“We are called to remember and renew the generosity of spirit that has always been one of our most powerful national traits.”
THE DESERET 50
THE 50 PEOPLE, ORGANIZATIONS AND IDEAS CHANGING HOW WE THINK ABOUT GIVING.
by jesse hyde
CENTER STAGE
THE BULWARK WRESTLES WITH “CONSERVATISM” IN A TIME OF SCRAMBLED POLITICAL IDENTITIES. by mariya
manzhos
“It’s not
We’re
Shah is president of The Rockefeller Foundation, a former administrator of the U.S. Agency for International Development and served in the U.S. Department of Agriculture, where he created the National Institute for Food and Agriculture. The author of “Big Bets: How Large-Scale Change Really Happens,” his essay on bold moves that make a difference is on page 66.
Miller is chair of the Larry H. & Gail Miller Family Foundation and presides over the Larry H. Miller Education Foundation. The owner of the Larry H. Miller Company, she is also the author of “Courage to Be You: Inspiring Lessons from An Unexpected Journey.” Her commentary on the mindset of philanthropy is on page 15.
The founding CEO of Virgin Unite and The Planetary Guardians, Oelwang is also co-founder of the not-for-profit Plus Wonder, which fosters collaborations around the world. She authored the book “Partnering,” and has worked with partners to lead the startup of The Elders, The B Team and other global initiatives. Her essay on partnerships and philanthropy is on page 70.
Tedesco is the president and chief executive officer of the National Center for Family Philanthropy. His experience in the philanthropy sector includes senior adviser in J.P. Morgan’s Philanthropic Centre and relationship manager at the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation. His essay on next-generation giving is on page 55.
A London-based illustrator, Weerasekera is known for his speed, conceptual thinking and dramatic palette for clients that include The New York Times, Harvard Business Review and Forbes. But he is best known for his book “What to Expect When You’re Immigrating.” Weerasekera’s work can be seen on page 25.
An assistant professor of environmental media at the University of Oregon, Sutter is also a journalist and filmmaker based in Eugene, Oregon, whose work has won a Livingston Award, Edward R. Murrow Award, Peabody Award and two Emmy nominations. Sutter’s story about cloudseeding efforts to counter drought in the West is on page 24.
JOHN D. SUTTER
RAJIV SHAH
JEAN OELWANG
NASH WEERASEKERA
GAIL MILLER
NICHOLAS TEDESCO
Fear is contagious, so is hope.
WHAT THE BEES BUILD
This month, for the first time, a honeybee graces the cover of Deseret Magazine. That it took this long is a little surprising, even to me, considering how ubiquitous this busy little insect is in the state of Utah. And not just among the wildflowers. Bees are everywhere here — on road signs, nested in courthouse seals, cast into brass doorknobs, stenciled onto the sides of police cars and even in the names of sports teams. Visitors are often surprised at just how prevalent this symbol is here, until they hear the story behind it.
When Brigham Young and the early pioneers first settled in the Salt Lake Valley, they petitioned Congress to recognize what they called the State of Deseret. Washington declined, but that word is still everywhere, too, from the title of this publication to the names of credit unions, thrift stores, bookstores and a barber shop. What’s sometimes forgotten is that “deseret” is a word for “honeybee” used in the Book of Mormon. To Latter-day Saints, the bee symbolized the people they aspired to be: industrious and selfless, working together for the common good.
Nearly two centuries later, those ideals still carry meaning across the Intermountain West. The lesson of the honeybee feels as urgent now as it did then: that progress comes not from solitary striving, but collective effort. This conviction stands at the heart of our first-ever Philanthropy Issue. Like bees in a hive, we achieve more when we work together. That said, an entire industry has grown up around giving, shaped by innovators, thought leaders, trends and ideas, all building up our ability to make the most from every kind of contribution.
Rajiv Shah, president of The Rockefeller Foundation, says that the challenges of our time require more than incremental fixes (“Big Bets: How Large-Scale Change Really Happens,” page 66). He argues for what he calls “big bets” — bold, ambitious goals that defy the well-intentioned temptation to chip away at symptoms and instead go after the root causes. Big bets, he writes, offer a way out of the “aspiration trap,” an all-too-human tendency to
aim small, or give up altogether, in the face of daunting problems. “They require setting profound, seemingly unachievable goals and believing they are achievable,” Shah explains. “They also stir others to act alongside you.” Innovation, partnership and persistence are the principles that separate the people who change the world from those who begin with big dreams but lose steam.
If Shah makes the case for boldness, Jean Oelwang, founding CEO of Virgin Unite, makes the case for collaboration. In her essay, “No One Gives Alone” (page 70), she describes the cultural crisis of hyperindividualism and its antidote: radical collaboration. Oelwang points to the Harvard Study of Adult Development, the longest-running study of its kind, which found that what predicts a good life is not wealth or career but relationships. In her view, the same truth applies to solving global problems. “The challenges we face today are too complex and interconnected for solo solutions,” she writes. “They require radical collaboration.”
Together, Shah and Oelwang capture something essential about a new way of thinking about philanthropy: a blend of bold vision and collective action. Big bets only succeed if they rally others; collaboration only matters if it drives real change. That is the vision behind our cover package, “The Deseret 50” (page 34). In these pages, we celebrate 50 people, organizations and ideas reshaping what philanthropy looks like today. Some operate on a global stage; others are rooted here, in the region once called Deseret. Some work through institutions; others through unexpected, informal channels. All are proof that generosity is not only alive, but evolving.
We hope our cover serves as a reminder. In a hive, no bee works for itself alone. Every act of labor contributes to the flourishing of the whole. Philanthropy, at its best, works the same way. When we act not just for ourselves but for one another, we create the conditions for something larger to thrive. This issue is our attempt to honor the legacy of that ideal — and to imagine what it might mean for the future.
—JESSE HYDE
EXECUTIVE EDITOR HAL BOYD
EDITOR
JESSE HYDE
CREATIVE DIRECTOR ERIC GILLETT
MANAGING EDITOR MATTHEW BROWN
DEPUTY EDITOR CHAD NIELSEN
CONTRIBUTING EDITORS
MCKAY COPPINS, JAMES R. GARDNER, LAUREN STEELE
EDITOR-AT-LARGE DOUG WILKS
STAFF WRITERS
ETHAN BAUER, NATALIA GALICZA
WRITER-AT-LARGE
MICHAEL J. MOONEY
CONTRIBUTING WRITERS
LOIS M. COLLINS, JENNIFER GRAHAM, KEVIN LIND, MARIYA MANZHOS
ART DIRECTORS
IAN SULLIVAN, BRENNA VATERLAUS
COPY EDITORS
SARAH HARRIS, VALERIE JONES, CHRIS MILLER, CAMILLE SMITH
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OUR READERS RESPOND
Our annual JULY/AUGUST Constitution issue featured essays by former federal appellate court Judge Thomas Griffith , Harvard Law professor Noah Feldman and constitutional law expert Ilya Shapiro weighing in on whether our system of governing is breaking — or just bending under the weight of our politics (“A Moment of Crisis?”). “This question demonstrates the terrible state we are in. If we can’t recognize that we have a constitutional crisis, whenever it began to develop, we are dangerously deluded,” wrote Robert Gibbons , one of more than 300 readers who shared their views online. While a few said both political parties shared blame in creating the crisis Griffith laid out in his essay, Joseph Hall represented the majority of readers who took a partisan stance. “Constitutional crisis or reality crisis? Many of the Trump-hating commenters … are actually having a reality crisis. They are ‘tilting at windmills’ — imaginary nonexisting foes and demons,” he wrote. Ethan Bauer wrote a timely, behind-the-scenes story on how the conservative Federalist Society got into the crosshairs of President Donald Trump (“The Federalist Society and The Burden of Victory”). Many readers sparred over the controversy consuming FedSoc members, while others bemoaned the state of the federal judiciary that the society played a role in creating. But R.J. Petersen suggested the United States consider Europe’s Napoleonic court system where judges investigate the facts to find the truth instead of refereeing the lawyers representing either side of a case. “Seems much better,” Petersen wrote of the Napoleonic system. “Why does it take hundreds of thousand dollars to resolve the open and shut case of a murderer? This is a big waste on our economy.” BYU law professor Bradley Rebeiro’s essay on Frederick Douglass’ evolving view of the Constitution offered readers a look into how the Declaration of Independence informed Douglass’ opinions. “An interesting way of viewing the Constitution that I have not thought of,” wrote online commenter Flashback. “Frederick Douglass was a smart man.” Bauer’s story about the forgotten third man on Apollo 11’s historic lunar voyage (“Dark Side of the Moon”) elicited a wide-ranging discussion on the value of space exploration, global politics and personal connections with astronauts who walked on the moon. Several recalled memories of watching an unforgettable event. “I was in grade school when they first walked on the moon,” wrote Paul Allred. “I remember that day very well, huddled around a tiny black and white TV . I can still see the hazy Southern California sky that day as I pedaled my bike home from a friend’s house in excitement and the absolute fascination of the riveting broadcast.”
“If we can’t recognize that we have a constitutional crisis, whenever it began to develop, we are dangerously deluded.”
WINDOW PEAK SUNRISE, EMERY COUNTY, UTAH
PHOTOGRAPHY BY AUSTIN PEDERSEN
THE HEARTBEAT OF GIVING
GENEROSITY IS MORE ABOUT WILLINGNESS THAN WEALTH
BY GAIL MILLER
Years ago, my husband Larry and I got in the car to drive down to Provo, Utah, where he was teaching an entrepreneurship class at Brigham Young University. Each semester, he invited me to join for one class, where I would speak to the students and their spouses. The lecture, titled “What Is It Like to be Married to an Entrepreneur?” was always lively.
During one particular class, a brave student raised their hand and asked a question that has stayed with me: “Now that you are in a position to purchase anything you want, what would you buy?”
The room grew quiet. After a moment’s thought, the answer came: There wasn’t a single thing so important or exciting that it would send me rushing out to buy it. That response still holds true today. Early in our marriage, Larry and I made a deliberate decision — money would never define us or own us. As long as we had enough to sustain our family, the rest would be used to help others. That choice became more than a guiding principle; it became the heartbeat of our lives and the foundation for our family’s philanthropic work. Over the years, the Larry H. & Gail Miller Family Foundation has been a way to channel that belief into meaningful action — supporting causes that strengthen communities, open doors for opportunity, bring people together and enrich lives.
Money, in itself, is just a tool. It can buy things, yes — but things fade. What lasts is the impact made when those resources are invested in people, in ideas, in shared dreams for a better tomorrow.
This perspective didn’t come from abundance; it was born out of experience. Larry and I were born soon after the Great Depression and, like many others, our families learned how to make do, how to share and how to value what truly matters. That era left an imprint — a belief that generosity is not about wealth but about willingness. Money doesn’t make a philanthropist.
Across the nation, that belief is alive and well among those able to give. According to a Bank of America study, 85 percent of affluent U.S. households give to charity in some form each year. And here in Utah, generosity runs especially deep. The latest Giving State Report by Cicero Group found that 70 percent of Utahns reported giving time, money or both to causes they care about. These numbers aren’t just statistics — they’re a reflection of values. They show a country, and a state, where people still show up for one another despite what some news coverage may say.
But generosity alone isn’t enough. The real opportunity — and the real challenge — is to give with purpose. That means asking the harder questions: Where can this contribution do the most good? How can it strengthen the fabric of a community, not just for today, but for years to come?
Meaningful giving requires focus, planning and care. Through the foundation, we’ve focused on initiatives that not only address immediate needs but also create lasting change — whether that’s through education, health care, arts and culture, or community development. Each grant, each partnership, is guided by the belief that true generosity leaves people better equipped, more connected and more hopeful than before.
This is not work that can be done alone. Philanthropy is most powerful when it invites others in — when it sparks collaboration, trust and shared responsibility. Some of my most rewarding moments over the years have been seeing communities come together around a common goal, each person contributing in their own way.
It is tempting, in a world driven by accumulation, to measure success by what can be acquired. But the real measure is what can be given away. When resources are shared — time, money, expertise — they become something far greater than what they could ever be in a bank account.
That’s why my answer to that student’s question will always remain the same. There’s no “thing” worth more than the joy of seeing someone’s life change for the better. No purchase can compare to the pride of watching a child learn, a family find stability or a community gain new opportunities.
Having “enough” isn’t about what’s in our bank accounts. It’s about what’s in the heart. By giving thoughtfully, consistently and with purpose, it’s possible to leave a legacy that endures far beyond any individual lifetime — a legacy not measured by possessions, but by the communities served and lives enriched along the way.
GAIL MILLER IS CHAIR OF THE LARRY H. & GAIL MILLER FAMILY FOUNDATION AND PRESIDES OVER THE LARRY H. MILLER EDUCATION FOUNDATION.
MIRACLE OR MELTDOWN
IS NUCLEAR ENERGY THE ANSWER?
