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Labor Day is behind us, and it is that bittersweet time of year. Summer is officially over. Pumpkin spice and Halloween candy are filling the store shelves, but it isn’t quite fall.
Everyone is officially back to school. Of course, the lucky ones started this week and not in August like so many California schools. College football is back, cozy sweaters are beginning to call our names, and yet September somehow has one foot in summer and another reaching toward fall.
September is the space between. It is that little pause between where we have been and where we are going. Perhaps that is exactly why I love it.

Transitions give us time to adapt and ease into change. As I have written many times before, change is often best served slowly, if possible. Most of us are not exactly wired to embrace the one thing, besides death and taxes, that we know to be true. The reality is that everything changes.
I often talk about this when I speak. Why is it that we love change in the rearview mirror but are terrified of change in front of us?
Think about it. A new haircut can feel terrifying until everyone tells you how fabulous you look. Starting a new job can keep you awake for weeks. Then, six months later, you tell everyone, “I love my new job!” A knee replacement sounds absolutely dreadful until you hear someone say, “I can’t believe I waited so long. I feel like a kid again!”
Change is scary until it isn’t. Perhaps that is why September feels like such a gift. The month gives us a minute to shift gears. Our routines return, school begins, football is back, and life starts to find its rhythm again.

For children, however, this transition can be enormous. Do you remember the night before the first day of school? There was excitement, nerves, wondering who your teacher would be, which friends would be in your class and, of course, what you were going to wear.
As parents, we experienced the other side of that transition. New shoes, uniforms, backpacks, lunch boxes, pencils, notebooks and endless lists of school supplies somehow signaled that summer was officially over.
Yet, for millions of children, back to school brings another kind of worry. Will I have what I need? That question changes everything. A pencil seems like such a little thing until you are the only child who doesn’t have one. A backpack is just a backpack until yours is the reason you feel different from everyone else.

Last year, I had the privilege of interviewing Mindy Richenstein, founder of Supplies for Success, for the Charity Matters Podcast. Our conversation completely changed the way I thought about school supplies.
Mindy began Supplies for Success in 2002 after learning that children were starting school without the basic supplies they needed. That first year, she provided backpacks for just 68 children. Today, the organization has served more than 300,000 children nationwide.
However, what stayed with me wasn’t the number of backpacks. It was what those backpacks represented.
Mindy explained that when children arrive at school with fresh notebooks, sharpened pencils and a new backpack like their classmates, something happens. They feel included. They feel prepared. Most importantly, they walk through the school doors with dignity and confidence instead of shame or embarrassment.
A backpack isn’t simply carrying school supplies. That backpack is carrying confidence, possibility and hope.
Mindy’s story is also one of incredible resilience. After the devastating loss of her 37-year-old son, Eric, in 2020, she found a way to channel her grief into helping even more children. Eric’s Care Kits were created during the pandemic to provide art supplies and activities for children stuck at home. Once again, Mindy turned pain into purpose and found another way to serve.
You can read and listen to our full Charity Matters conversation with Mindy here: Season 9 Premiere, Episode 91: Supplies for Success.

Of course, Supplies for Success isn’t alone in this important work. Across the country, nonprofits are helping children begin school ready to learn. The Kids In Need Foundation provides essential school supplies to students and teachers in under-resourced schools. Meanwhile, Operation Homefront’s Back-to-School Brigade provides backpacks and school supplies to military children.
Each organization reminds us that helping doesn’t have to be complicated. Sometimes changing a life begins with a box of crayons. Perhaps it’s a backpack, a notebook or a package of pencils. Maybe it’s volunteering at a packing event or simply making a donation. Small acts add up.

Maybe that is the lesson September has for all of us. Life is full of spaces between. We stand between childhood and adulthood, one job and the next, sickness and health, loss and healing, summer and fall. Sometimes we know exactly where we are headed. Other times, we simply have to trust that the next season will come.
More importantly, back to school reminds us that not everyone enters a new season with the same tools. Sometimes the smallest act of kindness can make someone else’s transition a little easier. A backpack, a notebook, a new pair of shoes or a box of crayons might seem insignificant to us. However, to a child walking nervously through those school doors, those simple things can mean everything. They say: You are ready. You belong. We believe in you.
Perhaps that is what all of us need to hear when we find ourselves in the space between. So, here’s to September. Here’s to back to school, new beginnings and this beautiful pause between seasons. Most of all, here’s to the people who help us move from where we have been toward wherever we are meant to go next. Because none of us gets through life’s transitions alone.
How lucky we are when someone helps us carry the backpack.
Copyright © 2026 Charity Matters. This article may not be reproduced without explicit written permission; if you are not reading this in your newsreader, the site you are viewing is illegally infringing our copyright. We would be grateful if you contact us.
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Sometimes making a difference begins with something as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. More than three decades ago, chiropractor Steve Smith invited a group of patients to meet him at the Rose Bowl. His goal was simply to help people feel better through movement. However, something unexpected happened along the way. A running program became a community, strangers became friends, and the Pasadena Pacers grew into Pacer Nation.

What I love most about Steve’s story is that it really isn’t about running. Instead, it is about connection, kindness, service and the power of showing up for one another. His message is also beautifully simple: You don’t need to know every step before you begin. You simply need to take the first one. I think you will love this joyful and inspiring conversation.

Steve Smith: The Pasadena Pacers started out as the Pasadena Pacers, now Pacer Nation. Our goal is to raise the health and spirits of communities by getting people together with social exercise programs.
It started as a program from my office as a chiropractor. We thought it was a marathon training program. It turned out to be a social program. People come for the training, and they stay for the social benefits. The programs are all free and volunteer-led. We have a team of probably 35 people that helps run the organization. We’re always looking for people to volunteer with coaching, putting out water stations and doing websites.
We did a great job with diabetes, cardiovascular disease, obesity, depression and the big one, loneliness.

Steve Smith: Service started for me as a child. My mom was always the den mother, the person who helped out in the classroom. She did the Cub Scouts. She volunteered at Rancho Los Amigos, where we went as kids and saw people in iron lungs who had polio.
We would always help out the neighbors. We’d take out the old people’s trash cans or put the weeds away at Mrs. Irwin’s house up the street because she got too old to bend over. As a child, I think that was great training because it made me feel good.
Later, it became apparent to me that helping others is really its own reward. In some ways, I discovered early on that giving help is probably the reward in and of itself. The receiving of it is probably even less powerful than the giving of it.
My dad was a World War II vet. In those days, we considered it kind of our duty to serve in the military. So I joined the Army, served a couple of years and went to Vietnam.
It was eye-opening to go to a different country and see the kinds of hardships people have. However, in all that struggle and strife, they could still have family meals together. When a marriage happened in a village in Vietnam, the entire community would come to celebrate.
What you have, who you know or what your station in life is didn’t matter. What mattered was the community was a single thriving unit. In the middle of a war, people could find a way to be happy by getting together and supporting each other.

