or most of my life,
the word
philanthropist felt
like it belonged to someone else—someone with a building named after them, someone who made seven-figure donations and changed the world with a signature. I didn’t see myself in that picture, not even after decades of volunteering, choosing service over holiday gatherings to help feed others, mentoring women through difficult chapters, or using my own story to inspire others to be more aware of the needs around them.
Those acts felt meaningful. They felt deeply personal.
But they didn’t feel like “philanthropy.”
Not then.
It took someone looking me directly in the eye recently and saying, “What you do is philanthropy. It always has been,” for something inside me to shift. Suddenly, my contributions, my heart, and my intentions came into focus through a different lens.
Because philanthropy isn’t about wealth.
It’s about impact.
And impact takes many forms.
Looking back, I notice how many generous acts are the ones we overlook: easing someone’s burden, pausing because someone else’s need matters more, offering comfort without being asked. We dismiss these moments because they feel natural. But often, our most natural gifts are our most powerful.
I see it everywhere—quiet, unspoken philanthropy. The father coaching his child’s team after work. The neighbor who pauses to check in on an elderly friend, simply because they matter. The coworker who pauses long enough to ask, “How are you, really?” These gestures may be small, but they ripple.
F