AMERICA IS CHARGING toward a power crunch. The country consumed more energy than ever in 2024, and we’re projected to break that record again this year, even as electric bills soar at more than double the rate of inflation. Data centers supporting the rise of artificial intelligence are a major factor, burning more than 4 percent of energy nationwide, on pace to triple in a few years. These facilities are also pinching the global market, projected to double their consumption to 1,000 terawatts by 2026. That’s as much as Japan. Electric vehicles and air conditioning aggravate the problem. The United States remains a net exporter of energy — including petroleum — but the White House declared the first national energy emergency earlier this year. Could a nuclear revival fuel America’s future in this competitive environment? —NATALIA GALICZA
IMPENDING DOOM THE SOLUTION WE NEED
NUCLEAR POWER IS not worth the impact or the risk. Nuclear reactors produce toxic waste that can remain radioactive for tens of thousands of years. That waste can leech into the soil, killing entire biomes and spreading through carriers like plants and animals. The U.S. has already accumulated 90,000 metric tons of nuclear waste since the 1950s, all languishing in government-owned storage facilities because we haven’t figured out how to dispose of it with any degree of safety. It’s not time to add more spent fuel.
Nuclear energy also threatens human life. Meltdowns may be rare, but they can be catastrophic for people who live nearby or downwind, tainting air, food and drinking water with particles that cause cancer, cardiovascular disease and reproductive issues. Some will remember televised maps of radioactive clouds spreading across Europe from Chernobyl, Ukraine, in 1986, or photos of the ghost neighborhoods abandoned around Fukushima, Japan, after 2011. Cleanup at Three Mile Island, site of America’s worst nuclear accident in 1979, is expected to take until 2052.
Besides, nuclear plants are far too slow and expensive. Construction can take more than a decade and cost billions of dollars. Coal mines and oil rigs are cheaper to build. Some argue that nuclear energy is worth it because it’s better for the environment, but renewable alternatives have become more efficient in recent years. “Nuclear power has simply been eclipsed,” Tyson Slocum, energy program director at the advocacy group Public Citizen, told The New York Times. “It was an incredible zero-emission resource for its day. But for much of the energy system today, that day has long passed.”
Finally, it’s impossible to completely divorce nuclear energy from nuclear weapons, at least in the public perception. Both rely on similar technology and materials, so increasing the number of nuclear plants means there will be more radioactive materials and a greater chance they could fall into the wrong hands. As recently as January 2025, an alleged member of a Japanese crime syndicate pleaded guilty to trafficking uranium and weapons-grade plutonium for use in Iran’s weapons program. Nuclear weapons are still the most dangerous in the world; even a simple dirty bomb can kill or sicken millions in one fell swoop. Energy, though essential to modern life, should never generate that kind of fear.
TODAY’S NUCLEAR POWER is efficient, costeffective and safe. The arguments against it are often based on outdated technology or scientific fallacies. For example, nuclear weapons don’t use the same material as nuclear power; they require a specific isotope of uranium that is extremely rare and difficult to isolate or plutonium, which must be synthesized for that purpose. Know-how is not what’s limiting the number of nuclear-armed countries to nine while 31 generate nuclear power and at least 53 operate research reactors.
Technology has made nuclear energy safe, while the process offers promise for the environment. “Advanced reactor” designs feature pressurized water mechanisms to cool reactors without human intervention and prevent the overheating that can lead to a meltdown. Nuclear fission emits steam rather than greenhouse gases; even while using older reactors, the U.S. avoided emitting 471 million metric tons of carbon dioxide with nuclear energy in 2020 — equivalent to all renewables put together. Reactors use a fraction of the land required for wind farms, and research is underway to recycle spent nuclear fuel. No wonder France relies on it for 68 percent of its power; allies like Slovakia and Belgium are close behind.
Nuclear energy also happens to be good for the economy. Nuclear plants contribute billions in taxes each year. The industry supplies some half a million jobs, with salaries that are 50 percent higher than those at other energy plants. Unlike renewables, which depend on weather conditions, nuclear reactors can produce energy 24/7, making them the best candidate to meet the skyrocketing needs associated with artificial intelligence and data centers.
Energy independence is key to U.S. national security. It’s not just that nuclear power can help fuel America’s military into the next century. The energy market is seeing a convergence, as allies and adversaries alike compete for dominance in new technologies like chip manufacturing and AI, which will play key roles in the future, both economically and militarily. Power production could become the limiting factor that holds the country back. The U.S. has already lost its competitive advantage in nuclear power to Russia and China. According to the Department of Energy, “This reality threatens American energy security, narrows or eliminates foreign policy options and erodes American international influence to set strong non-proliferation, safety, and security standards.”
SAVE AT YOUR OWN RISK THE
PROFIT AND PERIL OF 401( k ) PLANS
OVER THE LAST five decades, the 401(k) has revolutionized American retirement. This new account allowed workers to stash pretax savings and let them invest these nest eggs like any other funds. This innovation shifted both autonomy and the risk of market volatility to workers away from traditional pension plans, which have mostly disappeared. The result far outstrips the expectations for what was seen as a complementary investment vehicle rather than a firm foundation of financial planning. Today, 401(k)s offer a vast reservoir of funding for the market, but may not be enough to see the next generations through old age. Here’s the breakdown.
—ETHAN BAUER
Caesar Augustus instituted tax-funded pensions for Roman soldiers, 13 years of salary after 25 years of service. This replaced land grants in conquered territories. Pensions were mostly military specific until the mid-1800s, when some U.S. cities launched funds for teachers, police and firefighters. American Express created private pension funds in 1875. By the late 1880s, Germany started paying all citizens to retire at age 70. Nearly a century later, 45 percent of American private sector workers had pension plans.
The Revenue Act of 1978 added section 401, paragraph (k) to the U.S. Internal Revenue Code, letting employees defer compensation from stock options and bonuses. The following year, benefits consultant Ted Benna realized it could be applied to retirement savings and designed such a product for a client bank. The bank refused it, unsure if it was legal. Eventually the plan took off elsewhere, fueled by tax breaks for employers whose matching funds incentivize voluntary contributions.
THE ACCIDENTAL NEST EGG
ONE-THIRD OF GDP
That’s how much cash Americans have in 401(k)s today, contributing $9 trillion to the investment economy. These accounts are the preferred option for about 70 million people. Unlike pensions, which take years to vest and are usually managed by employers, 401(k)s put workers at the wheel, to invest as they choose. Most defer to “target-date funds,” diversified portfolios built around an employee’s age and retirement goals. About half have no idea where their money is invested.
70 million USE 401(K)S
401(k) accounts have become an irresistible resource in tough times. A record 4.8 percent of account holders took hardship withdrawals from 401(k)s in 2024, up from about 2 percent before 2020; those under 59.5 years old incurred a 10-percent tax to do so. According to The Wall Street Journal, Congress has increasingly made it easier for people to dig into these funds, including a tax-free year during the Covid-19 pandemic under the CARES Act.
FEEL BEHIND ON THEIR RETIREMENT SAVINGS
4.8% 57% OF ACCOUNT HOLDERS TOOK HARDSHIP WITHDRAWALS IN 2024
“THE TAX CODE OFFERS A NUMBER OF SAVINGS INCENTIVES TO HELP PEOPLE SAVE MORE FOR RETIREMENT, BUT THESE INCENTIVES ARE COMPLEX AND SKEWED TOWARD HIGHERINCOME EARNERS. … THE RESULTING ECONOMIC INSECURITY AS PEOPLE AGE IS EXPECTED TO BE SEVERE AMONG LOWER-INCOME HOUSEHOLDS, SINGLE WOMEN AND COMMUNITIES OF COLOR.”
CHRISTIAN E. WELLER AND TERESA GHILARDUCCI, LABOR ECONOMISTS
57 PERCENT LAGGING
More than half of Americans feel behind on their retirement savings, per a 2024 survey. Fewer than 3 percent of 401(k) accounts are worth at least $1 million, according to Fidelity Investments; the country’s largest 401(k) manager also reported average contributions of $8,800 in 2024, far below that year’s $23,000 cap ($30,500 for people over 50). Some say the 401(k) disproportionately benefits upper-income investors, leaving most unprepared to retire. This crisis has garnered hints of bipartisan cooperation but little government action.
Z > GEN X
Zoomers now have three times more assets in 401(k)s than Gen Xers did in 1989, per the Investment Company Institute. Americans in their 50s — the age when balances usually peak — have a median balance of $249,136, according to financial services firm Empower. More than half of baby boomers with Fidelity accounts chose where to put their money in 2023, compared to a quarter of millennials.
24.9 BILLION SALARIES MISPLACED
That’s how many average salaries — $1.7 trillion — were sitting in forgotten 401(k)s as of 2023, a quarter of all such accounts. Most result when an employee changes jobs and neglects to “roll over” their balance into a new IRA. The Department of Labor has launched a searchable database to find lost savings. The AARP recommends workers consolidate accounts when switching jobs, “just as you would clean out your desk.” Per the Journal, about a third of job changers choose to liquidate their 401(k)s instead.
$1.7 trillion
LANGUISH IN FORGOTTEN 401(K)S
GEN
RAINY DAY “LEAKAGE”
A SAFE PLACE TO LAND
HOW FOSTER PARENTS CREATE FAMILY FOR REFUGEES
BY ETHAN BAUER
Sitting on a church pew in Tucson, Arizona, Mary Kaech made a decision. It was 2003, and she was just a student at the University of Arizona when, in the middle of the service, a woman stood to make an announcement. She was fostering a “lost boy” from Sudan. His family had been killed in a civil war there. This 60-something-year-old woman in the congregation, divorced and living alone in a trailer, had taken him in. Mary was stunned by her generosity. “When I grow up,” she thought, “I want to be just like her.”
Over a decade later, around 2015, Mary and her husband, Mark, were ready to start their family. They tried to get pregnant and pursued refugee foster licensing at the same time. They got their license and found out they were pregnant “simultaneously,” Mark says. After their daughter, Rose, was born in 2016, the couple
had so many reasons to say no to foster placements. They were too tired. The timing was bad. Rose was already too much to
WHILE FORMAL INTERNATIONAL ADOPTIONS HAVE WITHERED, REFUGEE FOSTER PARENTS CONTINUE TO MEET AN OFTEN UNSEEN NEED TO HOUSE SOME OF THE WORLD’S MOST VULNERABLE KIDS.
handle. But when Rose was just 11 months old, the Catholic Community Services office in Phoenix called about a 17-year-old girl from Congo named Angelique.
“We signed up for this,” Mark told Mary. “We have to say yes at some point.”
OVER 123 MILLION people were “forcibly displaced” around the world by the beginning of this year, according to the United Nations. Among them, about 50 million children. Many of those children are still part of intact families, but many (likely millions) are not. Historically, the United States has prioritized the most vulnerable refugees, like orphaned children, for resettlement. In 2024, it resettled 105,500 — the most of any country in the world. Those who make it to the United States disproportionately end up settling in the heartland and the West. As of 2023, Nebraska hosted the most per capita, while North Dakota, Idaho, South Dakota, Arizona, Washington and Utah all ranked among the top 11.
ANGELIQUE KAECH (LEFT) A REFUGEE FROM THE CONGO, WAS FORMALLY ADOPTED BY MARY AND MARK KAECH AT AGE 20.
ALI (RIGHT) CAME TO LIVE WITH THE KAECH FAMILY AFTER HIS MOTHER SMUGGLED HIM OUT OF AFGHANISTAN, FEARING THE VIOLENCE OF THE TALIBAN REGIME.
ANGELIQUE, 27, CAME TO THE U.S. 10 YEARS AGO THROUGH A UNITED NATIONS RESETTLEMENT PROGRAM AFTER HER FAMILY WAS KILLED AMID CIVIL WAR IN AFRICA.
WHILE REFUGEE FOSTER CARE IS RELATIVELY RARE IN THE U.S., RESEARCH FINDS THAT IT CAN MARKEDLY IMPROVE THE LIVES OF THE CHILDREN WHO FIND FAMILIES WILLING TO TAKE THEM IN.
But how many settle here each year tends to fluctuate, since the number of refugees allowed into the country is determined by the Refugee Act of 1980, which gives the president broad authority to cap refugee admissions. From an all-time high of 207,000 refugees admitted by President Jimmy Carter following the law’s passage, the numbers fell during the ’80s, rose during the ’90s, then stayed relatively stable (minus a brief drop following September 11, 2001) through the George Bush and Barack Obama years.
As part of his America First position — emphasizing domestic priorities over global humanitarian obligations — those numbers fell precipitously during President Donald Trump’s first term; in 2018, the U.S. admitted its fewest refugees since before the Refugee Act of 1980’s passage. By 2020, the numbers had reached an all-time low (fueled in significant part by the Covid-19 pandemic). They rebounded under President Joe Biden, returning to their early-aughts average, before Trump essentially paused all refugee admissions via an executive order on the very first day of his second term, citing national security.
That ban remains mostly in place as challenges filter through the courts, and there are essentially no new refugees currently entering the country. That could impact hundreds of thousands of people around the world, including kids like Angelique. Her family was killed amid civil war in Congo when she was about 13, and she fled across the border to Uganda, where she’d attached herself to a family in a refugee camp who eventually left. She did that again and again until, finally, she left herself. “She just kind of earned her keep over and over,” Mary says, “and just did whatever anyone wanted her to do so that she could eat and survive.”