Steve Smith: The Pacers started out of my chiropractic office. In the ’90s, people went into offices, sat down in chairs and started looking at their computer stations. Neck and back problems were insolvable, which was great for business. However, it wasn’t great for my feeling that I was making a difference.
I had been a pretty fast runner when I was younger and had a terrible back injury. I was involved in an aviation incident where I broke my back. I didn’t run for almost a year and a half after that, and the back pain just wouldn’t go away.
I thought, “Well, I’ve settled into chronic back pain that’s not going to resolve. I’m going to start running again.” I started back slowly. Within just a few weeks, my back pain went away. I thought, “Wow, what is going on here?” Nobody ever said this could happen. In fact, the predominant wisdom of the day said that if you have any problem at all, don’t run. That turned out not to be true for me.
At the same time, I had all these patients with neck and back problems. I thought, “Well, it might work for them too.” So I invited people to meet my wife and me at the Rose Bowl. Most people said, “I’m not a runner. I’m not an athlete.” I said, “If I can get you to run very slowly for one minute, way below your ability level, could you do that?”
We had about 30 or 40 people show up. We ran for one minute and walked for five. Each week, we progressed. After ten weeks, people were starting to get fit. They were starting to have results, and they were looking forward to their Sunday morning workout.
Steve Smith: Probably 15 years passed before we became a nonprofit. By then, money started exchanging hands, and there were advantages you could get from having a nonprofit. We decided it was time. At that point, maybe three or four hundred people were meeting each week. Five or six run clubs had also started to sprout here and there.
Interestingly, fundraising wasn’t one of our big challenges because run clubs don’t need much money. We needed a little for a website and insurance, but not much else. For fundraising, we used a simple green can where people put money. Those donations bought bagels and water. At the end of the year, if there was money left over, we threw a party.
What fascinated me about the green can was that you got to be a philanthropist if you put three dollars into it. That’s a very different experience than having to spend two or three hundred dollars a year to participate and having an expectation of exchange.
Instead, the person making that contribution gets to be generous. With one dollar in a green can, they buy generosity, kindness and giving. I thought that was the most powerful thing.

Steve Smith: Eventually, nonprofit founders discover that you don’t create the community as much as the community creates you. During a run, people share their stories. They talk about challenges, victories, families and how it is at work. It’s great to get all that stuff out and have a rapid exchange of ideas and real conversation.
On Saturday morning, you’re simply dressed in a way that you’re not identifiable by what you have, what you do, where you go or what your car is. All that social veneer dissolves through the experience of running. Because of that, people connect in a way they ordinarily wouldn’t be able to. Sometimes, just sharing the same space with a person for a few miles, even without words, can make you feel very connected.
Some of the best relationships we have are the ones where you can be together in silence. It’s great to be that way with your community too.
Steve Smith: For me, impact happens in two ways. The first is on a personal level. Completing a program, especially a marathon, is a long-term goal. You may train for a year, and there are obstacles. Your body doesn’t want to do a marathon. Mentally and emotionally, you feel like, “Wow, that’s a lot to confront.” Physically, you have to change.
At the finish line, something really quite extraordinary happens. People who finish their first marathon shatter barriers. After overcoming those extreme obstacles, they begin to look around and ask, “What else did I think was probably not achievable that I should reexamine? What more could I do?”
Suddenly, horizons open. A future becomes possible that, at least in their own minds, wouldn’t have been possible before.

Steve Smith: The second kind of impact is a little more subtle. I think the Pacers has an impact on the community. When we talk to people about putting on that red shirt, we tell them to give somebody a smile, wave hello and say something positive. For goodness’ sake, get all dogs to greet you. If you can’t get a baby to smile, you need to work on your spirit.
Running through a community can be a little bit of a disruption. You’re going through neighborhoods early in the morning, and sometimes you impact traffic a little bit. Because of that, we try to get people to say hello, wave and smile.
Then, take that show on the road. Bring it into your daily workplace, your family and your friendships. Smile and create a reaction. Go out and raise the spirits of your community in some subtle way. Get a smile, give a smile and say something positive.
Steve Smith: Probably 20 years ago, I had a dream to see a Pacers Club in every community in the world.
I’d like to see Pacers in Palestine and Israel and have races together. Ultimately, I want to cause world peace to break out and people to love each other in a way that expands the consciousness of humankind and creates a glorious human race. I know that’s probably a little high-minded.
For a long time, I was a little disheartened by our progress. We only started maybe 12 clubs. Then, in the last five years, something happened. The era of run clubs emerged. Now, it’s a place where young people go to meet each other. Run clubs are replacing things like online dating apps. Instead of going to places, consuming alcohol and being drowned by loud music, people go out and run together.
They’re having real conversations and doing something meaningful. I’ve seen it happen in Pasadena, and it’s gone worldwide. It’s the emergence and birth of the run club. Who knew it?

Steve Smith: Sometimes, when you have a concept or an idea, you won’t know what step two is until you do step one. For me, step one is to raise your hand, step forward and say three words: “I’ll do it.”
I can’t stress that enough because you have no idea what your future is going to be. The minute you start moving forward, a wind comes to your back. Doors begin to open, and a future opens before you that you couldn’t have thought of until you got started.
Once you know the first thing, do that one thing. Now you’re in motion. From there, the universe is going to help you go to a place where you probably couldn’t even have dreamt of.
Bring the skills you have to the table. They’re probably not going to be sufficient to do every job. However, people will line up behind you. They’ll start supporting you, they’ll help, and you’ll learn.
Steve Smith: I’ve remained the same, and I didn’t know who I was. More than anything, this experience has taught me a lot about leadership. No two leaders are the same. They all do it differently.
Over the years, we’ve had, I think, 22 presidents of the Pasadena Pacers. As the founder, I’ve worked with all of them and learned from all of them. Watching these leaders has made me a much more successful businessman. I’ve also been more successful with my family and learned things about myself by watching others.
You should be happy with yourself, but I can also stand to be a little bit more like you. If I were to pick the best traits of each person and have that be a composite, wow, you’d be much better.
As a leader, you get to watch, observe and take the best pieces. Sometimes advice doesn’t equal watching somebody do something and seeing some amazing exchange that makes you think, “Wow, if I were to behave like that, look at what I could do.”
That’s why I think community service is so valuable. You learn from others. You discover pieces of yourself that are underdeveloped, and those pieces can expand and make you a better person.
Copyright © 2026 Charity Matters. This article may not be reproduced without explicit written permission; if you are not reading this in your newsreader, the site you are viewing is illegally infringing our copyright. We would be grateful if you contact us.
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I’m really sad.
It is a feeling that, thankfully, has been at bay for a while. But like so many things in life, sadness eventually finds its way back. A little like a lost dog returning home, except when this one returns home you are not excited to see it.
There is a heaviness that comes with sadness. It makes life feel like you are walking through cement. There is an ache in your chest that hurts so darn badly you just want it to stop.
I know this feeling. My long-lost friend grief has arrived once again.
You really want to believe that once you have lived through loss, the next time won’t be as bad. Somehow, you think you have built up some sort of grief muscle or immunity.
It is a little like that second pregnancy. Miraculously, you forget all of the “discomfort” until suddenly it comes reeling back. Then you remember every bit of it.
I think grief works the same way.
You forget how much it hurts until the floodgates open. Suddenly, all that pain comes rushing back. The truth is, it hurts every single time you say goodbye to someone you love. The bigger the love, the bigger the pain.
That is simply the way it works.

