I enjoy a bit of spring cleaning. Yes—I’m that person. I find real satisfaction in paring down my possessions and keeping only the things I need, or that truly matter to me.
This past weekend, I pulled everything out of my bedroom closet and piled it onto the bed: shoes I hadn’t worn in over a year, a box of books I’d been meaning to sort through but never quite got to, and clothes that no longer fit who I am today, even though there was nothing technically wrong with them.
It took the better part of a Saturday afternoon. All that sorting and discarding forced me to reflect on how my life has changed over the past year, and it pushed me to stop carrying things I didn’t actually need, so I could clearly identify what I did need.
I think many executive directors I know would recognize that feeling.
Not about their closets. About their organizations.
The executive directors I work with know their organizations deeply. They understand their communities, clients, staff, and challenges in ways no funder or consultant ever fully will. But over time, the weight of added responsibilities and competing stakeholder priorities can make it difficult to see what is truly essential, or what still holds meaning and value.
Programs that made sense three years ago may drift from the core mission. Data collection systems may measure what’s easy to track rather than what reflects how the community would define success. Processes continue simply because they’ve always existed. Initiatives that once mattered deeply may still carry emotional weight, but no longer produce the impact they were designed to achieve.
This happens when you’re working too hard and too fast to stop and ask the question: Is this still essential?
And here’s where it connects to grants.
When you sit down to write a funding proposal without having done this kind of pruning, it shows. The narrative gets crowded. Outcomes feel scattered. Focus blurs as you try to represent everything at once.
Funders are looking for a clear narrative about what you do, who it’s for, and how you know it’s working. Ideally, that clarity reflects how your community would measure its own progress, not just how a funder’s reporting template was designed to collect information.
When you slow down enough to look honestly at your programs, ask yourself: Do they truly reflect the community you serve and what its members say they need? Do your outcomes and data collection practices genuinely capture your impact?
Beneath the busyness of budgets, deadlines, and board meetings lies what is truly meaningful: your mission. The “why” that drew you to this work in the first place. A population you care about deeply. A change you genuinely believe is possible in your community.
That “why” is your most powerful grant‑writing tool.
Not your logic model. Not your budget narrative. Your why.
When you’ve done the work of paring down, when you know what’s essential and why it matters, you stop writing grants that sound like everyone else’s. You start writing grants that clearly and concisely convey what you do, why you do it, who you serve, and the impact you create.
Before your next grant application, try a quick organizational spring cleaning. Look at what you’re currently measuring and ask whether it reflects the real needs of your community. Consider whether it captures success the way they would define it, not just the way a funder’s form was designed to collect it.
Then take an honest look at your programs and initiatives. What is still essential? What has drifted? What are you continuing to do out of habit rather than impact?
You might be surprised by the clarity this creates, and by how much stronger your next grant narrative becomes when it comes from a values‑driven, honest place.
That’s where great grant writing starts.
Not with a blank page. With a clear closet.
Thank you for the work you do!
Warmly,
Laura