The White House frames its new policy as a necessary bulwark against an overabundance of migrants, including refugees. “The United States lacks the ability to absorb large numbers of migrants, and in particular, refugees, into its communities in a manner that does not compromise the availability of resources for Americans,”
reads the official announcement. It’s one part of the Trump administration’s broader America First agenda, seeking to recalibrate the government’s priorities — with potentially severe consequences.
FOSTER CARE FOR kids like Angelique looks a lot like adoption; they live with a family, sometimes for years, that’s supposed to provide a stable bridge into adulthood — although the arrangement is ultimately temporary. Adopting international and refugee children in the U.S., meanwhile, is controversial and has been declining for years. Over 22,000 internationally adopted children entered the U.S. in 2004, but the number has been falling across U.S. adoption agencies since then, in part because of declining global adoption rates, increased
“TO BE THE ANSWER TO A MOM’S PRAYER DOWNSTREAM — WHY WOULDN’T I DO THAT?”
domestic adoption, stricter international adoption regulations and an increased awareness of child welfare issues. Some studies also show that even if international adoptions are by-the-book and help save a child from unstable and dangerous home countries, the practice can still be detrimental to a child’s development.
Refugee children can’t usually be formally adopted. If their birth parents are dead, documentation is required to prove it, which is rare in war-torn countries. And if a child’s parents are alive, having them relinquish parental rights from across the world can be coercive and unethical. Many refugee kids, therefore, end up with foster parents. They arrive either as unaccompanied minors crossing the border — a population that surged from 13,625 in 2012 to
an all-time high of 128,904 in 2022 — or through the United Nations’ refugee resettlement programs, as Angelique did. While formal international adoptions have withered, and refugee resettlement is at a standstill because of the federal government, refugee foster parents continue to meet an often-unseen need to house some of the world’s most vulnerable kids. To date, there isn’t much research on the long-term outcomes of placing these kids with foster families in the U.S. But there are stories.
IN UTAH, A family in Saratoga Springs has fostered five kids over eight years, from four different continents. One boy, from Afghanistan, came over during his country’s humanitarian crisis. He came alone, and was later able to help his family get out, too. Another, from Guatemala, ended up attending Utah State University, getting married and settling down in his new home state. Every time Kyle Mortensen, who runs the refugee foster care program at Catholic Community Services of Utah, called, saying that a child needed a home, they opened their door. When a now-21-year-old girl with a disability moved in, the family committed to providing care for the rest of her life, even after she’d aged out of the program — which she did in June. Yet she’s still at home in Saratoga Springs. “They are not receiving any financial benefit to have this kid in their life,” Mortensen says. “But this kid is in their life.” He didn’t reveal identifying information about the family, citing privacy concerns. But he knows them well enough to know this much: They’re exemplary of how one family can make a huge difference. Kerri Evans has heard similar stories over and over. As a professor in the department of social work at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, who has studied refugee foster care, she has conducted “site monitoring visits” where she’s heard testimonials about how beneficial refugee foster programs can be, for both foster parents and foster children. “While adoption may not be possible, a long-term relationship surely is,” she says.
FOSTER CARE IS relatively rare. Most refugee children (nearly 99 percent) end up living with “community sponsors” — often aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings who agree to provide care. The remaining 1.1 percent end up in foster care. Of those, early research offers reason for optimism. Each additional month in foster care increases the chances of employment by 3.2 percent, and also increases the level of educational attainment. In other words, the longer kids stay in refugee foster care, the more likely they are to make positive contributions to their new communities, according to studies published by Evans and her colleagues. Additionally, nearly 97 percent of refugee kids who’d been placed with foster parents between three and 15 months ago reported “a positive outlook for the future.” And more than a quarter had at least intermediate English skills. “We know lots,” Evans says, “and the outcomes are quite promising. … I think this is part of the solution for kids.”
But that doesn’t mean that it’s easy. “Refugee fostering is often the meeting of quite different worlds,” says Paul Scheibelhofer, a researcher at the University of Innsbruck in Austria who has studied refugee migrant children. “People with very different biographies and sometimes quite different cultural understandings about how things should be done find themselves in a tremendously intimate situation.” His research shows that the families who fare the worst tend to be those who impose strict and rigid expectations, which can lead to a cascade of conflict. There needs to be room for nuance and experimentation, where relationships can grow naturally. Once that happens, he seconds Evans: Whether in Europe, the United States or elsewhere, fostering refugee kids can benefit everyone involved.
The happiest refugee foster families, he adds, tend to be those in which parents and kids use the freedom to negotiate a new, less defined form of family to meet their needs and wishes. Rather than conform to expectations about what a family “should” be, folks in this situation can instead work
toward the type of family they really want. “I encountered relationships that sparkled with life, were rooted in deep emotional closeness and sincere empathy,” Scheibelhofer says. “These relationships ‘felt like family’ in the best sense of the word.” Those kinds of relationships also tend to reduce stress and anxiety for kids who need it after past struggles, in part by providing access to resources the kids have never had before. “It is thus no wonder,” Scheibelhofer adds, “that studies have shown that refugees in foster (care) often have better living situations than other young refugees.”
And even though it’s relatively rare to foster a refugee child, right now, there’s a queue for kids looking for safe homes. “It’s been a nightmare, honestly,” Mortensen, from Catholic Community Services of
NEARLY 97 PERCENT OF REFUGEE KIDS PLACED WITH FOSTER PARENTS REPORTED “A POSITIVE OUTLOOK FOR THE FUTURE.”
Utah, says. “The last several months of new policies coming out, not knowing how the program is going to be affected.” There are more kids in need than volunteers to foster, and he understands that bringing a child into your home and family dynamics is “a huge ask.”
IT WASN’T EASY at first, given the language barrier, but Angelique learned English quickly and started opening up when given the chance. Mark began keeping track of her history in a notebook. “That’s kind of how we learned her story,” he says. When she aged out of the program at 19 and had to move out as mandated by the local Catholic Community Services branch, the family still invited her to dinner at least weekly. She lived about 10 minutes away, still going
to school and working evenings at a grocery store. Sometimes, many times, she stayed the night with them. When Angelique turned 20, Mary and Mark offered to adopt her. It was more ceremonial by then; as a legal adult, she didn’t need formal guardians. But she accepted anyway.
The process was finalized December 1, 2020. Soon, Catholic Community Services called again. This time, they had a 17-year-old boy from Afghanistan who needed a home. His name was Ali, and they later learned that his mother had him smuggled out of his home country to avoid the Taliban’s violence. He lived in an Indonesian orphanage before coming to the U.S., where he’d been in and out of multiple foster homes before ending up with them. When he first told Mary and Mark his story, Mary immediately thought of the biblical Moses, whose mother placed him in a basket and sent him up the Nile, hoping someone would find him and care for him. She loves that story. “To be the answer to his mom’s prayer downstream,” Mary says, “why wouldn’t I do that?”
Ali practices Islam, which was an adjustment for the Kaechs. They learned to check in with him during Ramadan. To celebrate Eid. And sometimes he joined them for church, too, just because he’s a curious person. Mary and Mark are both Anglican, and they believe God commands them to love their neighbors; to practice hospitality; to care for the orphan and the widow, wherever they’re from. “If you believe the Bible and you see what’s happening,” Mary says, “then this is the only option.” Hence why they welcomed Ali, who has since enrolled in college studying public policy, and Angelique, who has given Mary and Mark, both 42, three grandchildren. They couldn’t formally adopt Ali, because his mother is still alive in Afghanistan. But they didn’t really need to. He’s family.
One night, while Mary and Mark were watching TV in the living room, Ali poked his head in. “Can I call you Mama and Papa?” he asked. “Yes,” they answered. And so he did.
UP IN THE AIR
THE WEST
IS IN HISTORIC DROUGHT.
CAN
WE MAKE IT RAIN?
BY JOHN D. SUTTER
Twelve minutes and 13 seconds.
That’s how long it takes to walk from the pre-drought shoreline of Utah’s Great Salt Lake to where the water is now. To get there, I trek across a plain of brittle, salty pancakes that clink together like wind chimes as you step; through a maze of hundreds of bird carcasses that appear to be almost melting into the sand; and, eventually, to the edge of the water.
On a recent summer morning, this stroll feels more like a funeral procession. Perhaps that’s because, in February 2022, when I was living in Utah, I attended an actual wake for the Great Salt Lake in this very spot, at a moment when it was near a record low. A number of poets read their work to the lake that day, facing the water and not the crowd. One poem, titled “1,237 Steps,” by Chloe Skidmore, sticks with me years later because it counts the unnatural steps from the lake’s past to present: 1,237 steps to the water from the former shoreline.
“Imagine your ankles covered in water,” she writes.
I find that difficult these days.
Yet someone who has no trouble imagining a healthier lake is my walking compan-
TO SAY THE STAKES OF CONTROLLING THE WEATHER ARE HIGH WOULD BE AN UNDERSTATEMENT. WATER IS LIFE. WHAT IS THE ABSENCE OF IT?
ion, Augustus Doricko, a 25-year-old with a sandy blonde mullet and white sneakers that belie the dusty environment. Doricko is CEO and founder of a company called Rainmaker, which, true to name, aims to cure
Utah and the rest of the American West of the scourge of drought.
Come back to the Great Salt Lake in 10 years, he tells me with uncanny certainty. All of this will be water. “I think that there is a way to actually restore the Great Salt Lake and, potentially, more than that,” he says, to create “conditions that are more green and lush than they were before.”
No need to mourn.
Just get to work.
“It’s like big-league ‘Twisters,’” he says of his company.
They plan to make it rain.
HUMANS HAVE BEEN trying to tease water out of the sky for centuries — typically turning to the heavens first. Greeks and Romans prayed to their gods. Greeks also dipped the branches of oak trees — seen as holy — into water, hoping to induce divine rain, according to a 1954 World Meteorological Organization report on the prospects of cloud
SNOWPACK IS WHERE THE WEST STORES MUCH OF ITS WATER, AND THAT SNOW IS BECOMING FAR LESS ABUNDANT. SNOWPACK IN THE SIERRA NEVADA IS EXPECTED TO DECLINE UP TO 65 PERCENT BY THE END OF THE CENTURY.
seeding. In Indigenous North American traditions, “rainmakers” were people who tried to spawn rain, sometimes by ceremoniously holding up offerings of water — others by dancing to crack open the clouds.
To say the stakes of controlling the weather are high would be an understatement.
Water is life. The absence of it?
“If he fails, the prophet is shot dead, because (people waiting for rain) are so incredulous of his divine power that they reckon him an enemy of the state,” Irishman James Adair, who is credited with popularizing the term “rain-maker,” writes in 1775 of Native American people. Failed rainmakers, he writes, were blamed for “bringing desolating famine upon the beloved people.”
It’s possible we’re even thirstier for water today.
Water shortages have only gotten worse as humans continue to burn fossil fuels and heat up the planet, making droughts more intense and more likely. The American West is in the worst drought in 1,200 years, and recent research indicates it may continue not just for years but for decades. Snowpack is where the West stores much of its water, and that snow is becoming far less abundant. In California, snowpack in the Sierra Nevada is expected to decline 48 to 65 percent by the end of the century. The Colorado River, which peters out before it reaches the ocean most days, and supplies water for seven states in the region, could see warmer temperatures, drought and overdrawing sap its flow by nearly half over the same time frame.
The Great Salt Lake, meanwhile, is seen as yet another ominous bellwether. A 2023 report from Brigham Young University estimates that, if overuse and drought trends continue, the Great Salt Lake would be on track to disappear in five years. (Record snowfall following the report’s release may have shifted timelines, but the trend remains, and the water deficit continues.)
It’s in this context that efforts to control the weather take on new appeal.
THE WORK OF Rainmaker is happening in an un-air-conditioned warehouse in the
aptly named Bountiful, Utah, north of Salt Lake City. Inside, you’ll find tattooed workers occasionally calling each other “bro” and wearing company T-shirts. A giant American flag hangs on the wall, and an ATV carries fuel canisters in and out of the space. The place does feel like a set out of the movie “Twisters,” which features a ragtag team aiming to alter the weather.
Rainmaker’s director of operations, Parker Cardwell, and Jared Smith, who manages the Utah location — colleagues of Doricko — bring out a stout metal canister. Inside is a key to Rainmaker’s plans: a yellow-green powder that will be “injected” into clouds in an attempt to generate precipitation.
The compound is silver iodide. (Cardwell says it is “10 times safer than table salt.”) In a process called cloud seeding, the company uses various types of machinery — mobile cannons on the ground and drones in the sky — to spread the powder into the chilly parts of a winter storm. The silver iodide acts as a “seed” around which ice crystals can form — a process the cloud-seeding industry refers to as “nucleation,” as if a baby storm cell were being born. Once one droplet crystallizes, other droplets become attracted to it and freeze as well. If all goes to plan, these droplets begin to fall to the ground as snow. It’s not about creating clouds — much less creating water — just teasing snow out of winter storms that are already passing through.