I really thought it would be different this time because we had time. We had time to say all of the things. And I said them. Every last one. We held hands. We talked about life, legacy, love and what comes next. Most importantly, my aunt didn’t suffer.
At 88, after an extraordinary life well lived, she was completely at peace with “going home.” She was ready. In many ways, the peace she had about dying was one final beautiful gift she gave all of us. One day, as we sat together, I asked her, “Do you think you have more friends waiting for you there than you have here?”
Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. With almost childlike wonder, she replied, “I don’t know, but that makes me happy to think about.”
“I think you should think about everyone who will be there to welcome you,” I told her. She squeezed my hand, smiled and closed her eyes. That smile said everything.

Before I left, I had one more request. “Please send me a sign to let me know you are okay and that you got there safely.” Again, she nodded and squeezed my hand.
“Promise me,” I said. “I promise,” she whispered.
This morning, almost a week after she died, I was getting ready for a meeting. I looked up and said, “I haven’t gotten that sign yet, Aunt Sheesh, and it’s almost been a week.” Then something happened.
I reached for a purse on the top shelf of my closet, one I haven’t used in a minute. As I pulled it down, an envelope fell out. There was my aunt’s perfect nun penmanship. My name was written across the front.
It was the birthday card she had given me in June, just days before her diagnosis. Inside she had written: “Look how fun 60’s are. Enjoy the adventure! You are a true treasure of joy, creativity and good.”
Well, she was speedy on the request for a sign. I have to give her that. I asked, and boom. There it was.
Of course, the sign didn’t arrive alone. It came with tears. It brought sadness. It brought that familiar ache. Most of all, it brought my old friend grief right along with it.
Don’t get me wrong. That card was a gift straight from heaven, and I am so grateful. Honestly, I hope there are more signs. The sadness, however, I could do without.
Unfortunately, I know it doesn’t work that way.
Grief is the price we pay for loving someone deeply. Right now, we are trying to plan a celebration for an extraordinary life well lived. At the same time, regular life keeps moving.
Meetings still happen. Emails still arrive. People still need things. Running a nonprofit is tricky enough on a good day. Trying to be high functioning while grieving is an entirely different challenge.
This morning, when that giant wave of grief hit, I worried for a moment that it might take me down. Yet, here I am. Back up. Writing. Working. Trying to process the reality that she is really gone. And realizing that this will be the last birthday card I ever receive from her.
That one really hurts.

I loved my aunt so darn much. She was the yin to my yang. I chat nonstop. She quietly listened. I am a spaz. She was the strong, steady presence who made everyone around her feel calm.
Our personalities could not have been more different. Yet somehow, we always had this connection, an innate understanding of each other that didn’t need words. She got me.
To grow up knowing that at least one human being truly gets you is one of life’s greatest gifts.
More than that, my aunt showed me the way to serve. If I am being totally honest, I have tried to emulate her my entire life. Of course, I skipped the religious life part, but so much of who I am and what I believe about helping others came from watching her.
She never needed attention or applause. She simply showed up and loved people.

My aunt was kindness. She was joy. She was purpose and peace. More than anything, she was love.
A few weeks ago, I asked her what she thought her legacy would be. She smiled, held her two hands together and quietly whispered one word. “Love.”
Of course it was. That was her life.
I truly believe my aunt is home now. I believe she is smiling down, watching over and guiding all of the people she loved. By the way, that is a heck of a lot of people.
She is at peace.
I know the waves of grief will continue to come. Some will be small, while others may knock me down for a minute. Eventually, they will come less often. I know that because I have been here before. Still, knowing that doesn’t make today’s wave hurt any less.
There is a quote often attributed to Dr. Seuss: “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” Today, I understand those words in an entirely new way. I am smiling. I am grateful. I am heartbroken.
And through all of it, I am reminded that this much grief can only exist because there was first this much love. So, for now, I’ll keep smiling through my tears.
Copyright © 2026 Charity Matters. This article may not be reproduced without explicit written permission; if you are not reading this in your newsreader, the site you are viewing is illegally infringing our copyright. We would be grateful if you contact us.
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Most of us think of small businesses as the coffee shop on the corner, the neighborhood contractor, or the family-owned boutique we love to support. Yet behind every small business is a dream, a family, employees who depend on a paycheck, and a community that grows stronger when that business succeeds. What happens when those entrepreneurs have the passion to build something meaningful but don’t have access to the expertise they need to survive? That’s where Jane Veron and The Acceleration Project (TAP) step in. By connecting experienced business leaders with small business owners, Jane has created a remarkable nonprofit that is strengthening local economies one business at a time and proving that a little guidance can create an extraordinary ripple effect.

In this inspiring conversation, Jane shares how a successful corporate career, a decade spent raising her children, and a passion for solving problems led her to build a national movement that has already helped thousands of entrepreneurs thrive. Along the way, she reminds us that we don’t have to have all the answers before we begin, that asking for help is a sign of strength, and that our greatest gifts are meant to be shared. Whether you’re a nonprofit leader, business owner, volunteer, or simply someone looking for more purpose in your own life, Jane’s story is a powerful reminder that when we invest in people, we don’t just change one life…..we strengthen entire communities.

Jane Veron: I built The Acceleration Project (TAP) fourteen years ago. TAP is all about harnessing untapped potential to accelerate growth. We are grounded in building economic independence and wealth for small business owners because they are vital to the fabric of our economy, our communities, and our country.
We provide customized, hands-on support that enables small business owners to grow and flourish. Fortune 500 companies have access to world-class consulting, and I kept asking myself, “Why can’t the businesses on our Main Streets have that too?” So we built a nonprofit that delivers that expertise for free.
We don’t just hand people a strategy deck. We walk beside them. We help them understand their finances, marketing, operations, access to capital, and long-term growth. We are the scaffolding that helps businesses survive and thrive.
Jane Veron: Looking back, I realize I was always wired to solve problems. There is always a lot of discussion about what’s wrong, but fixing problems is much harder. You don’t have to solve everything perfectly—you just have to start making it better.
Even in college, I saw that inner-city children went home after school without supervision. So I worked with the Girl Scouts to create a troop that brought first through sixth graders together. The older girls mentored the younger ones, and we created experiences they otherwise wouldn’t have had.
I’ve always loved mobilizing people. I’d see a problem and immediately want to bring people together to fix it.
Later, I began my career at Bain & Company, helping Fortune 500 companies solve business challenges. Years later, when I saw small businesses struggling, I realized they deserved the same level of strategic support. That became the seed for everything we do today.

