By Dāna James, feedback & connection coach, engagement strategist for people-powered projects and Naseem Kapdi, a compassionate, introverted career coach who specializes in working with immigrants, first- and second-generation BIPOC, and early-career professionals navigating professional transitions

The Fairy Tale

2018: A Spark in the Air

Once upon a time—not in a castle, but in a fogged-up café tucked away in Seattle—nine fundraisers gathered around a wobbly table, laughter too loud for the space, mugs clinking instead of glasses.

This wasn’t the first time they’d met like this. But that night, something was different. They were worn down, fired up, and tangled in a nonprofit system that claimed to be about liberation but still asked them to twist themselves into shapes that pleased power.

Someone’s latte had gone cold mid-rant. The air was thick with truth-telling—strong as Vietnamese coffee, warm as jasmine tea.

There wasn’t an agenda—just tired hearts, well-worn jokes, and the kind of sighs you only let out when you’re finally with people who get it.

They were tired.

Tired of the whispers in the boardroom that said, “Let’s center the donors,” while pushing their communities to the margins. Tired of showing up to jobs that claimed to be about justice, only to find themselves toeing the line of the status quo.

“Why are we lifting up donors as heroes, while acting like people need saving?”

These weren’t just fundraising problems. These were systemic problems—centuries-old, colonizer-made, class-stacked, white-supremacy-enabled problems.

The café was quiet for a beat—until a shimmer flickered by the window. A golden-winged butterfly slipped through the crack in the glass and landed gently on the rim of a chipped mug. Some say that’s when the universe leaned in to listen. The butterfly’s wings beat softly in the light, like a whisper in the wind.

They knew they had many more conversations ahead of them, but they made a promise to listen, reflect, and keep the conversation going.

The First Butterfly

Later that night, in a quiet kitchen lit by a single bulb, one fundraiser rinsed mugs as she replayed the evening’s conversation.

A soft flutter brushed past. A golden butterfly landed on the edge of the dish rack. It didn’t speak in words—but its presence thrummed with something clear, undeniable.

It felt like a birth—not of something new for novelty’s sake, but of something ancient being born again, fully seen and fully named.

The butterfly vanished. But the air was changed. The kitchen smelled different—like cinnamon and clarity.

The Second Butterfly

The next butterfly arrived in a kitchen full of bubbling stew and the rhythmic sound of a knife on a cutting board as one of our fundraisers prepared dinner for their family.

A radio hummed softly with an old love song.

They laughed while flipping through a family recipe book—half sauce, half memory.

The butterfly hovered gently, then settled near a worn photo on the fridge.

In the picture, a teenager in a graduation cap stood surrounded by neighbors—some holding trays of food, others wrapped in jackets and joy.

The card table was sagging under the weight of the dishes.

There hadn’t been enough money for a party at first, but the block came together: someone made tamales, someone else printed invitations, and an elder passed around an envelope with “Congrats” written in careful cursive.

These weren’t rules. They were ancestral recipes. Gifts. Seeds.

Taking in a full, deep breath they opened their notebook and nodded. Something was being birthed—a deeper kind of alignment.

They knew they weren’t alone.

The Third Butterfly

This kitchen was small but vibrant—steam on the windows, a table cluttered with sticky notes, a baby monitor blinking on the counter.

One of our fundraisers sat with her head in her hands, laptop open to another long donor appeal that felt like a lie.

The butterfly didn’t flutter in loudly. It slipped in through the drafty window and landed on the keyboard.

Outside there was the sound of community at work, a neighbor’s pipes had burst from the cold. No one asked who would pay. People just showed up.

One brought towels. Another ran to the hardware store.

A teenager carried buckets barefoot. A retired teacher offered cocoa and a flashlight.

Many came with hands empty, ready and willing to help share the weight of labor.

It wasn’t charity. It was kinship.

A reminder that time, care, and effort are currencies, too.

Something transformative was being born in that exchange.

The fundraiser breathed deep—then deleted the appeal draft and started over.

This time, it felt honest. It felt like they were fostering something rooted—not performative.

The beginnings of a new kind of truth-telling.

The Fourth Butterfly

The final butterfly arrived in a kitchen where the light never quite reached the corners—but the love did.