The company, while insisting it’s apolitical and that water is a bipartisan issue, has religious underpinnings and conservative roots. Doricko founded a right-wing student group at the University of California, Berkeley, according to the student newspaper, and is a Peter Thiel fellow — a stamp of approval from the PayPal co-founder who has been called President Donald Trump’s ally in Silicon Valley.
Rainmaker, headquartered in El Segundo, just south of the Los Angeles International Airport, has been raising tens of millions of dollars from investors. They estimate they can boost a storm’s precipitation between 5 and 15 percent and are
bringing in radars and other technology in an effort to prove it both to investors and the public.
Doricko describes the process as tapping into atmospheric rivers.
That’s the meteorological term for water essentially flowing across the sky in the form of clouds. Doricko says that whatever water is flowing down the Colorado River at any given moment, multiply that by 1,000 and you’ll get the amount of water in a single atmospheric river flowing across the sky. NOAA estimates that the average atmospheric river has closer to 30 times more water than the Colorado, with the largest ones containing several hundred times more. You couldn’t tap into all of that, Doricko says, but even a small fraction would make a difference — especially considering that at least 20 atmospheric rivers are estimated to flow across the West per year.
He calls them the “new Colorado Rivers of the sky.”
ACCESSING THESE ATMOSPHERIC rivers isn’t an especially new venture.
Early cloud-seeding programs in the United States started in the 1950s and picked up in the 1970s — aiming to tap the “barrels of water” floating in the sky, according to a WMO report. The first such program was in Utah, according to Jonathan Jennings, a meteorologist who manages the Utah program as part of the Division of Water Resources. That program is state-funded and continues to this day. Others, such as one in Texas, are paid for by local water districts.
I meet Jennings in a conference room at the Utah Department of Natural Resources, an office building that’s wrapped in images of Utah’s iconic landscapes — including the towering Wasatch Mountains coated in their world-famous snow.
Jennings has the chill buzz-cut air of a high school soccer coach. He moved to Utah from West Texas, where he managed a summertime cloud-seeding program. Now his focus is winter. Other states in the Colorado River Basin pay states like Utah,
Colorado and Wyoming to seed clouds and generate winter snowpack, given that so much usable water in the West comes from snow, he tells me. Utah’s program is the best-funded at the state level. In 2023, the state Legislature allocated a one-time $12 million payment and $5 million per year to support cloud seeding.
The threat of the Great Salt Lake drying up helped push that investment, he says. Historically, the state flew piloted aircraft into storms to seed the clouds and also launched cloud-seeding chemicals from the ground. Utah now contracts with Rainmaker to carry out its cloud-seeding efforts; its
for “Seeded and Natural Orographic Wintertime Clouds: The Idaho Experiment.” That study, published in the Bulletin of the American Meteorological Society, showed for the first time that cloud seeding with silver iodide from an airplane did result in ice crystallization and the generation of snow. The paper describes “unambiguous seeding signatures” in the clouds. The cloud-seeding airplanes used in the study flew back-and-forth patterns over Idaho, perpendicular to the wind. As the wind blew the cloud-seeding materials around, a zigzagging pattern of crystallization became visible on radar imagery.
IT’S NOT ABOUT CREATING CLOUDS — MUCH LESS CREATING WATER — JUST TEASING SNOW OUT OF WINTER STORMS THAT ARE ALREADY PASSING THROUGH.
The experiment, which took place over an area of about 20 square miles, generated enough precipitation to fill 285 Olympic swimming pools, says Sarah Tessendorf, a scientist at the National Center for Atmospheric Research and lead author on SNOWIE. While this is “not a negligible amount” of water, it’s still “a rather small augmentation to the natural cloud process,” she says. “It’s not transforming a cloud from nothing to a flood. We’re giving it a little extra squeeze.”
Many questions are unanswered, and it’s notoriously difficult to measure the efficacy of cloud seeding after a given storm or to predict how much can be squeezed out of a cloud.
Still, SNOWIE was enough to contribute to Doricko’s decision to start Rainmaker.
I ask him to describe the company’s culture.
drone program is a new addition, aiming to improve safety and efficacy.
For a long time, it was entirely unclear if cloud seeding was at all effective. Practitioners like Jennings swore by the technology, but it was haunted by a vaguely snake-oil-salesman vibe.
Make it rain? By flying planes into clouds and spraying chemicals? Sure.
That started to change, Jennings tells me, with the release of a report in 2019.
In cloud-seeding land, the report goes by a single name: “ SNOWIE ,” which is short, roughly, if you ignore one word,
He hesitates at first.
“We like the taste of blood in our mouth,” he says. “And that sounds psychotic, and it’s deliberately a little bit (psychotic) because it acts as, like, a good filter for talent.”
“DO YOU KNOW who David Koresh is?”
I’d asked Jennings, the Utah meteorologist, what he thought of Doricko when they first met. Jennings’ reference to the leader of a religious cult who died — along with more than 70 of his followers in Waco, Texas — during a 1993 standoff with the FBI, took me totally by surprise.
“When (Doricko) first reached out to me, this was February of ’24,” Jennings tells me. “So, I looked up their website, which had a link to his Twitter page. I opened it up and here’s this guy with this huge mullet with a jean jacket on and a Jesus T-shirt underneath.
“I’m like, ‘Oh crap, this is David Koresh!’” he says. “‘This is a cloud-seeding cult.’ I was very skeptical going into that first meeting with them.” (Jennings says he quickly changed his mind about Doricko and now sees him as an inspirational leader and strategic thinker. “He just has this aura — leadership,” Jennings tells me. “You can feel it come off him.”)
Doricko has said in interviews and social media posts that it’s worthwhile to “control the weather” — and that he’s on a mission from God to do it. (In one example from last year, Doricko responded to then-Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg’s post about extreme weather and the threat it poses to supply chains by writing, “We should just control the weather then.”)
One of Rainmaker’s software systems is named Prophet. Its proprietary radars and drones, the basis for its claim to the future of cloud seeding (given that they seek to prove its efficacy), carry the names Eden and Elijah, respectively — Eden because the company aims to recreate the “Edenic conditions” that preceded this era of drought, Doricko tells me; Elijah, because of a Bible verse he likes from 1 Kings. “As surely as the Lord lives,” he recalls, “no rain or dew will fall during the next few years unless I command it.”
He’s a fan of citing Bible verses like that.
“The real motivating principle behind all this is from Genesis 1: 26–28,” Doricko tells me. “In Genesis, one of the first commands that God gives us — prior to the fall, prior to sin, like it was a good thing for us to do — was to take dominion over and steward the Earth, the seas and the skies, right? And when I read that, I was really struck. I was thinking about what company to build. I was struck by the fact that the skies, we have no dominion or stewardship over whatsoever. And if it’s just a physics problem to
mitigate droughts, mitigate hail, mitigate severe weather and flooding, and we’re not doing that, then we’re actually, like, abdicating that God-given responsibility to be good stewards of the planet and of the creation that he gave us.
“So cloud seeding — Rainmaker — is, I hope, a work of faith.”
If farmers and ranchers tame the land, he aims to tame the skies.
Why conserve water if you can summon it?
“It always seems to be a choice either between human well-being and quality of life and the environment,” he tells me. “And I think that there should be a vision for the symbiosis of those things. I want Utah to
cloud-seeding efforts, which do not create those patterns in the sky.
These are folks who rant, without evidence, about “chemtrails” being used by the government to control the weather and people’s minds. Robert F. Kennedy Jr., the secretary of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, has been accused of helping to spread this conspiracy theory by insinuating that the government is using planes to spray chemicals.
Others fear the government could induce weather disasters. This summer, some conservative lawmakers claimed without evidence that cloud seeding was used to prompt the deadly floods in Texas. “We must end the dangerous and deadly practice of weather modification and geoengineering,” U.S. Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene, R-Ga., wrote on social media.
“IT ALWAYS SEEMS TO BE A CHOICE EITHER BETWEEN HUMAN WELL-BEING AND QUALITY OF LIFE AND THE ENVIRONMENT. I THINK THAT THERE SHOULD BE A VISION FOR THE SYMBIOSIS OF THOSE THINGS.”
grow and have more energy and more farming and more people living in it — while having a more full lake. And that’s what I think we’ll see.”
THIS CONTROL-THE-WEATHER, “UNLESS I command it” attitude rubs plenty of people the wrong way. Rainmaker staff are used to being asked why they’re “playing god.” When you throw in some unsubstantiated conspiracy theories, you have a thunderous backlash to cloud seeding brewing.
Some of the critique comes from a confusion over what cloud seeding is, Jennings says. People conflate the idea of airplane contrails — the water-vapor ribbons that follow commercial jets on clear days — with
“I’m big on God and just letting him work his magic, not people trying to play God,” Tim Burchett, a Republican representative from Tennessee, told the conservative news channel Real America’s Voice.
Doricko defended cloud seeding on CNN, saying that cloud seeding could not possibly have produced the amount of rainfall that caused so much damage and death in Texas.
Opposition comes from other parts of the political spectrum, too. Some environmentalists and tribal governments oppose cloud seeding over concerns about the safety of silver iodide, that yellow-green chemical used by Rainmaker and others.
A U.S. Government Accountability Office report in 2024 found the use of silver iodide at current levels does not pose a documented risk to human health or the environment; however, the agency report continues, “it is not known whether more widespread use of silver iodide would have an effect.”
At least eight other states — California, Colorado, Idaho, Nevada, New Mexico, North Dakota, Texas and Wyoming — operate cloud-seeding programs, according to that same Government Accountability Office report. Yet 10 states now ban or are considering banning the practice. That
THE MOMENT THE DROUGHT BREAKS IS MORE MEMORABLE THAN THE SLOW AND DESOLATE YEARS WITHOUT WATER.
includes Florida and Tennessee, which passed bans this year and last, respectively.
The backlash has turned threatening in some cases.
Jennings started receiving death threats in February after the Division of Water Resources posted a link on its Facebook page to a blog explaining the science of cloud seeding — part of a series meant to dispel myths that the practice is part of the “chemtrail” conspiracy. The Facebook post erupted, and threatening messages started rushing in.
“Three thousand comments and probably a dozen death threats later, we finally decided to end our social media engagement,” Jennings tells me.
The day the death threats started, Jennings says he threw his phone in his home basement and shut the door, hoping to avoid the onslaught of GIFs of shotguns and other meme-ish threats. He discovered that someone had posted his address online and commenters were suggesting they take revenge, with one writing, he says, that “I was this devil and I needed to be dealt with.”
This was a Saturday.
“That Sunday I was at Scheels buying a pistol,” he says.
CONFESSION: I HAVE a talent for droughtbusting.
Colleagues used to tease me about it when I was a producer at CNN.
There were at least two or three instances where I showed up to a major drought — places where it hadn’t rained in weeks or months — only to, seemingly, bring the rain with me.
The starkest example: I’d flown to the Texas Panhandle in 2011 to follow a rancher as he gave up on the cattle business and sold his entire herd because it hadn’t been raining enough to grow hay and keep the cattle alive. Before dawn, I drove out to meet the rancher. Rain pattered the windshield. Locals stood outside letting the water hit their faces. “Like manna from heaven,” one of them said.
The rancher didn’t end up selling the herd.
I love that story. The moment the drought breaks is more memorable than the slow and desolate years without water. But the reality is that those “manna” moments are few and far between in today’s world. We must learn to survive megadroughts like the one wreaking havoc on the West; and deadly floods, like those seen in Texas. We’ve known for a long time that eliminating fossil fuel pollution will make things better. To date, however, the world continues to emit more heat-trapping pollution each year.
While I’m visiting Rainmaker and Utah, the entirety of the state is listed as experiencing moderate to severe drought, according to the U.S. Drought Monitor. The night before I meet Doricko at the dusty expanse
of the Great Salt Lake, however, I’m lying in bed as I hear it: the low rumble of thunder. I have to walk outside to be sure I’m not just hearing things. Sure enough, the ground is wet.
The next day, a dense gray bed of clouds hangs in the sky. A Rainmaker employee tells me that, if it were winter, this would be a great day to seed the clouds and make snow. The clouds are there. They just need to be told it’s time to rain. And maybe we have the power to tell them?
It feels nice to believe that. It’s more difficult to look clear-eyed at the fact that Utah, and much of the world, really, is vastly overspending its water budget in these drier times. A recent paper suggests a 35 percent reduction in water use — most from agriculture — is needed to bring the Great Salt Lake back to health. Doing that involves painful choices. The promise of Rainmaker is that you don’t have to choose. You just use technology to command the sky to produce water when and where you need it.
Before leaving the warehouse, I look for Doricko to say goodbye. I find him outside, on the phone, sitting in some gravel and smoking a cigarette beneath the shade of a tree. The tree’s harsh shadow catches my eye because the light had been so flat earlier, dimmed by clouds.
I look up to find a sky that’s now blue and blazing hot.
The clouds have vanished.
SCHOOLED
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THE STATE SPONSORS HOMESCHOOLING?
BY NATALIA GALICZA
When Anna Mock started homeschooling her kids over a decade ago, she had a second grader, a kindergartener and a $200 yearly budget between the two of them. It covered math and grammar lessons and some art supplies from Walmart. Whatever else she needed, she outsourced. They went on field trips to free museums and hikes out in central Utah to learn more about the world around them. They maxed out their library checkouts, borrowing 70 books at a time from their local branch in Spanish Fork to pore over at home. They scrimped and saved to make do with what they had. And it all worked out just fine with that shoestring budget, at least for a while.