Jane Veron: It wasn’t one single moment….it was a series of building blocks.
I had a demanding corporate career, two young children, and was offered a promotion that required me to be physically present five days a week with a long commute. I realized I couldn’t sustain that life, so I took a leave of absence.
When we moved to the suburbs, I couldn’t sit still. There wasn’t a playground for my children, so we built one. Then I became involved in civic leadership, chaired the planning board, and led the League of Women Voters. Every experience taught me how important strong local economies are.
The real turning point came when my oldest daughter was leaving for college. I had spent years preparing her to go out into the world, and I thought, “I’ve spent my life building these skills. It’s time to use them to fix something bigger.”
I began talking with small business owners about what they were experiencing. At the same time, I saw incredibly talented women who had stepped away from careers in consulting, finance, and marketing and couldn’t find meaningful ways back.
Suddenly it all came together. I realized I could solve two problems at once by connecting experienced professionals with small business owners who desperately needed their expertise.

Jane Veron: There were always naysayers. So many people told me this would never work.
In the beginning, we were literally sitting around a kitchen table. Everything was volunteer-driven. When you leave corporate America, you suddenly realize you’re responsible for everything……from opening the bank account to building the website and creating the brand.
I also had to educate our board that being a nonprofit is simply a tax status. It shouldn’t dictate how you operate. Organizations need reserves. They need systems. They need to invest in the future.
Today, one of the biggest challenges is funding. Nonprofits can’t build for the future if they’re constantly surviving on one-year grants. I work hard to secure multi-year funding because our clients depend on us being there tomorrow, not just today.
Jane Veron: I see the difference we make every day. When we help one small business owner, we help everyone connected to that business—the employees, their families, the community, even relatives living abroad who depend on that income. The ripple effect is extraordinary.
The hugs I receive from business owners who tell me, “You saved us,” are unforgettable. Seventy-five percent of our clients come to us without financial clarity. Most only have about one month of cash on hand. One unexpected event can destroy everything they built.
We become their wraparound support. We are there no matter what challenge they face, and that’s what keeps me going.

Jane Veron: You measure success with both numbers and stories. Independent research showed that every dollar invested in TAP creates ten dollars of economic impact. Ninety-two percent of the businesses we serve remain open one year later. Eighty-six percent maintain or grow revenue, and ninety percent maintain or grow jobs.
But beyond the numbers are the people. One business owner we helped was a nurse who started a medical spa because she wanted to bring positivity into people’s lives. When she suddenly lost her building, we helped relocate her business, increase revenue by forty percent, and expand her capacity.
Today her daughter wants to follow in her footsteps. Those are the moments when you realize the impact extends far beyond one business.
Jane Veron: Our goal this year is to serve 4,000 small business owners across America.
We’ve expanded far beyond the stay-at-home moms who first volunteered with us. Today, consultants from Fortune 500 companies, Wall Street firms, entrepreneurs, and business leaders all donate their expertise because they want to use their skills for impact.
Our model works because we don’t simply advise….we walk alongside business owners until they gain confidence and the skills to continue on their own. Watching businesses grow, create jobs, and strengthen local economies is the impact we set out to create.

Jane Veron: Go big or go home. When we first started around my kitchen table with almost no money, I said we were going to become national. People laughed. They aren’t laughing anymore.
My dream is to create TAP for America, just like Teach For America. We already serve businesses across nearly every state, and there is absolutely no reason we can’t reach every community. We simply need more funding so we can continue growing.
Jane Veron: Take the first step. Don’t let perfection keep you from getting started. The business plan we originally wrote looks nothing like what we do today because you learn by doing.
Surround yourself with positive people who challenge you constructively. No one accomplishes anything important alone. Ask for help, and be specific when you ask. People genuinely want to help, but they need to know how.
Service also creates something incredibly powerful…..it builds relationships. When you help others, you form deep connections with people you might never have met otherwise. The more we understand one another and work together, the stronger our communities become.

Jane Veron: I wish I had dreamed even bigger. I was always a rule follower…..a good student who listened to authority. Today I’d tell my younger self, Why not you? You don’t have to know everything before you raise your hand.
I’ve learned that wherever you are, you should contribute. Bring your unique gifts to your community and use them to make a difference. Purpose creates connection, and connection creates joy.
The more we listen to one another, the more we can solve problems together. Service makes that possible, and I truly believe it creates the kind of future we all want to live in.
Copyright © 2026 Charity Matters. This article may not be reproduced without explicit written permission; if you are not reading this in your newsreader, the site you are viewing is illegally infringing our copyright. We would be grateful if you contact us.
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I never went to camp.
According to the American Camp Association, nearly 30 million children in the United States go to camp each year. Somehow, I wasn’t one of them. Life had other plans.
Ironically, I’ve now spent the past thirteen years leading an organization that sends children to camp every summer. While I may have missed out as a kid, I have been given something even better…..the chance to witness thousands of young people discover strengths they never knew they had.
After all these years, I can honestly say that what happens at camp isn’t just fun. It’s transformation.

When I became Executive Director of TACSC in 2013, I wasn’t entirely sure what I had signed up for. Everyone kept telling me stories about lives being changed at our Summer Conference, but I wanted proof. So I did what any curious mom would do. I sent my own son.
He was an incoming seventh grader, and to say he wasn’t thrilled would be an understatement. My son informed me, quite passionately, that he was not going to some “crazy Catholic council camp.” He was supposed to be at surf camp or lacrosse camp. Unfortunately for him, I was the boss, and he became my very reluctant guinea pig.
Today, I still smile thinking about that conversation.
Our Summer Conference welcomes middle school students to live in college dorms for a week. Yes, middle schoolers. For many delegates, it’s the very first time they’ve ever been away from home. That first goodbye can be emotional. Ironically, I’ve noticed it has become much harder for parents than for their children.
Thirteen years ago, families would pull up, unload the luggage, give one last hug, and head out for a long weekend. Today, it’s a different story. Parents linger. We announce it’s time to say goodbye, and someone inevitably asks for “just one more picture.” Then another. And maybe one more after that.
I understand completely. I probably would have done the same thing. Still, there comes a moment when we have to let go.

We love our children deeply. Because we love them, we often do everything for them. I know I did. Without realizing it, however, we sometimes send an unintended message: I don’t think you’re capable.
Camp quietly changes that story. Students wake themselves up. They find their way to breakfast. They make their own beds, solve little problems, manage friendships, and learn how to be responsible without Mom or Dad stepping in every few minutes. Those may seem like small victories. They aren’t.
Each one whispers the same powerful message: You can do this. And confidence grows one small success at a time.

By the second day, something shifts. The homesickness fades. Friendships begin. Laughter gets louder. Students cheer each other on, play ridiculous games, reflect on life, discover their faith, and slowly begin to see themselves differently. By the end of the week, something remarkable happens.
The same students who cried because they didn’t want to stay are suddenly crying because they don’t want to leave. Standing before hundreds of parents at closing ceremonies, they tell us they found confidence. They discovered they are leaders. Most importantly, many say they want to come back one day as counselors so they can give another student the same gift they received.
There is no greater compliment.