Another of our fundraisers hummed as he folded laundry beside a simmering pot of tea. Papers rustled on the counter—reflections from a healing circle the night before.

The butterfly appeared, resting for a moment on a still-warm mug. The air thickened. Not heavy—just sacred.

This wasn’t about doing more. It was about becoming more whole.

It was about fostering liberation—not just funding programs. About giving birth to ecosystems of trust, where we are not just surviving.

Not extracting. Not competing.

Becoming.

Our fundraisers weren’t confused. They had a spark.

They saw how their aunties organized rent parties.

How their immigrant neighbors ran mutual aid before it had a hashtag.

How their ancestors braided resistance into every thread of survival.

They said: “Let’s write a new story. A fundraising story where community comes first. Where equity isn’t an afterthought—it’s the main character.”

2020: A Fire Gathers

This vision didn’t come out of nowhere. It rose in the wake of deep grief.

The murder of George Floyd.

A surge in anti-Asian and anti-immigrant hate. ICE raids.

A pandemic that cracked open every quiet inequity and laid it bare.

The butterflies didn’t flinch. They had seen pain before, carried it through each life cycle.

The fundraisers gathered again, this time in digital rooms that pulsed with urgency and care.

They spoke across time zones, across dinner prep and bedtime routines.

They weren’t starting something new.

They were giving birth to something that had long been gestating in silence—something fierce, tender, and necessary.

They were not certain of much, but they were certain of one thing. That they would do it together.

The Founding Council and the larger community began to put into words the collective wisdom they had carried all along—truths once felt as whispers in the wind, now ready to be named.

The Ten Principles: A Living Compass

From butterfly wings and kitchen truths came ten principles. Not commandments. Not corporate values. But a living compass to help fundraisers, nonprofits, and communities navigate toward justice and joy:

1. Fundraising must be grounded in race, equity, and social justice.
2. Individual organizational missions are not as important as the collective community.
3. Nonprofits are generous with and mutually supportive of one another.
4. All who engage in strengthening the community are equally valued, whether volunteer, staff, donor, or board member.
5. Time is valued equally as money.
6. We treat donors as partners, and this means that we are transparent, and occasionally have difficult conversations.
7. We foster a sense of belonging, not othering.
8. We recognize that healing and liberation require a commitment to economic justice.
9. Everyone (donors, staff, funders, board members, volunteers) personally benefits from engaging in the work of social justice – it’s not just charity and compassion.
10. The work of social justice is holistic and transformative, not transactional.

The Spark Catches

The principles went live on a brand-new website.

And let us tell you—the people were ready.

At the first virtual town hall, 2,800 people showed up. Not one, not two—three websites crashed. It was a beautiful mess of momentum.

The CCF Blog, affectionately dubbed “The Hub,” became the cozy-chaotic kitchen table where fundraisers could swap stories, share visions, and spit truths.

They found a fiscal sponsor, raised seed funds, and kept the admin light.

Because the goal wasn’t permanence—it was birthing transformation, not building an empire.

But Movements are Messy

Now honey, every fairytale has a plot twist. And this one? Conflict.

There were communication breakdowns. Burnout. Deep questions about power.

Times when silence hurt more than disagreement. When transparency faltered. When labor wasn’t shared.

But here’s the thing: they didn’t pretend it was perfect.

They said: “Avoiding conflict doesn’t keep us safe. Justice does.” So they stayed at the table. Repaired what they could.

And when it was time, the Founding Council didn’t clutch the mic. They handed over the stage.

And What Did We Learn?

This isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a living, breathing story made of spreadsheets, side-eyes, solidarity, and stubborn hope.

Here’s what we know now:

• Naming systemic and cultural injustice isn’t a sidebar—it’s the story.
• Collective power grows from community, not control.
• Movements need care, agility, and shared labor—not just charisma and logos.
• Transformation doesn’t wear tuxedos. It wears love, sweat, glitter, and grief.

These ten principles? They’re not commandments.

They’re a compass. They’re kitchen-table spells.

And they’re fostering something bold and beautiful.

The Kettle’s Still Warm

So, this is the part where the narrator pauses and looks directly at you.

Not to say “The End.”

But to ask: What kind of magic will you make now?

The butterflies are still flying.

The kettle’s still warm.

Dust off your teacup.

Pull up a chair.

We’re just getting started.