For generations, state governments funded only public education. If a family chose to bring up their children outside of the public school system, the financial burden fell on the family, which, according to a report by the Home School Legal Defense Association, costs, on average, about $1,500 per child. Today, though, homeschooling is experiencing a renaissance. It’s more popular,
more diverse and more varied than ever. And politicians are paying attention. A 2023 analysis by The Washington Post found that it’s the fastest-growing form of education in the country and that, in many states, the number of homeschooled students increased by more than 50 percent since 2017. In July, Congress approved the first national school voucher system. State governments
Utah Fits All Scholarship program less than two years ago. Though they’re not without their controversies.
are likewise stepping in to create Education Savings Accounts and voucher programs that provide families with thousands — sometimes up to $30,000 — in taxpayer dollars to cover the costs associated with alternative schooling. These programs exist in more than a dozen states, with a cluster in the West, including Arizona, Montana, Wyoming and Utah — which launched the
Utah Gov. Spencer Cox signed HB215 into law in January 2023, which created the Utah Fits All Scholarship, a program that offers private schooling families up to $8,000 per child and homeschooling families up to $6,000 per child for education expenses. Mock received the scholarship last year and used the money to pay for advanced English classes, prep for college admissions exams, math tutors, and fees for extracurricular activities like choir and debate — higher-end resources that her family might not have had access to otherwise. But then, in May 2024, the Utah Education Association (the state’s largest teachers’ union) filed a lawsuit against the program. The following April, a 3rd District Court judge deemed the scholarship unconstitutional for not being freely and equally available to all students, and for misusing funds designated for public education.
The state has appealed to the Utah Supreme Court, which will decide whether the law is unconstitutional, and whether it
fuels options for a few at the expense of a public resource. A Deseret News/Hinckley Institute poll from May found that a majority of respondents, 62 percent, at least somewhat support the scholarship. Regardless of whether the program sticks around
for good, its genesis is indicative of something far larger. In the half-century since homeschooling came into contention with public education, it has never been as mainstream or publicly funded as it is today. This is a win for advocates who see educational
choice as a fundamental freedom. “When my first was born, I just kept thinking, I don’t want to send him off so that someone else can raise him,” Mock says. She’s been homeschooling her children for more than a decade now. “They’re getting a high-quality
MICHAEL WARAKSA
education. It’s just not regulated. And maybe that’s scary for people.”
Yet, these programs also carry consequences for the future of government oversight and what social welfare means in this moment in the nation. And, for some, how people choose to educate their children isn’t the scary part — it’s the implications of how private lifestyle choices are publicly funded and the far-flung impacts it might have on the state of American education in the generations to come.
MODERN HOMESCHOOLING PICKED up in the 1970s as a refuge for counterculture leftists who viewed public schools as too conservative. It was only about a decade later, in the 1980s, that a new movement grew, spurred by Supreme Court rulings starting in the 1960s that banned public school prayer, mandatory Bible readings and creationism lessons in schools. Evangelicals and fundamentalist Christians — who stressed a focus on families, moral education and religious values — turned to homeschooling because they felt that the growing push to make public schools secular corrupted or indoctrinated their kids. So, rather than continuing the push to transform state schools, many frustrated families pulled their kids out of them altogether.
Both movements involved people — whether liberal or conservative, urban or rural — who sought their own solutions to what they viewed as systematic shortcomings. It’s a familiar rallying cry for autonomy that exists in today’s school choice and parental rights in education movements. But it was niche for its time. The federal government didn’t legalize homeschooling nationwide until 1993. The National Center for Education Statistics began tracking the number of homeschooled children in 1999, when only 1.7 percent of students fell into the category. That number doubled to 3.4 percent in 2012, then leveled off until the Covid-19 pandemic forced schooling to move inside the home.
The United States Census estimates 5.4 percent of families homeschooled in the
spring of 2020, which increased to 11.1 percent by the fall. Utah saw the same rate of increase, reaching 5.7 percent in the spring and 11.2 percent in the fall. As the virus spread, so did a general distrust in government and public institutions. Americans fought against school closures, as well as masking policies and vaccine mandates when schools opened back up. That dovetailed with the banning of more books than at any other time in our country’s history, and laws being passed to limit discussions of racism and sexism in classrooms. The distrust that formed during these moments still lingers. There are still more students homeschooling today than in pre-pandemic years.
When the Utah Fits All Scholarship
EVERY YEAR SINCE
ITS INTRODUCTION, THE UTAH FITS ALL PROGRAM HAS INCREASED
THE TOTAL APPROPRIATED FUNDS FOR HOMESCHOOLING AND PRIVATE SCHOOLING VOUCHERS, FROM SOME $40 MILLION TO MORE THAN $120 MILLION.
launched, it offered up to 5,000 families a lump sum of $8,000 to go toward private school or homeschooling expenses for the school year. The state Legislature appropriated $42 million in taxpayer funds in order to make that possible, and determined appropriate expenses by preapproving a list of categories. These categories were broad: educational supplies, exam fees, tutoring services, electronics, physical education, extracurriculars. The state constitution says that “a student’s parent is the primary person responsible for the education of the student, and the state is in a secondary and supportive role to the parent,” so it was determined that parents should be permitted to use the money at their own discretion, so long as their needs fit under those loose categories.
That first year, about 80 percent of voucher recipients were homeschoolers. Because there are as many ways to homeschool a child as there are children, the exact breakdown of how families used the scholarship varied wildly, but enough used it for seemingly frivolous activities to incite controversy. A Deseret News/Hinckley Institute of Politics poll found a majority of respondents, 63 percent, agree that field trips are an appropriate use of the scholarship fund. But what’s a field trip? About 60 percent found it inappropriate to use the money to buy passes to ski resorts, which some families did. Lawmakers allocated another $40 million in taxpayer dollars for the total program budget in early 2024, granting up to 10,000 students a scholarship. But the amounts and conditions changed to $4,000 a year for homeschooled students ages 5 to 11, and $6,000 for those 12 to 18 years old.
Such is the central challenge in operating a program like Utah Fits All in the first place. In a state so insistent on prioritizing the rights parents have to their children’s education, how is it possible for the state to determine which extracurriculars are valid while not requiring any reporting or oversight of any other aspect of the child’s education? Does cashing thousands in taxpayer dollars made possible by a government program really count as limiting government involvement? The stakes are growing higher, too. Every year since its introduction, the Legislature has increased the total appropriated funds for the program, from some $40 million to more than $120 million for the 2026–27 school year.
Meanwhile, Utah ranks second to last in the nation for the amount spent per public school student, a sorry title that’s gone to either Utah or Idaho for the last three years. “I can’t even imagine how much better our public schools would be funded with $122 million that should be going to those schools to start with. And when you look at the situation that we’re in with the funding issues from the Department of Education at the federal level, I think it’s probable that Utah is going to be losing a lot of funding,”
says Renée Pinkney, president of the Utah Education Association, the largest teacher’s union in the state, which represents more than 18,000 educators and acted as a plaintiff in the lawsuit against Utah Fits All. “We very well could be in a crisis.” Pinkney points to the role public schools play in communities that use school buildings as polling places, food pantries for low-income students and families, community hubs with free entertainment or adult English classes. “It is the foundation of our democracy,” she says, to use taxpayer money to benefit more people across all income levels and demographics.
In 2017, Utah stopped officially tracking the number of homeschoolers when a change in legislation allowed parents to submit a single written notice that they’d be homeschooling their children, rather than one notice every school year. Earlier this year, HB209 removed the requirement for any notice whatsoever. “The way our state is set up, parents have a lot more autonomy to decide what they feel is best for their children,” says Ryan Bartlett, director of communications for the Utah State Board of Education. “Utah has always been pretty open to letting parents have the first and largest say in how their children are educated.” As a result, superintendents at public schools across Utah surveyed by Deseret Magazine report that many parents “don’t bother filing the homeschool affidavit with the school district,” which leaves an unknown number of kids unaccounted for.
This kind of opaqueness around enrollment with the state government is common for homeschoolers in the West. States like Idaho and Wyoming similarly don’t require parents to notify the state that they’ll be homeschooling their kids. Most other Western states besides Washington and Oregon require or enforce little else from parents besides a notification. In Utah, parents are also free from any rules regarding teacher qualifications, curriculum, or instruction time. Though several studies have found that homeschooled students perform on par or even better than their
institutionally schooled counterparts — in K-12 and in college — this still leaves no way to ensure that the world’s future voters, parents, politicians and professionals are receiving an education in line with national standards, especially if they are receiving taxpayer-funded state benefits. “We have an essentially unregulated regime in the area of homeschooling,” Elizabeth Bartholet, a Harvard law professor emeritus and nationally recognized expert on child welfare, told Harvard Magazine. “That means, effectively, that people can homeschool who’ve never gone to school themselves, who don’t read or write themselves.”
HOMESCHOOLING AND PUBLIC education are no longer mutually exclusive. The funding public schools receive hinges on enrollment. So, the more students who drop out
“I CAN’T EVEN IMAGINE HOW MUCH BETTER OUR PUBLIC SCHOOLS WOULD BE FUNDED WITH $122 MILLION THAT SHOULD BE GOING TO THOSE SCHOOLS TO START WITH.”
to be homeschooled, the less money goes toward keeping the lights on and fulfilling the needs of public school students. That correlation is not lost on lobbyists like Allison Sorensen, a principal supporter of the Utah Fits All voucher program, who made headlines in 2023 for voicing in a leaked audio recording that she hoped to destroy public education. “Let’s actually take the money out of the public school system,” she said in the recording. “We’ll change the way we fund the program so that it literally is pulling that money straight from the school.” Sorensen has since apologized, and other program supporters have denounced the comments. Yet the cashflow remains unchanged, and the program continues to pose a central irony: If it exists to promote freedom of choice and independence,
should taxpayers be obligated to pay for a pathway to education they might not use, agree with or benefit from?
Not to say that homeschoolers don’t need financial support. If homeschooling means spending an average of $1,500 per child and Utah has the largest household size in the country, then costs add up quickly for parents like Mock, who have six or more children. “I didn’t start homeschooling because I thought I’d get all this money, because there was no money,” she says. “I homeschooled because I love being with my children, they loved being home, and it just felt like the right thing to do for our family.”
Some families may have no choice but to homeschool, or have to make accommodations for children with health or cognitive complications. “I have a couple of kids with learning disabilities,” says Rhonda Hair, a parent of eight in Tooele who homeschools. Her daughter with high-functioning autism needed homeschooling in order to learn comfortably. “She was developing some pretty severe anxiety. Every morning, when I was trying to get her to go to school, she would cry and refuse to get in the vehicle.”
In the Utah court ruling that deemed Utah Fits All unconstitutional, 3rd District Judge Laura Scott wrote in her decision that “the Program is a legislatively created, publicly funded education program aimed at elementary and secondary education, it must satisfy the constitutional requirements applicable to the ‘public education system’ set forth in the Utah Constitution,” yet it’s “not ‘open to all children of the state.’” Utah’s Supreme Court will decide for sure whether that stands in the months to come.
Whatever that final decision looks like, the generational push and pull between public and homeschooling will continue. And parents like Mock will still find themselves on one end of that rope. “I think everybody needs to find what works for them and where they’re comfortable and what meets all their needs. But this has met all of my needs. I really can’t think of a better life,” she says. “If it all went away, I would still homeschool my kids.”
ILLUSTRATION BY KATE
DEHLER
Its promise of exceptionalism is rooted in its generosity — to welcome the stranger, to believe all are created equal, or, as the Book of Matthew puts it: to feed the hungry, clothe the naked and to care for the least among us.
The biblical call to our higher angels, enshrined in our Declaration of Independence, has faced challenges in recent years, as public life has grown more fractured, isolated and even nihilistic. For whatever reason, the ethic of noblesse oblige — the understanding that to whom much is given, much is required — has faded from view, or importance. At a time when many feel pulled to focus inward, we are called to remember and renew the generosity of spirit that has always been one of our most powerful national traits.
To that end, this is the magazine’s first Philanthropy Issue, and something we’re calling The Deseret 50. To be clear, this is not a ranking, but rather a collection, in no particular order, of examples of giving worthy of emulating. The people, organizations and ideas highlighted here are game-changers in the world of giving — and not just in our community and across the West, but around the world. They are proof that generosity is not only alive and well, but evolving.
Take for example Christena Huntsman Durham, who turned her family foundation’s attention to mental health, pledging $150 million to erase stigma and expand care. Or MacKenzie Scott, who has upended the norms of big-money giving by trusting organizations to use her billions without strings attached.
Philanthropy, of course, has always been about more than family fortunes. Hali Lee has taken the Korean tradition of giving circles, pooling modest contributions into transformative support, and scaled it to more than $1 million in small grants for artistic and cultural products by people of Asian American and Native Hawaiian or Pacific Island ancestry. It’s a movement that’s gone supernova: One study found that from 2017 to 2023, nearly 4,000 giving circles in the U.S. donated a staggering $3.1 billion to charity.