My reluctant camper eventually stood on that same stage. I’ll never forget what he said. “I was born the third son, and I thought I was born to follow. I never knew I was a leader until I came to TACSC.” Those words still bring tears to my eyes.
Camp didn’t simply give him a fun week. It changed the way he saw himself. He returned as a counselor. Later, he helped launch the nonprofit Once Upon a Room with his friends. Ever since, he has continued leading and serving others. What began as one very reluctant week became part of the foundation for the man he would become.

This story isn’t really about my son. It’s about thousands of young people. Over the past forty-four years, more than 40,000 students have experienced TACSC programs. While every story is different, the outcome is remarkably similar.
Children discover courage. They build resilience, learn independence and they become leaders. Most importantly, they realize they are capable of far more than they ever imagined.
As adults, we spend so much of life trying to protect our children from discomfort. Yet growth almost always begins on the other side of it. Sometimes the greatest gift we can give a child isn’t another lesson, another activity, or another opportunity. I think that the greatest gift is simply believing they can do hard things and stepping back long enough to let them prove it.

Perhaps that’s the real magic of camp. It isn’t found in the songs, the games, or even the friendships, wonderful as those are. The real magic is discovering that courage grows when confidence is tested, kindness grows in community, and leaders are often born the moment someone believes in them before they believe in themselves. That’s why camp matters.
And after watching thousands of young people walk a little taller at the end of the week than they did at the beginning, I can honestly say it has been one of the greatest privileges of my life.
Copyright © 2026 Charity Matters. This article may not be reproduced without explicit written permission; if you are not reading this in your newsreader, the site you are viewing is illegally infringing our copyright. We would be grateful if you contact us.
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Two years ago, my dear friend and I were doing what we have done for decades…..we were walking. Our walks have always been our therapy. Together, we have walked through raising young children, celebrated life’s biggest moments, cried through heartbreak, solved countless problems, and dreamed about what might come next. Somehow, putting one foot in front of the other always helped us move forward.
During one of those walks, we stopped and laughed. “How can we possibly be only two years away from turning sixty?” Where had the time gone? That simple question led to another. How should we celebrate this milestone? Without much hesitation, one of us suggested walking the Camino de Santiago. Within minutes, we had the beginning of a plan.

Over the next two years, we spent hours learning about the Camino. I joined Facebook groups, talked with friends who had already made the journey, and read everything I could find. Along the way, I discovered that more than 500,000 pilgrims travel to Santiago de Compostela each year to visit the tomb of the Apostle James.
One piece of advice came up again and again. “Don’t compare your Camino to anyone else’s. Every journey is unique.” Those words stayed with me.
With more than 400 different routes through France, Spain, Portugal, and Italy, every pilgrim truly does have a different experience. We chose the Portuguese Coastal Route from Porto because it covered the required 100 kilometers, or about 65 miles. While many people dream of the famous French Route that stretches nearly 500 miles over five weeks, this route felt right for us. Looking back, it was exactly the right choice.

In late February, I had an accident and tore my calf. Suddenly, walking disappeared from my life. For weeks, I wondered if our dream trip would even happen. Then I slowly began physical therapy and finally started walking again on May 1, only thirty days before leaving for Portugal. Before our trip, the longest walk I managed was just three miles. Needless to say, I had doubts. Could I really walk sixty-five miles? Even so, I never considered canceling.
What began as two friends celebrating a birthday soon became seven women walking together. Three came from Los Angeles and four came from New Jersey. We were all Catholic, and several of us were celebrating our sixtieth birthdays. Many pilgrims begin the Camino carrying grief, loss, or heavy burdens. They hope the journey will bring healing. That wasn’t my Camino.
Instead, my hardest journey had already happened. The months of pain, uncertainty, and recovery came before Portugal. By the time I arrived, I wasn’t searching for answers. Rather, I felt grateful for a blank slate. My only goal was to be open to whatever God wanted to show me. That alone felt like a gift.

Our first morning of the Camino happened to be the Feast of Corpus Christi. As we stepped onto the streets of Portugal, church bells rang across the city. Mass played through loudspeakers while schoolchildren sang in Portuguese. Meanwhile, beautiful flower petals covered the streets for the procession.
It felt as if God was sending us on our way with a blessing. Of course, the magic quickly met reality. My longest training walk had been three miles. Our first Camino day covered nine. Fortunately, my friends became my biggest cheerleaders. They slowed down when I needed them to, celebrated every mile, and never once made me feel like I was holding anyone back.
Each evening followed a familiar routine. First, I searched for ice, which was surprisingly difficult to find in Portugal and Spain. Next, I elevated my leg and rested before another day on the trail. Thankfully, pain never became the center of the story. Instead, every evening ended with laughter, wonderful dinners, and conversations with people from everywhere.

Every day brought new scenery. Sometimes we walked beside the Atlantic Ocean. Other times we wandered through forests, vineyards, tiny villages, and quiet farms. Before long, we would arrive in charming beach towns where fresh bread, seafood, and paella reminded us to slow down and enjoy the moment.
However, the greatest gift wasn’t the scenery. It was the walking itself. Walking gave me time to think. Soon, I noticed things I normally rushed past. Most importantly, I found time to simply be. Along the route, we stopped in small churches that had welcomed pilgrims for hundreds of years. Inside each one, I lit a candle, sat quietly, and prayed.
While we were away, I learned that my beloved aunt, a Holy Child Sister, had become seriously ill. Because of that news, every church became another chance to place her in God’s hands. Each prayer brought a little more peace. At the same time, I felt my mom’s presence in a way I hadn’t expected. She has been gone for more than twenty years, yet I knew she was walking beside me. Although I cannot explain it, I never questioned it either.
Day Four tested me. Thirteen miles stretched before us, and my calf reminded me of every step. I remember thinking, What have I done? Can I really do this for four more days? Then something beautiful happened. My friends stayed beside me. No one rushed ahead. No one complained. Instead, they walked with me.
In that moment, I realized the Camino was never about how fast we walked. It was about never having to walk alone. After that day, everything felt different. The finish line finally seemed possible.

