knew how her donors liked to be thanked.

Did he have a strange look on his face that read “Dude. We were talking about who you’re voting for mayor next week.”

Yes he did. And yes we were.

But his nonprofit is out there doing incredible work and they’re losing donors they don’t have to lose, and I know exactly why, and I physically cannot sit across from that information and not try to help.

I can’t turn it off.

And I don’t particularly want to.

This Is What Obsession Looks Like

I think about nonprofit fundraising at the grocery store.

I see a “buy one, get one” sign and my brain goes, “Oh fun! That’s a matching gift campaign!”

I think about it on the golf course. “If they ever do a charity tournament here, they should probably put two sponsor signs here,” my mind wanders while I should be diagnosing my horrible unfolded lawn chair-esque swing.

I think about it when my kids negotiate for extra screen time, because honestly, a 9-year-old’s closing technique on “just 15 more minutes” is better than most major gift asks I’ve seen from professional fundraisers.

I think about it when someone randomly reaches out with an even more randomly curated question and I spend way too much time crafting a response.

I think about it at board meetings - not just my clients’ boards, but my own, and every single thing I see from that seat - the governance conversations, the strategic planning, the moments where a board leans in or checks out - goes directly into how I coach the organizations I work with.

I think about it at happy hours that were supposed to be “just catching up” but turn into two-hour fundraising therapy sessions where someone finally says out loud the thing they’ve been carrying for months.

And I don’t mind.

Not even a little.

Because this is what I love.

I am, by any clinical definition, but specifically diagnosed by WebMD, obsessed with this work.

And I’m telling you this not to brag (though, I really have used the letter “I” a lot already in this blog.) I’m telling you because I want you to know what you get when I’m in your corner.

Nobody Went to School for This

There is no degree in nonprofit fundraising.

Sure there’s that “masters in nonprofit organizational leadership” but there sure isn’t a bachelors degree in “How to Ask Humans for Money Without Wanting to Crawl Under a Table.”

There is no certification in “Annual Appeal Letter Writing That Doesn’t Sound Like Inspiration Porn.”

And there is definitely no accredited university program in Advanced Theory Of Silent Auction Basket Solicitation.

Though honestly? That would make a fantastic minor. I’d teach it. The final exam would be assembling a wine-and-cheese basket that doesn’t include a random candle from Khols and a pair of matching water color art projects from Old Dale down the street who we are too nice to say “no thank you, it won’t add any additional revenue for this item” but because his brother in law always pays 80% below suggested value to add to his already hoarder house collection, we just smile and take it and begrudgingly type out the description in our catalog, which by the way, no one really reads, but we still spend money on printing those things because it’s “way we’ve always done it” and you don’t have the energy to fight with your committee anymore.

The point is: almost every nonprofit professional I’ve ever worked with is an accidental fundraiser.

They got into this work because they care about kids, or housing, or food access, or the arts, or mental health, or their community.

Nobody woke up at 14 and thought, “You know what I want to do with my life? Manage a donor database and chase board members for their annual gift.”

They fell into fundraising because someone had to do it.

And then they discovered that nobody taught them how.

So they figured it out on the fly, made a lot of toast, and hoped for the best.

I know this because that was me.

I Was the Accidental Fundraiser Too

I didn’t start my career thinking “I’m going to be a fundraising consultant who writes blogs at 6 AM and draws frameworks on cocktail napkins.”

I started because I had the audacity to run for public office in my early 20’s.

I raised more money than I was legally allowed to spend in a state House of Representatives race.

Turns out I was a terrible politician, but great at asking for money.

And then at my first real big kid job was told, “Hey, we need someone to handle the event.”

And then, “Can you also write the appeal letter?”

And then, “We need someone to talk to this donor.”

And then, “You’re now the development director,” and I was standing there with a title I wasn’t qualified for, doing a job nobody trained me for, wondering if everyone else felt as lost as I did.

They did.