Here in Utah, there are many innovators and trailblazers in the world of philanthropy, but when it comes to reinventing how we think about giving, perhaps no one has had a bigger impact than Kristin Andrus, whose message is that giving is as much about time as it is money, maybe even more so. She rallies Utah mothers to volunteer, weed gardens, assemble backpacks for
refugees and distribute hygiene products to those who need them most.
Across these pages, you’ll also find stories of grassroots collaboration and large-scale vision: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints, coordinating humanitarian relief in more than 190 countries; Jim Sorenson aligning every dollar of his foundation with its innovative mission; Hanna Skandera channeling a sports legend’s legacy into youth opportunity; and organizations like Utah’s Promise or Benefit Chicago proving the power of collective action.
The point is not to revere generosity as a rarefied act. It is to recognize that what has been called charity or service is, in fact, a fundamental human act, a natural impulse, even. A duty, yes, a responsibility and an opportunity open to all of us, to be sure, but also a blessing, one that enriches the giver as much as the recipient. We can give our skills, our patience, our attention. We can give locally or globally. We can give in ways seen and unseen.
The ethic we celebrate in this issue, then, is not charity as a performance, but generosity as a way of life. “The deed is everything,” Goethe said. “The glory is naught.”
At a time when so much pulls us apart, giving may be one of the surest ways to bring us back together. —JESSE HYDE
Christena Huntsman Durham
Christena Huntsman Durham grew up watching her father, Jon Huntsman Sr., give back to the community faster than he could make money. “His drive to make money was to give it away,” she says. “He wanted to make a difference because he saw all the good that came from it.”
Huntsman Sr. was part of the original Giving Pledge with Bill Gates and Warren Buffett, and his generosity made a difference in countless lives. Those early lessons in giving back stuck with Durham as she raised her seven children. When Huntsman Sr. died, his foundation, which had largely focused on finding a cure to cancer, was turned over to the next generation. Durham and her siblings were tasked with finding the “cancer of their generation” — and they chose mental health.
“Mental health is so different than cancer,”
Durham says. “You keep it close to your heart because the stigma is so great. You don’t share what you’re going through.”
The result was a $150 million pledge to the Huntsman Mental Health Institute, a first-of-its-kind facility dedicated to researching the genetic links to suicide and substance use. “We are proud to raise our hand and say, ‘This is in our family. This has been generational,’” Durham says. “I think at some point in all of our lives, we will be touched by mental health. We will either be picked up off the floor ourselves, or we’ll pick somebody else up off the floor.”
Durham is passionate about eliminating mental health stigma and ensuring everyone has access to the care they need. She urges every Utahn to download the SafeUT app, which provides 24/7 access to crisis counseling, and she’s working to bring that model to other states.
“We don’t have 30 years to figure this out. We are in crisis mode. Until we look at mental health and substance use as a brain disease, that’s not going to change,” Durham says. “We want to give people hope. We want them to know there are treatments and cures.” —MEKENNA MALAN
MACKENZIE SCOTT
MacKenzie Scott has only needed six years to become the most disruptive force the philanthropy world has ever seen. In May 2019, she also signed the Giving Pledge, promising to gift at least half of her wealth to philanthropic causes. The following year, she debuted at No. 4 on Forbes’ “richest women in the world” list, worth $36 billion, and got to work. She has since donated nearly $20 billion through her foundation, Yield Giving, whose minimalist website offers two definitions of the word “yield”: “1. to increase 2. to give up control.” Taken together, those six words sum up Scott’s seemingly simple, functionally revolutionary approach to philanthropy: Give talented people resources, and get the heck out of the way.
Generally speaking, philanthropy can be very bureaucratic. There are reporting requirements and layers of oversight. Many want a say in how the money is spent, and everyone expects to see progress reports. These hurdles are often well intentioned, designed to limit abuses and fraud. But Scott sidesteps them by vetting organizations personally, with the help of a small
At a time when many feel pulled to focus inward, we are called to remember and renew the generosity of spirit that has always been one of our most powerful national traits.
team, before giving away large sums with no strings attached. The idea, called “trust-based philanthropy,” gives proven and promising organizations the resources they need without any handholding. “I needn’t ask those I care about what to say to them, or what to do for them,” Scott wrote in a 2022 blog post. “I can share what I have with them to stand behind them as they speak and act for themselves.”
Time magazine wrote earlier this year that Scott is “rewriting the rules of philanthropy.” That’s true in a seismic, foundational sort of way — but also in a stylistic way. Scott announces annual donations in blog posts on Yield Giving’s website, often accompanied by some personal musings and a poem, or an inspirational quote. Beyond that, she’s completely silent about her giving. Her website says, in explicit terms, that she chooses “not to participate in events or media stories,” and that “opportunities for public recognition or attention” should be directed toward individual nonprofits. Even her methods for finding nonprofits to fund are hush-hush. In 2024, she did have an open call for applications, but most of Yield Giving’s recipients have been chosen via “Quiet Research” — an opaque process that is completed “as privately and anonymously” as possible to “limit burden,” and that culminates in Yield Giving reaching out to chosen organizations “to tell them we admire what they are doing and would like to give them an immediate gift for use however they choose.” It’s that easy. And, for a long-entrenched philanthropy elite, that is hard.
Scott’s philanthropy speaks for itself in terms of sheer volume and impact — a study released earlier this year by The Center for Effective Philanthropy found her strategy has had net-positive effects — but her approach also shares some similarities with her past occupation of writing novels. Like a great work of literary fiction, her giving is sweeping in scope — but also subtle, even vague. She doesn’t explain herself because she doesn’t have to. The disruptive words on the page, so to speak, speak for themselves. —ETHAN BAUER
Darren Walker
Before Darren Walker became president of the Ford Foundation, a $16 billion philanthropic organization and one of the foremost social justice organizations in the world, he was a beneficiary of publicly and philanthropically funded assistance programs. Walker was born to a single mother in a charity hospital. He lived in a shotgun house on an unpaved road in Texas. In preschool, he was selected for the Head Start program, aimed at reducing poverty. He relied on a Pell Grant and scholarships to earn his undergraduate and law degrees. He has called his experience a “mobility escalator,” a firsthand account of how organizations aimed at improving social good can alter the trajectory of a person’s life. And he’s committed his professional life to paying those opportunities forward.
Walker worked as a lawyer on Wall Street before entering the philanthropic field through organizations like the Rockefeller Foundation, where he oversaw the Rebuild New Orleans initiative following Hurricane Katrina, and the
Abyssinian Development Corporation, where he worked to build affordable housing in Harlem. As president of the Ford Foundation, Walker created a $1 billion social bond to sustain nonprofits during the uncertainty of the Covid-19 pandemic, making the foundation the first in history to do so.
Though he’s stepping down as president at the end of the year, his impact will leave a lasting mark on the Ford Foundation through the grants he spearheaded to further issues like criminal justice reform and arts and culture initiatives, which earned him the National Humanities Medal in 2023. “The reason I’m so singularly focused on inequality today is because I want little boys and girls, wherever they are, if they’re living in housing projects in the Bronx and they’re Black or Brown or they’re living in rural towns that have been ravaged by opioids, I want them to be able to dream and to feel as I did,” he told Stanford Business in March, “that America wants you to succeed, your country is enabling you to be a success and to get on the mobility escalator.”
—NATALIA GALICZA
JIM SPELLMAN/WIREIMAGE
“Faith communities are perfectly positioned to do this because we’re very good at trying to make humanity come together and achieve a larger goal.”
SHARON EUBANK
Steve Young
During the early days of Steve Young’s Hall of Fame career with the San Francisco 49ers, the legendary BYU quarterback attended a talk given by writer Stephen Covey. The bestselling author of “The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People” shared some wisdom Young still thinks about often: “If you want to change the world,” Covey said, “you need to change a kid’s life.” That idea led Young to found the Forever Young Foundation way back in 1993 — right between his two MVP seasons; two years before his third and final Super Bowl; and six years before his retirement.
Funded in large part by charity golf tournaments and corporate sponsorship, the Forever Young Foundation operates a range of youth-oriented services in the United States and Ghana, from mental health campaigns to tech accessibility to music therapy. One sports complex the foundation built in Ghana in the mid-2000s led to the discovery of Ezekiel “Ziggy” Ansah, who dominated on the newly constructed soccer field, befriended some Latter-day Saint missionaries, joined the church and
eventually enrolled at BYU, where he walked onto the football team in 2010 and became the fifth-overall pick in the 2012 NFL draft. That’s Young’s “favorite piece of foundation trivia,” he told Golf Digest in 2019. But it’s also emblematic of how impactful — and unexpected — philanthropy can be.
He’s especially proud of the foundation’s longevity as it winds through Year 32. It maintains a four-star rating with Charity Navigator — the top score possible — and continues to expand. In July, it opened its ninth location of “Sophie’s Place” — the foundation’s flagship music therapy program — at the Intermountain Primary Children’s Hospital, Miller Family Campus in Lehi. Young himself attended and helped snip the ribbon, singing the praises of music therapy’s promise. The event recalled the advice he got from Steven Covey — and something else he told Golf Digest in 2019, a long way from the foundation’s forging. “We’re not the largest children’s charity,” he said then, “but I think we’re one of the best.” —EB
LATTER-DAY SAINT HUMANITARIAN SERVICES
The humanitarian aid efforts of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints have grown into a vast global operation that reaches far beyond Utah. The mission is simple: relieve suffering, foster selfreliance, and provide opportunities for service. But the scale is staggering. In 2023 alone, the organization reported more than 4,000 projects across 191 countries and territories.
The church funds maternal and newborn care programs in sub-Saharan Africa, provides emergency response following
hurricanes and earthquakes, and coordinates food security projects from Latin America to Southeast Asia. Its approach reflects the church’s institutional pragmatism: carefully structured collaborations with established NGOs — think UNICEF, the Red Cross, and Catholic Relief Services — rather than going it alone.
That collaboration model is strategic. By piggybacking on existing networks, the church is able to mobilize resources quickly, often funneling millions of dollars into relief efforts within days of a disaster.
The result is both efficiency and reach. When war in Ukraine displaced millions in 2022, the church sent food, clothing and hygiene kits to refugee camps in Poland and Romania within weeks, largely through partner agencies.
Within the humanitarian sector, church humanitarian aid is respected for its consistency and reliability. Its wheelchairs, clean water systems and neonatal resuscitation training programs aren’t one-off publicity stunts; they’re decades-long commitments that have created measurable impact. —JH
HAITIAN REFUGEE JOUSELINE MELAYER HOLDS HER BABY, JAYDEN, AT THE FAMILY TRANSFER CENTER IN HOUSTON. THE CENTER PROVIDES A TEMPORARY RESPITE FOR FAMILIES WHO HAVE BEEN CLEARED AT THE U.S. BORDER AND NEED SHORT-TERM SHELTER AND FOOD. THE CREATION OF THE FAMILY TRANSFER CENTER IS THE RESULT OF A COLLABORATION BETWEEN THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS, CATHOLIC CHARITIES, AND OTHER FAITH BASED GROUPS AND CHARITIES.
ROBERT F. SMITH
Standing at a lectern in a crimson robe, Robert F. Smith had a surprise for the 2019 graduates of Morehouse College, a historically Black college in Atlanta. He saved it for the very end, but it was worth waiting for. “My family is making a grant to eliminate their student loans,” he said. “Because we are enough to take care of our own community. We are enough to ensure we have all the opportunities of the American dream.” Smith would know. He’s the founding CEO of Vista Equity Partners, a software-focused private equity firm that manages over $100 billion in assets. Smith himself is worth over $10 billion. That one-time debt forgiveness
pledge cost around $34 million, but Smith wasn’t done.
Over the past 11 years, he’s given hundreds of millions to a wide range of causes including education, social justice and cultural and environmental preservation. His philanthropic organization, the Fund II Foundation, specifically focuses on grants to charities that “improve the daily lives and long-term potential of those in Black and Brown communities.” During his speech at Morehouse, he closed by imploring the graduates to follow his lead. “Let’s make sure,” he said, “every class has the same opportunity going forward.” —EB
21 N. CLAY ROBBINS
Chairman and CEO of Indiana’s Lilly Endowment Inc., N. Clay Robbins led the foundation to increase its giving to more than $2.2 billion last year. The country’s second-largest private foundation, focusing on community development, education and religion, has awarded $100 million grants to institutions like Purdue University and the National Park Foundation.
—VALERIE BRAYLOVSKIY
22 BADR JAFAR
Badr Jafar — CEO of Crescent Enterprises and United Arab Emirates’ Special Envoy for Business and Philanthropy — got involved in strategic philanthropy in 2010, when he founded the nonprofit Pearl Initiative to advance corporate governance in the Gulf region. A decade later, he became the founding patron of strategic philanthropy centers at two different universities, and most recently published “The Business of Philanthropy.” —VB
Kristin Andrus
Kristin Andrus believes in getting her hands dirty and her heart broken as often as possible. It’s a mantra that’s guided her and her family toward volunteer work and charitable giving for years. It’s what she told herself when she founded SisterGoods in 2020, a grassroots organization that distributes seven million free menstrual products each year through the Utah Food Bank. And it’s what she continues to tell herself now, as founder of Gathering for Impact, a family foundation that offers
quarterly boot camps for women across the state to connect with nonprofit organizations and learn how they can best serve their own communities.