We arrived in Santiago around four o’clock in the afternoon. After taking pictures and cleaning up, we returned to the cathedral for the Pilgrim Mass. We arrived an hour early. I’m so glad we did. Pilgrims from every corner of the world filled the church. Different languages echoed through the cathedral. Different stories had brought people there. Yet we were united by one shared journey.
The joy was impossible to miss. The gratitude filled the room. Most of all, God’s presence surrounded us. People often ask what I learned from my Camino. My answer is simple. It wasn’t the destination. It was the journey. More importantly, it was who I shared that journey with. Friendship carried me. My faith strengthened me. The encouragement of others kept me moving. Along the way, God’s grace met me every single day.
Life isn’t much different.
Every one of us is walking our own Camino. Some people carry grief. Others carry hope. Many carry both. We rarely know what someone beside us is carrying. However, we can always choose to walk with them. After all, that may be the greatest lesson of all.
We are all walking one another home.
This piece was originally written and published for The Angelus Magazine.
Copyright © 2026 Charity Matters. This article may not be reproduced without explicit written permission; if you are not reading this in your newsreader, the site you are viewing is illegally infringing our copyright. We would be grateful if you contact us.
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Fifteen. How did that happen?
It feels like only yesterday you were a tiny spark of an idea. Now, somehow, you are a teenager. Like every parent, I find myself wondering where the time went while marveling at how much you’ve grown….Charity Matters.
When a child is born, we quietly write a script for their life. We dream about who they will become. As we cradle that newborn, we see training wheels, the first day of kindergarten, middle school graduation, driver’s licenses, prom, college, careers, and families. In our minds, the story unfolds before the first chapter is even written.
Then we do something a little crazy.
We tuck that script away. We don’t share it with anyone not our spouse, not our child, sometimes not even ourselves. Instead, we simply hope life follows the plan. I can’t explain why parents do this, but I know I wasn’t the only one.

Sooner or later, the script begins to unravel. Maybe the baby doesn’t crawl “on time.” Perhaps a milestone comes later than expected. Suddenly, panic sets in because something has gone off script.
Susie doesn’t love piano, even though we were sure she would become a concert pianist. Joey quits baseball, and somehow our entire future seems to collapse with his Little League uniform.
Looking back after raising three incredible sons, I finally realized something important. Each one arrived with a script of his own. Eventually, they handed me a copy, smiled, and essentially said, “Buckle up, Mom.”
Thankfully, I listened. So when this fourth child entered my life (Charity Matters) I decided to do something different. I would try and let the story unfold.

Fifteen years ago, the only vision I had was to find people who started nonprofits and tell their stories. Remember, Google wasn’t what it is today. Finding those remarkable people wasn’t easy, and neither was learning how to build a website or start a blog.
Those few simple ideas were the only pages I had written. Everything else came one small step at a time.
First came a logo. Then a brand built around the simple belief that helping others matters. After that came the first website, a first post, then another. A Facebook page followed, and eventually social media, newsletters, interviews, and countless new adventures.
Like a toddler taking uncertain first steps, Charity Matters kept growing. Meanwhile, every New Year’s Day, my old habits would return. I’d make plans, create goals, promise growth, and try to control the future. Thankfully, this child had other ideas.

You see, Charity Matters has always been much more than a blog. You are my diary, my creative outlet, my classroom, and the place where I get to imagine the kind of world I hope we can create together.
That’s a lot of pressure for a fifteen-year-old. Yet, just like my children, you carved out your own path.
Because of you, I’ve met extraordinary people. Better yet, many of those remarkable nonprofit founders have become real friends. They have filled my life with joy, purpose, compassion, and hope. None of that was in my script.
Did I ever imagine you would become a podcast? Not for a second. Honestly, I didn’t even know what a podcast was. Then one day, there it was.
Not only did Charity Matters become a podcast, but it grew into one of the top-rated nonprofit podcasts in it’s category the country. Watching that happen felt like sitting in the stands as your child scored the winning touchdown. No one was more surprised, more grateful, or more proud than I was.
Once again, life reminded me that the best moments almost always happen off script.

Along the way came a monthly column for FORCE Magazine. Then came a bestselling book, Change for Good, on Amazon.
After that arrived opportunities to speak on stages, interview hundreds of nonprofit founders, and build a community of people who believe kindness, generosity, and service truly can change the world. Those accomplishments are wonderful and still a bit of a mystery. However, they aren’t the greatest gifts.
The greatest gifts have been learning how love grows through service. They have shown me that compassion is contagious. Most importantly, they have revealed that a life lived for others becomes a life filled with purpose.
Those are the treasures Charity Matters has given me and, I hope, all of us.

As we celebrate fifteen incredible years, part of me still wants to pull out that old script. I could fill its pages with dreams of creating a Substack, speaking on more stages, writing more books, and finding even more ways to spread the message of kindness and service.
Then I remember the greatest lesson this remarkable child has taught me. Put the script away. Trust the journey. Enjoy the ride. Allow the magic of life and the power of giving to unfold exactly as it’s meant to.
I could not be more proud of this fourth child or more grateful for all the good Charity Matters has brought into the world over the past fifteen years. The truth is, I have no idea where this journey will lead next. And for the first time, I wouldn’t want to know.
Thank you for walking alongside me. Thank you for reading, listening, encouraging, and believing that small acts of kindness really do matter. You have helped raise this child every step of the way.
Happy 15th Birthday, Charity Matters.
Because after fifteen years, Charity Matters has taught me that the best stories are never the ones we write they’re the ones we have the courage to live.
Copyright © 2026 Charity Matters. This article may not be reproduced without explicit written permission; if you are not reading this in your newsreader, the site you are viewing is illegally infringing our copyright. We would be grateful if you contact us.
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My aunt is dying.
Then again, I suppose we all are, depending on your perspective. The difference is that my Aunt Sheila knows her time is short. She has Stage 4 liver cancer, and the doctors have told her she has only a few months left. The news has settled over our family like a heavy blanket. Each of us is trying to make sense of it in our own way. Most of all, she is.
Death has always arrived suddenly in my family. My grandfather was gone in an instant. So was my mom. There were no long conversations. No final questions. No chance to say everything that was left unsaid.
This time is different.
As heartbreaking as it is, there is also an unexpected gift. We have time. Time to say thank you. Time to laugh. Time to remember. Most importantly, time to tell someone what they have meant to your life while they can still hear the words.
There really is more than words can say….I will try.

I knew my Aunt Sheila was super special when I was five years old. On my very first day of kindergarten, she walked into my classroom wearing her Holy Child habit. Instantly, every child stood, bowed or curtsied, and together they said, “Good morning, Sister Sheila.”
I remember thinking, Wait…everyone knows my aunt? She wasn’t like anyone else’s aunt. Although she is a Holy Child Sister, that isn’t what makes her extraordinary. Plenty of women become nuns. Very few become Aunt Sheila.
She is the fourth of seven children, right in the middle, and she has always been filled with energy, joy, and a smile that could brighten any room. She has always loved sports, especially tennis, and later, as my school principal, she could often be found outside shooting baskets with the boys instead of sitting behind a desk.
People have always mattered more to her than titles.

The Holy Child motto is simple: “Actions, not words.” No one has lived those words more completely.
After becoming a school principal before the age of thirty, Aunt Sheila left everything familiar to become a missionary in Nigeria. She fell in love with Africa and never wanted to leave. Malaria eventually forced her home, but not before the people there had forever changed her heart.
Later, as a psychologist at St. Luke’s Institute in Washington, D.C., she found herself walking beside clergy and victims during one of the darkest chapters in the Catholic Church. She saw unimaginable pain. She carried stories that most of us could never bear. I still remember the day she accepted a position helping survivors of clergy abuse.
With tears streaming down her face, she looked at me and asked, “How will I be the keeper of such pain?” Only someone whose heart was built for healing would even ask that question. She never sought recognition for that work. She simply showed up, listened, prayed, and loved. Thousands of people found healing because she chose compassion over comfort.