They just didn’t say it out loud either.

And so I learned.

Not from a textbook. But from doing it badly and then doing it less badly and then doing it pretty well and then writing two books about it so other people could skip some of the badly part.

Nearly two decades later, I’ve coached hundreds of organizations. I’ve raised millions of dollars. I’ve sat across from donors who wrote six-figure checks and board members who couldn’t spell “fundraising” and EDs who cried in my office because they didn’t know if they could keep the lights on.

And every single one of them - every single one - was just a person who cared about a mission and needed someone to show them the way.

That’s all this has ever been. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do. Show people the way. With humor, and humanity, and the occasional Ren & Stimpy reference that nobody asked for.

Why I’m Like This

People ask me sometimes why I give away so much for free. The blogs. The podcast. The frameworks. The cocktail napkin consultations.

(Ok, Leah, my DGB partner in crime asks me this this…over and over. LOL)

Besides probably being terrible at business, here’s why: because this sector is my everything and I’m paying it forward.

Working in nonprofits gave me purpose when I didn’t have any. It gave me a community when I needed one. It gave me a front-row seat to the most extraordinary humans on the planet - people who show up every single day to fight for things that matter, often for not enough money, with not enough support, and never enough credit.

I’m obsessed with this work because I’m obsessed with those people.

The do-gooders. The ones in the trenches. The solo shops and the small teams and the first-time EDs and the board members who actually want to help but nobody ever showed them how.

I see organizations of every shape, size, and mission - from tiny rural food pantries to regional arts councils to statewide advocacy groups - and I see the same thing every time: people who are doing extraordinary work with ordinary resources, and who would be unstoppable if someone just gave them a framework and stood next to them while they built.

That’s the job. That’s my job. And I love it in a way that is probably not healthy but is absolutely sincere.

What You Actually Get When I’m in Your Corner

I’ve spent the last several weeks showing you. Not telling. Showing.

Every blog you’ve read? That’s me in your corner. Every idea? Every action plan? Every “you’ve freaking got this” at the end? That’s me showing up for you the way I’d show up if we were sitting across from each other at a coffee shop.

But here’s what I can’t do in a blog: I can’t hear your specific situation. I can’t look at your donor list and tell you where the cracks are. I can’t sit next to you while you write that annual appeal and say “that paragraph is gold, and that one needs work, and this opening is going to make people cry in the best way.”

I can’t be in your hallway from a blog post.

But I can be in your hallway if you let me.

That’s what we’re building. Not a course. Not a content library. A relationship. A room where I show up every week, where other do-gooders show up every week, and where you stop being alone with the work that matters most.

I don’t know where you are right now. Maybe you’re reading this at your desk. Maybe on your phone between meetings. Maybe on the couch after a long day, wondering if anyone out there understands what this job actually feels like.

I do. I understand. And I’m not going anywhere.

Whether you join DGYOU on June 1st or you just keep reading these blogs every week - I’m here. Because this work matters. Because YOU matter. And because the sector needs people like you.

I will always choose to be too much for the right people over not enough for everyone.

And if you want more of this - more frameworks, more customized strategies, more community, more FUN conversations, more someone-in-your-corner energy - the door opens June 1st.

You know where to find me.

Ok, Your Turn!

Last one before the doors open. Tell me:

Why did you get into this work? What’s the thing that keeps you in it even when the board is hard and the budget is tight and the printer is making that noise?

I want to hear your origin story. The reason you said yes to this sector. Because on the hard days - and there are a lot of hard days - that reason is the root that holds you to the ground.

Send me your answer: patrick@dogoodbetterconsulting.com

Reply EARLY ACCESS to be first through the door June 1st.

Reply TELL ME MORE to get the full breakdown before launch.

Together, we’ve freaking got this.

-Patrick

P.S. June 1st. Doors open. Blueprints ready. Community waiting. And me!  Obsessively, relentlessly, unapologetically in your corner. Let’s build something together.