The central mission behind Gathering for Impact, Andrus says, is proving that anyone can make a difference. It doesn’t require billions of dollars or a Rolodex of prestigious connections. All it requires is passion and a knowledge of where to start. “I would find fun, unique, easily accessible ways for families to give back, and then invite women and kids to come with us and do it. … I think what was attractive to families was that this isn’t about writing a check. This isn’t about how much you are giving to a local nonprofit,” she says. “Everybody wants to help. They just don’t know how to do it. And so when you offer a place, a way to donate or to buy supplies, or whatever
it may be, it creates this beautiful community.” Andrus shows women and families how to create tangible change, like gathering hundreds of women to assemble and donate backpacks of supplies to refugee families.
Whether fundraising tens of thousands of dollars in donations for the Christmas Box House — an emergency shelter for youth experiencing abuse, neglect or homelessness — or simply pulling weeds with community members, Andrus works to make philanthropy accessible for women across Utah. “Finding ways to contribute in your country, in your state, in your city, in your neighborhood … is truly the richest, best part of life,” she says. “There is nothing you can buy or consume or experience that will create a deeper sense of joy and fulfillment.” —NG
23 OPRAH WINFREY
Oprah Winfrey, dubbed the “queen of all media,” is also a celebrated philanthropist — contributing over $400 million to organizations that serve children, families and communities through her foundation. In 2004, Winfrey was the founding, single largest donor to the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture. She opened the Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academia for Girls in South Africa in 2007, transforming the lives of over 525 graduates from disadvantaged backgrounds. —VB
24 THE AUDACIOUS PROJECT
The Audacious Project, housed at TED since 2018, is a collaborative funding initiative that’s invested more than $6.6 billion in the world’s most promising changemakers. More than $725 million was raised to support the 2024 cohort, and their 10 social innovations. Projects ranged from large-scale coral restoration across Australia and the Pacific using heat-tolerant corals to an AI -powered system that repurposes generic drugs for life-changing treatments. —VB
Hanna Skandera
Years before leading one of the Rocky Mountain region’s largest foundations, Hanna Skandera stood on the other side of its impact — as a Daniels Fund grantee while serving as New Mexico’s secretary of Education. Since 2020, she’s led the $1.7 billion Daniels Fund with that same bold vision, while honoring founder Bill Daniels’ legacy. Daniels — who brought Utah its first professional sports team, the American Basketball Association’s Utah Stars — pioneered the Daniels Scholarship Program, which has awarded over 5,000 college scholarships across four Mountain West states.
Skandera doesn’t shy away from complex issues, meeting them head-on by investing in scalable solutions. Her Big Bets strategy has already catalyzed over $433 million in funding partnerships. A former college track athlete and coach currently serving on the steering committee for the 2034 Utah Olympic and Paralympic Winter Games, Skandera has led the fund to invest in youth sports access, supporting organizations like Utah’s National Ability Center. “It’s about more than the game,” Skandera says. “It’s about giving young people across Utah and throughout America the confidence and opportunity to chase their dreams.” —VB
JIM SORENSON
Jim Sorenson’s journey into philanthropy began with a pivot. In the early 2000s, his video conferencing company was struggling after the dot-com bust when a brother-in-law who was deaf introduced him to a new service enabling real-time communication between deaf and hearing people via remote interpreters. Sorenson shifted focus to serve that niche, and Sorenson Communications was born. The company quickly became both a financial success and a transformative force for the Deaf community — helping make users four times more employable.
That experience sparked a realization: Social problems could be solved through scalable businesses that also attracted investment capital. For more than two decades, Sorenson has applied that insight, becoming a leading figure in impact investing — directing both market-rate and philanthropic capital toward underserved communities. His Sorenson Impact Group runs an advisory arm, invests in funds targeting disabilities, affordable housing and other social determinants of health, and supports the Sorenson Impact Institute at the University of Utah to train the next generation.
Unlike most perpetual foundations that invest 95 percent of assets without regard to mission, Sorenson’s foundation invests its entire corpus in alignment with its purpose, seeking a “double bottom line” of financial return and measurable social good. He calls his approach “catalytic philanthropy,” where the impact far exceeds the size of the initial donation.
One example he admires: the MacArthur Foundation’s $25 million loan guarantee that leveraged over $1 billion in small-business loans for sustainable agriculture, energy and communities in Africa and Latin America.
“We’re reaching about 1.7 billion people globally through the businesses, funds and investments we’ve made. That’s a ripple effect that is great to be part of,” Sorenson says. “And we hope that by building this ecosystem, we’re helping others to be able to experience the same thing.” —JH
GAIL MILLER
For Larry and Gail Miller, business success was always inseparable from community responsibility. That ethos of stewardship is now carried forward through the Larry H. & Gail Miller Family Foundation, which channels the family’s resources into strengthening the social fabric of Utah and beyond. The foundation’s multigenerational giving is rooted in five pillars — health and medicine, shelter and food security, education and skill development, jobs and economic self-reliance, and cultural and spiritual enrichment.
What distinguishes the Miller family foundation is not simply the scope of its giving, but the philosophy behind it. The foundation’s impact principles emphasize listening closely to community voices, prioritizing outcomes over outputs, and building collaborations that amplify results.
To foster collaboration, the Miller family harnesses their convening power by gathering 200 philanthropists and community leaders annually to share best practices, discuss pressing issues and find ways to do good together.
MILLER (CENTER) HAS LED HER FAMILY FOUNDATION TO THINK ABOUT THE NEXT GENERATION OF GIVING.
In 2024, the Larry H. & Gail Miller Family Foundation awarded more than $40 million in grants to nonprofits across all 29 Utah counties. As part of this effort, the Foundation prioritized rural communities through its General Operating (GO) grants.
At the same time, the foundation has launched an ambitious place-based philanthropy effort. The Westside Community Grant Initiative, introduced in 2024, provided 38 grants to strengthen nonprofits serving Salt Lake City’s west side neighborhoods. These investments are helping to expand access to health care, education, economic opportunity, and cultural enrichment — ensuring this diverse and vital part of Utah’s capital city continues to thrive.
All of this reflects what the Millers describe as a “virtuous cycle”: as the Larry H. Miller Company grows, its success fuels philanthropic investments, which in turn strengthen the very communities that sustain that growth. It is a legacy of love, leadership and long-term thinking — an investment not only in today’s needs but in the resilience of generations to come. —JH
HaliLee
Growing up in Kansas City, Hali Lee watched her parents take part in a geh — a Korean tradition of pooling money into a pot and taking turns receiving it. Lee adapted this practice to philanthropy, called a giving circle, founding The Asian Women Giving Circle over 20 years ago. It has since granted over $1 million to support creative projects by Asian American women in New York City. A longtime advocate for diversifying philanthropy, Lee also co-founded the Donors of Color Network and more recently, Radiant Strategies, a boutique philanthropy consulting practice. Her new book, “The Big We,” is all about reimagining philanthropy as community action. —VB
GAIL
MEG WHITMAN
During her tenure as eBay’s CEO (1998-2008), Whitman grew annual revenue from $4 million to $8 billion, enabling her and her husband, Griffith Harsh, to establish a charitable foundation in 2006 that, as of 2023, held assets worth $156 million. Yet Whitman’s philanthropic philosophy transcends mere financial contributions. She believes everyone can make an impact by giving not just money, but time and effort, as well as intellectual and social capital. This includes accepting board positions and advisory roles, particularly in her foundation’s focus areas: education and environmental causes. Whitman maintains that philanthropic commitment strengthens essential institutions, spurs innovation and creates social bonds through collaborative effort, ultimately building a more enduring society. —EB
25 EMERGENT VENTURES
Run by Mercatus Center faculty director Tyler Cowen at George Mason University, Emergent Ventures launched in 2018 to support entrepreneurs with “zero to one,” high-reward ideas. Focused on India, Africa and the Caribbean, and Ukraine, the fellowship and grant program awards ideas from people around the world — past projects included spreading 3D printers in rural Taiwan and using sanitation robotics in Ugandan medical centers. —VB
26 RURAL AND INDIGENOUS INVESTMENT
While only 20 percent of large funders give to Indigenous causes, more are recognizing the value of investing in Indigenous and rural communities. Utah’s Center for Rural Development, within the Governor’s Office of Economic Opportunity, supports economic development in the state’s rural counties through competitive grants, like providing $500,000 to fund Beaver County’s road upgrade for an industrial park. —VB
Lisa Eccles
In 1989, fresh out of the University of Utah with her art history degree, figuring she’d now travel the world and maybe find work at a museum somewhere exotic, Lisa Eccles agreed to a part-time job with the charitable foundation started by her Uncle George and Aunt Lolie, a position she thought would last “maybe six months, a year tops.”
Then she discovered something unexpected: how good it felt to write checks to people and causes that really needed the help.
Thirty-six years later, she’s still writing them.
Today, the George S. and Dolores Doré Eccles Foundation’s presence is felt in every corner of the Beehive State; a synonym, as is the Eccles surname, for service and giving. But in 1989, when Lisa Eccles started, it was largely an unknown entity. Foundations in general were relatively new, especially in Utah.
They gave her a desk, a letter opener and a telephone in the First Security Bank building on Main Street in downtown Salt Lake City. She was the foundation’s sole employee, advising a three-person board — her father, Spencer Eccles, among them — on nonprofit grant proposals. When the board approved funding, Lisa Eccles made sure the paperwork was in order. She even hand-wrote the checks.
“It was such a profound moment for me,” she remembers, “sitting in my office, by myself, thinking what a joy, knowing these funds were going to help our community — even though I didn’t know the
end user specifically, I knew we were making a difference.”
What began as a part-time job became a vocation. Three years in, her role became full time. A few years after that, she was invited to join the board. Since then, she has steered the foundation’s growth with a steady hand and a deeply personal sense of purpose.
In 1989, the foundation awarded $4.9 million in grants to 80 projects. Today, it distributes more than $27 million annually to around 400 projects — supporting everything from health care and education to the arts, social services, and conservation. Notable gifts include $70 million toward the University of Utah’s medical school (combined with another Eccles foundation for a total of $110 million) and $75 million in 2025 to build a new hospital in West Valley City — the foundation’s largest ever grant.
Since 1982, the foundation has granted nearly $1 billion while also growing its endowment to $1 billion — proof of its financial stewardship and philanthropic reach.
—LEE BENSON
27 LOR FOUNDATION
LOR, a place-based and private foundation, works with rural communities in the Mountain West on immediate and long lasting-impact solutions across areas like education, housing, the environment and health. In 2025, LOR’s Field Work initiative — focused on mental health in rural places — invested a total $500,000 in 26 projects, such as on-call peer support for first responders in rural Colorado, and a network of social interaction for senior citizens in Clearwater County, Idaho. —VB
LISA ECCLES AND HER FATHER SPENCER ECCLES
Utah’s Promise
When Utah’s Promise formed in July 2023 — combining United Way of Salt Lake, Promise Partnership Utah, 211 Utah and Utah’s Promise Philanthropic Alliance — it was more than a rebrand. What began as the Salt Lake Charity Association in 1904 has evolved into an organization that fully embraces what philanthropists call “collective impact” to improve outcomes for children and families. President and CEO Bill Crim says its behind-the-scenes role is by design. Rather than acting as a funder, Utah’s Promise serves as the backbone for teamwork across sectors — the heart of collective impact. “Utah has a high degree of social cohesion and capital,” Crim says. “When you couple that with rigorous collective impact practice and relentless focus on results, that’s the winning formula.” That formula is already working. Promise Partnership Utah, a cradle-to-career organization, unites public and private partners across eight Wasatch Front communities and six school districts. In Millcreek and South Salt Lake, the goal is that by 2028, 100 percent of students will graduate high school with a career plan and have their basic needs met. The name “Utah’s Promise” is intentional, a commitment that no child is left behind. —VB
“Everybody wants to help. They just don’t know how to do it. And so when you offer a place, a way to donate or to buy supplies, or whatever it may be, it creates this beautiful community.”