I have never heard my aunt raise her voice. She almost whispers. Yet somehow everyone leans in to listen.
She has a remarkable gift that feels almost impossible today. She is completely present. When you speak, she isn’t thinking about what she will say next. She simply listens. Then she pauses. She reflects. Finally, she offers a few thoughtful words that somehow become exactly what you needed.
After my mom died, Aunt Sheila quietly stepped into our lives in ways neither of us ever discussed. She became another grandmother to my boys. She celebrated birthdays, attended school events, and simply showed up. One afternoon I came home upset over some ridiculous mom drama at preschool.
She listened patiently before softly saying, “Heidi, people who are hurting, hurt.” That was it. One sentence. One lesson I have carried for decades.

Watching Aunt Sheila live has taught me far more than listening to anyone preach. She knows exactly what matters. Faith. Family. Friends. Everything else waits its turn.
If someone is suffering, she is there. Not just for the first visit, but for the next one…and the one after that. Sometimes her care lasts twenty years. She has met Popes. She has appeared on Oprah. She has led schools, hospitals, ministries, and organizations. She has also cleaned bathrooms, washed dishes, and quietly done countless unseen acts of kindness.
To her, none of those accomplishments carry much weight. Serving people does. That is her life’s work. That is her joy.

Today, cards arrive every single day. Scholarships are being created in her honor. Buildings bear her name. People from every season of her life are writing to tell her how she changed theirs. While she appreciates every note, she isn’t interested in the recognition. What fills her with joy is hearing that someone is helping another person.
That matters. Love in action has always mattered.
The other day I asked her, “Aunt Sheila, I know what I think your legacy is. What do you think it is?” She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked at me with those beautiful blue eyes, lifted her hands, and formed the shape of a heart.
“Love.” Just one word. No long speech. No list of accomplishments. No résumé. Simply love.
As I watch someone I deeply love prepare to leave this world, I realize she is giving us one final gift. She is still teaching us. Not how to die. How to live. Perhaps that has been her lesson all along.
A life isn’t measured by titles, awards, or recognition. Instead, it is measured by the people we love, the burdens we help carry, and the kindness we leave behind. If that is true, then Aunt Sheila has lived one of the most beautiful lives I have ever known.
What a blessing to tell her that while she is still here to hear it.
Copyright © 2026 Charity Matters. This article may not be reproduced without explicit written permission; if you are not reading this in your newsreader, the site you are viewing is illegally infringing our copyright. We would be grateful if you contact us.
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Sometimes the experiences that shape us begin long before we understand their meaning. For Julie Coyne, that journey started at just two years old when polio paralyzed her from the neck down. Her parents were only 21 years old, and the March of Dimes helped pay Julie’s medical bills. Decades later, Julie can clearly connect the dots between receiving help and becoming a helper. After a successful 45-year career, she also discovered that success and passion are not always the same. Her passion is helping children and making sure that where a child is born does not determine where that child is going.

Today, Julie leads the Southeast Community Foundation and helps children build critical math and reading skills. However, her work goes far beyond academics. As Julie says, “We’re changing futures, not just test scores.” Her students run to tutoring, raise their hands in class, and slowly begin to believe in themselves. Through this work, Julie has learned the power of truly seeing another person. Her story reminds us that changing a life does not always require a grand gesture. Instead, it can begin with one child, one book, or one person simply saying, “I see you.”
Julie Coyne: Southeast Community Foundation is a nonprofit 501(c)(3) located in Los Angeles, and we focus on the Southeast community. Our mission is to work with underserved children and help them get the academic skills they need to move forward in life.
We focus on math and English and partner with local communities and LA Unified. The teachers assign us students who are falling behind, and we work with them one-on-one and in very small groups to get their skill set up. What we have is something very special. It’s almost a boutique way of educating these kids because I feel strongly that they have to have quality tutoring. It’s not just putting 15 kids in a room. It’s one-to-one and small group interaction.
We’re changing futures, not just test scores. It’s where they’re going in the future. When you feel good about yourself and you have self-respect, it changes everything.

Julie Coyne: I have an unusual circumstance. I first found out about nonprofits when I was two years old and I had polio. My parents were 21 years old, and I was paralyzed from the neck down. If it had not been for the March of Dimes, my bills would not have been paid, and I would not be sitting here now.
Most people don’t know I had polio, and there are not very many people like us left, but I learned about nonprofits very quickly. My mother always served and did things in schools. I am also 100% publicly educated, all through my graduate degree in the state of California.
I got involved with the startup of Leadership America, a national organization to develop women leaders. I was one of the founding people for Women in Philanthropy at UCLA, an organization to teach women of means how to feel comfortable donating to causes they have passion for. I was on the board of the American Diabetes Association in Los Angeles and served as Chair of the Board of Trustees for Ultimate Health Organization.
Through all of those experiences, I realized that my focus was going to be underserved children in either education or health.
Julie Coyne: There were many small moments, but one moment became very clear. I started a business with other partners 35 years ago in an underserved community. As a result, I got to know that community well. Then, around 2011, the Los Angeles Times ran a front-page article comparing that community to Manhattan Beach.
The article compared education, income, and health. Manhattan Beach ranked near the top in income and education. Meanwhile, my community ranked near the bottom. Imagine being a child and seeing that story on the front page. Kids came up to me and said, “We’re the fattest, stupidest, poorest kids in the state of California.”
I was devastated. I felt I had to do something.
First, I created a scholarship program. We sent 49 kids to colleges such as MIT, UCLA, and Berkeley. They graduated, but I learned something important. Even our top students weren’t academically ready for college. These students had 4.4 grade point averages, yet they struggled with English scores on the SAT. Consequently, getting them through college took a tremendous amount of work.
I finally realized we needed to address the problem much earlier. Southeast Community Foundation grew from that lesson. Since 2015, teachers have sent us students who are falling behind. We work with those children to build the skills they need to move forward.

Julie Coyne: The biggest challenge is funding. Children do not pay for our tutoring. Although we partner with LA Unified and other districts, that funding does not cover the cost of quality tutoring. Our program focuses on one-on-one and small group support. Therefore, providing this level of education costs money.
We go directly to the community for help. That’s why we’re a community foundation. This isn’t my foundation. I want the community to own this work and feel the joy of helping its children move forward. Still, funding stays on my mind. I wake up thinking, “How can I get the word out? How can I help people feel connected to this work?”
People are generous and want to help. Yet, many also wonder if an organization is real. We are real, and what we do matters.
Julie Coyne: I’m doing something I love. I spent 45 or 50 years working, and I was good at what I did. However, being good at something doesn’t mean you love it or feel passionate about it.
Now, I see a child’s face when they finally start reading. I watch a student learn how to solve a math problem and see the light in their eyes. These kids run to our tutoring sessions. They aren’t dragged. I’ve watched children run off a bus because they thought they might be late for tutoring.
That happiness gives me joy. I know I’m doing something I love and something that makes a difference. Teachers constantly tell us how we’re helping their students. Parents are grateful too.
However, the truth is that I’m the grateful one. I’m grateful for the opportunity to make a difference in so many children’s lives.

Julie Coyne: I know when a child finally reads or solves a math problem. You see the light in their eyes. Sometimes, children run to tutoring because they don’t want to be late. Later, those same students begin raising their hands in the classroom.
Our tutors come from the children’s communities. They speak their language, and the students can imagine becoming like them. Because of that connection, trust grows. Children also begin to understand that teachers aren’t scary. They learn that teachers want to help them.
Watching a child finally raise a hand in class is fabulous. Let them see that you see them. That’s a big thing. Children want to be seen. See them.
Julie Coyne: You have to look at both the numbers and the feelings. We have tutored hundreds of children and provided thousands of tutoring hours. In addition, our students show dramatic improvement. We see improvement levels in the 85% to 89% range.
However, I also measure success through teachers, parents, and students. We never leave these relationships. For example, one of my former scholarship students now serves on my board. She earned her master’s degree in public administration and works in civil service. Now, she’s giving back and believes in what we do.
The scores matter because they help us receive grants and reach more students. Still, our work is about something much bigger. We’re changing futures, not just test scores.

Julie Coyne: First, I want to keep the quality very high. I don’t want to deliver something that doesn’t benefit these children.
The big dream is to create a model. We want to reach 1,000 students in Southeast Los Angeles. Then, we want to take this model into other underserved communities. I started in Southeast Los Angeles because I knew the community. However, I also want to reach South Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley.
My vision is local people helping their own communities. I call these locations hubs. Each hub could help about 1,000 students. Local teachers become immediate role models. They speak like the students and understand their communities. Therefore, children can imagine themselves becoming like their teachers. Trust grows, and strong bonds form.
That’s the dream. We want to bring this model to underserved communities throughout Los Angeles while keeping the quality of our work high.
Julie Coyne: One lesson is patience, which I have none of. This journey has forced me to become more patient, even when I don’t want to be.
More importantly, I’ve had the privilege of seeing life through other people’s eyes. I’ve been in families’ homes and attended many college graduations. As a result, I’ve seen life from a different perspective. You become humble.
I recognize the advantages many of us have had. At the same time, I see how hard other people work and how many obstacles they face. I have great admiration for them. I’ve also learned that people don’t always value their own skills. Someone may know how to use a computer, tell a story, entertain people, plan a party, or create something beautiful.
Nonprofits need all of those skills. You don’t have to give 100% of your time. Instead, get involved in a small way. Don’t be shy. The gift is being able to start something and then give it away. You give it away so it can continue to grow. That’s a hard lesson to learn.

Julie Coyne: It has definitely changed me. I’m much happier. I encourage people to figure out what they are passionate about because most of us aren’t lucky enough to work at our passion.
When I realized how much children, education, and health mattered to me, it lit a fire in me. I’ve become more patient and humble. In addition, I’ve had the privilege of seeing life through other people’s eyes. The truth is that I’m the grateful one.
I also believe in giving children books. A small book doesn’t cost much, but it can become something precious. Give children some joy. Talk to them about the world, the sky, the ground, growing, and what’s out there. Most importantly, let them see that you see them. They want to be seen.
See them.
Copyright © 2026 Charity Matters. This article may not be reproduced without explicit written permission; if you are not reading this in your newsreader, the site you are viewing is illegally infringing our copyright. We would be grateful if you contact us.
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We really are babies.
A few weeks ago, I was walking through Portugal and Spain, surrounded by history that stretches back hundreds and even thousands of years. In Lisbon, I learned about the devastating earthquake and tsunami that leveled the city in 1755. As I listened to stories of destruction and rebuilding, one thought kept coming to mind: all of this happened before America was even born.
Our nation is only 250 years old. By comparison, we are still in our infancy….a mere babie to many parts of the world.

My mom’s family came over on the Mayflower, and she loved being a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. She was proud of our family’s lineage and often talked about the history and struggles that her ancestors endured to come to this country.
Her pride was never really about genealogy. Instead, it was rooted in courage, sacrifice, and the determination of people who left everything they knew in the hope of building something better.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this is our shared story as Americans. Every one of us came from somewhere. Whether our families arrived on the Mayflower, crossed an ocean generations later, came through Ellis Island, (like my husband’s grandfather) journeyed from neighboring countries, or arrived only recently, we all share a common thread.
A mother or father made a difficult choice. A family sacrificed for the next generation. Somewhere along the way, someone held onto hope despite uncertainty. Today we call it resilience. In the late 1700s, it was simply survival.

There is much discussion these days about cellular memory and whether we carry the experiences of our ancestors in our genes. I am certainly no scientist. However, I do believe there is something uniquely American that has been passed down from generation to generation.
Part of our national character is toughness. Another piece is our willingness to work hard. Add a little grit and an unwillingness to accept “no,” and you have something that feels distinctly American.
Maybe that spirit comes from generations of people who had to adapt, rebuild, persevere, and begin again.
After all, this country was built by people who believed tomorrow could be better than today. They worked the land, started businesses, raised families, fought wars, and built communities. Through every challenge, Americans somehow found ways to keep moving forward. That determination still lives within us. I love that about being American.

People around the world may see us as less refined or even a little rude. Yet I think they sometimes misunderstand us. Americans simply expect things to get done.
When we see a problem, we look for solutions. Faced with obstacles, we usually ask, “How can we make this work?” Presented with an impossible idea, many of us instinctively wonder if it might actually be possible.
That attitude has shaped our nation and, in many ways, the world. We have become known for our creativity, our entrepreneurial spirit, our willingness to innovate, and our belief that impossible things can become reality.
This is the country that put a man on the moon. It is also the nation that created countless inventions, built extraordinary businesses, and inspired movements that changed lives around the globe. Of course, we don’t always get it right. No family does, and no country does either. Nevertheless, we keep trying, learning, and moving forward.
That, too, is part of our story.

This Fourth of July is about more than fireworks, barbecues, and birthday cake. It is an opportunity to pause and celebrate what we have built together over these last 250 years. Even more important, it is a chance to remember who we are.
At our core, we are descendants of dreamers and doers. Behind us stand generations of people who sacrificed tremendously. Ahead of us lies endless possibility if we are willing to work together. Perhaps the most exciting part is that we are still young.
At 250 years old, America is just getting started.
The next chapter of our story is still being written, and it belongs to all of us. Therefore, our task is to keep coming together, remember where we came from, and decide where we want to go.
If our first 250 years have taught us anything, it is this: Americans are resilient. We are builders, problem-solvers, and people who believe tomorrow can be better than today. Most of all, when we come together with a common purpose, there is very little we cannot accomplish.
After all, if we can put a man on the moon, imagine what we can do next?
Happy 250th Birthday, America. The best is yet to come.
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