KRISTIN ANDRUS
WALTON FAMILY FOUNDATION
Helen Walton — co-founder of Walmart and, later, the Walton Family Foundation — had a favorite saying: “It’s not what you gather in life, but what you scatter in life, that tells the kind of life you have lived.” The foundation she and her husband Sam Walton left behind has chased that mission statement since 1987, through funding programs that improve education and protect watersheds in northwest Arkansas, the Arkansas-Mississippi Delta and the country at large. There’s even a Walton Family Foundation office in Colorado, since much of the foundation’s environmental work involves advocating for and researching the water shortages impacting the Colorado River. —NG
BILL CRIM
28 JACOB PRUITT
As president of Fidelity Charitable, the country’s largest donor-advised fund, Jacob Pruitt oversaw nearly $15 billion in grants last year — nearly twice as much as the Gates Foundation. A donor-advised fund offers individual donors up-front tax deductions but still gives them some control over how their money is disbursed. Pruitt has encouraged the organization to embrace technology, including cryptocurrency, which unlocked $786 million in new donations in 2024. —EB
29 KATHERINE LORENZ
Leading the Cynthia and George Mitchell Foundation, Katherine Lorenz trailblazes the “nexus of environmental protection, social equity, and economic vibrancy” in Texas by spearheading donations to causes like clean energy and sustainability science. But she also leads the “Giving Pledge Next Generation group,” or “Next Gen” — an outgrowth of the original Giving Pledge that encourages the signatories’ descendants to continue their families’ philanthropic legacies and uphold their commitments. —EB
30 JACK MA
Best known for founding the Asian e-commerce giant Alibaba, Jack Ma has also become one of the biggest names in global philanthropy. His nonprofit’s initiatives range from support for entrepreneurship and education in Africa and around the world to promoting women’s leadership, including via funding for the China women’s national soccer team. —EB
MARRIOTT DAUGHTERS FOUNDATION
More than a decade ago, sisters Julie, Sandy, Karen and Mary Alice formalized a family tradition of generosity by founding the Marriott Daughters Foundation. Built on the legacy of their parents’ transformative institutional gifts (think Brigham Young University’s Marriott Center or a $25 million gift earlier this year to the University of Utah to launch a hospitality program) the sisters have steered their foundation toward education and health care, with a personal twist.
For Mary Alice Hatch, that means an especially deep commitment to women’s health, including funding millions in endometriosis research — an effort inspired by her own daughter’s diagnosis. But it’s also important to think local, she says. “It’s important to improve the community you
live in, not just make these huge gifts,” she says. That philosophy has led to support for everything from a drama program at San Clemente High School to the Seacoast Symphony, which brings Los Angeles musicians to Dana Point.
Her parents’ foundation gives away 5 percent of its assets annually, with each of the sisters’ children granted a one-time gift of $25,000–$50,000 to support causes they care about — whether welding scholarships at Utah’s MTech colleges or local nonprofit initiatives. The goal: train the next generation to see philanthropy as a responsibility, not an afterthought.
That sense of duty extends beyond the family. The Marriotts joined Bill Gates' Giving Pledge, committing part of their wealth to charity and encouraging peers to do the same. “You have an obligation,” Hatch says, “when you’ve been given so much.”
From funding cutting-edge research to underwriting community theater, the Marriott Daughters Foundation embodies a blend of high-impact giving and grassroots investment. It’s a model rooted in the belief that philanthropy isn’t just about moving the needle on big problems — it’s also about making life tangibly better, right where you are. —JH
LAURA
SEITZ/DESERET NEWS
MARY ALICE HATCH
Benefit Chicago
A nonprofit that employs homeless and low-income people to work for local companies; a hydroponic farm in the inner city that grows fresh produce for underserved neighborhoods; a beekeeping company that enlists the formerly incarcerated to harvest fresh honey. These are the resources that have grown through Benefit Chicago, a collaborative effort formed by the Chicago Community Trust, MacArthur Foundation and Calvert Foundation in 2016. Benefit Chicago invests more than $100 million in nonprofits and social organizations across the city that focus on job creation, food justice, education, child care, affordable housing and energy conservation. It’s a hopeful model of how philanthropies across the country can uplift low-income and underrepresented groups in their own communities. —NG
Born in El Salvador, Celina de Sola’s childhood was split between her homeland and the United States. She “knew intuitively that something wasn’t right,” given the visible disparities among children, which led to the 2007 founding of Glasswing International — an organization that invests in kids across Latin America and the U.S. De Sola’s approach emphasizes community collaboration. “We can’t assume we know the answers,” she says. “We can’t assume we know what people want or need.” Start with humility, she believes. Then listen and help where you can. She prioritizes mental health and unlocking kids’ potential, but she believes in philanthropy’s broader promise. “Change in society starts at the individual level,” she says, “with each of us.” —EB
“We
can’t assume we know the answers. We can’t assume we know what people want or need.”
CELINA DE SOLA
Celina De Sola
JOHN D. AND CATHERINE T. MACARTHUR FOUNDATION
CELINA DE SOLA (CENTER)
Christy Turlington Burns
From the runways to the boardroom, fashion model-turned-philanthropist Christy Turlington Burns founded her organization, “Every Mother Counts,” after she experienced a childbirth complication. Since then, the former face of Calvin Klein has donated, raised and disbursed tens of millions of dollars toward improving global maternal health. —EB
34 LEVER FOR CHANGE
An outgrowth of the MacArthur Foundation, Lever for Change was founded in 2019 to drive billions in philanthropic funding toward “bold solutions” to our greatest problems, “including racial inequity, gender inequality, economic opportunity and climate change.” It has granted more than $2.5 billion toward a goal of unlocking $10 billion for proven problem solvers by the end of 2030. —EB
35 STAND TOGETHER
President and CEO of Big Brothers Big Sisters of America, Artis Stevens has transformed the nonprofit in the past five years. With experience at the National 4-H Council and Boys & Girls Club of America, Stevens has led BBBSA to double its funding, mentor kids and teenagers, and increase membership. —VB
32 PIERRE AND PAM OMIDYAR
After founding eBay in 1995, Pierre Omidyar and his wife, Pam, decided to use their fortune to improve humanity. They’ve since given over $4 billion to causes including strengthening civic institutions, supporting independent journalism, addressing youth mental health and ensuring AI is beholden to democracy. —EB
ELIZABETH ALEXANDER
President of The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation — the nation’s largest arts and humanities funder — Elizabeth Alexander has pioneered grants supporting diversity, like the Jazz Legacies Fellowship and the Monuments Project, which preserves and funds historical monuments. An esteemed scholar and poet, Alexander taught at Yale for over 15 years and was twice a Pulitzer Prize finalist. —VB
33 TGR FOUNDATION
Established by Tiger Woods to bring golf to kids, the TGR Foundation now encompasses a 35,000-square foot “Learning Lab” campus in Southern California; satellite locations across the country; and a wider focus on youth empowerment and education. The foundation has received consecutive four-star ratings from Charity Navigator since 2012. —EB
Industrialist Charles Koch’s 2003 initiative employs data-driven grantmaking through its trademarked “Customer First Measurement” system, which collects feedback from program beneficiaries to guide funding across economic development, health care, foreign policy and limited government initiatives. —EB
36 THE OTHER SIDE VILLAGE
This experimental solution to chronic homelessness opened late last year in Salt Lake City by offering not just stable, cottage-style housing, but also a network of peers to encourage accountability, structure and life skills development. The program initially built 60 homes, with hopes of eventually reaching 430. —EB
31 ARTIS STEVENS
37 WARREN BUFFETT
Over the last couple decades, 95-yearold philanthropist Warren Buffett donated about $60 billion to causes that combat issues like world hunger and human trafficking. Buffett, the seventhrichest person in the world, is honoring his 2006 pledge to donate more than 99 percent of his wealth in his lifetime. —NG
38 ASHA CURRAN
As CEO and co-founder of GivingTuesday, Asha Curran oversees a radical generosity movement that’s mobilized millions of people across six continents to give back to their communities by pursuing volunteer opportunities on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving. Curran helped nonprofits across the country raise $3.6 billion in a single day last year. —NG
39 JOHN PALFREY
The MacArthur Foundation distributes about $400 million in grants to nonprofits each year to support causes like climate action and justice reform. In light of federal funding cuts, MacArthur Foundation President John Palfrey plans to give an additional $80 million a year for the next couple years “so (nonprofits) can weather this period of disruption.” —NG
FAITH-BASED PHILANTHROPY
Among the largest is Catholic Charities, whose network of agencies operating independently under 168 dioceses last year provided food, housing and disaster relief to millions, all in the name of living out its religious values. Similar organizations abound across different faiths, from Quakers and Muslims to evangelicals and Latter-day Saints. —EB
42 JEFF ATWOOD COMMUNITY FOUNDATION OF UTAH
The Community Foundation of Utah is a “community convener” that collaborates with nonprofits, businesses and individuals to ensure philanthropies leave a local impact. Last year, the foundation’s grants and funds supported causes like preserving the Great Salt Lake’s watershed and bringing computer science programs to 4-H clubs and afterschool programs for rural youth. —NG
In 2021, tech entrepreneur Jeff Atwood sold Stack Overflow, an online informational network for computer programmers, for $1.8 billion. Rather than hoard that fortune, Atwood announced earlier this year that he plans to donate half his wealth within the next five years to combat American wealth inequality. —NG
ST. ANTHONY’S DAY IS CELEBRATED AT THE CHURCH OF SAINT ANTHONY IN PATRIARCA SQUARE IN SAO PAULO, BRAZIL.
43 BIG BANG PHILANTHROPY
As a funder network, Big Bang Philanthropy works with members who dedicate at least $1 million annually to mitigate poverty in low- and middle-income countries. Their money goes to groups like Educate Girls, which grants girls in rural India access to education, and mothers2mothers, which employs women living with HIV in sub-Saharan Africa. —NG
44 GIVEDIRECTLY
Why not cut out the middleman? That’s the guiding principle behind GiveDirectly, which donates cash to individuals around the world, not large organizations. GiveDirectly believes financial autonomy can accelerate the end of extreme poverty, whether that’s helping a young adult in Malawi buy life-saving farm equipment or a mother in Michigan afford prenatal and infant health care. —NG
45 GROUNDBREAK COALITION
The GroundBreak Coalition is a group of more than 40 corporate, civic and philanthropic partners building a new financial system in Minnesota that can be translated across the country. The coalition is investing in a more racially equitable middle class, creating thousands of new and diverse homeowners, entrepreneurs and jobs in the Minneapolis-St. Paul region. —NG
46 MORTENSON FAMILY FOUNDATION
With a board of directors featuring nine people named Mortenson, this Minnesotabased effort prioritizes family, from its leaders to its projects, with a particular interest in “impact investing” — meaning it funds a “big impact umbrella” that seeks positive social outcomes. —EB
Housing for Impact
This Utah-based partnership between two housing-focused nonprofits has promised to build 850 affordable units across the Wasatch Front over three years. Clark Ivory, leader of Ivory Homes, the largest
homebuilder in Utah, and the nonprofit Ivory Innovations, announced the opening of 240 such units in Lehi by declaring that the group is trying to “create a place where families and individuals can thrive.” —EB
48 MICHAEL BLOOMBERG
Michael Bloomberg was 2024’s top donor, giving $3.7 billion, per the Chronicle of Philanthropy. His gifts included $1 billion to Johns Hopkins to make medical school free for most students and $600 million to bolster medical-school endowments at four HBCUs. —JH
49 LI KA-SHING
At 96, Hong Kong tycoon Li Ka-shing — known as “Superman” for his business acumen — remains one of the world’s top philanthropists. He has given more than $3.8 billion since 1980, with recent gifts supporting cancer research, medical technology, and entrepreneurship at leading universities. —JH
Gates co-founded the Gates Foundation in 2000, then founded Pivotal Ventures in 2015 to focus on advancing the power and influence of women around the globe. She pledged to contribute $1 billion through 2026 to causes like improving women’s health and breaking workplace barriers. —NG
50 MELINDA FRENCH GATES
BY NICHOLAS TEDESCO AND MAGGIE MCGOLDRICK
or many families, giving is more than a tax-deductible act — it’s part of a family culture. Some give their time. Others their expertise. And for those with the resources, formal philanthropy becomes a way to pass down values, preserve legacy and engage successive generations in purposeful service.
But engaging the next generation in meaningful ways requires more than good intentions. It takes effort, flexibility and a willingness to share power.
At the National Center for Family Philanthropy, or NCFP, we’ve spent years working with families to explore how best to prepare rising generations for leadership. As we’ve learned, the most successful efforts aren’t always formal or expensive. But they are intentional.
GIVING A VOICE — AND A VOTE
According to NCFP’s “Trends 2025” study, 86 percent of family foundations say they’re encouraging next-gen involvement. But only 26 percent identify it as one of their board’s top priorities. The interest is there, but execution often falls short. Some foundations, like the Gibney, Laird
Norton and Tracy family foundations, have created formal programs to engage younger members through grantmaking. The Gibney Family Foundation’s next-gen group meets with grantees over video calls. At the Laird Norton Family Foundation, teens age 14 to 20 participate in the “Sapling Fund,” selecting issue areas — sometimes outside the foundation’s primary focus — and connecting with grantees via Zoom. For these families, virtual tools have become a bridge across geography and generations.
Grantmaking isn’t just an education tool — it’s a way to build autonomy. Young participants learn consensus-building, leadership and how to grapple with impact and trade-offs. “Grants are what excite our next generation,” says The Gibney Family Foundation CEO Tracy Wasden.
IN-PERSON, ON PURPOSE
Still, nothing replaces the power of gathering in person. Whether it’s cousin camp, a service day across five cities, or a family retreat in the Ozarks, these moments cultivate connection and community. They also expose young people to the foundation’s work in real time — through site visits, service projects and shared experiences.
Despite a decline in site visits across the sector, families who want their next
generation to care deeply about philanthropy often find that direct engagement with grantees is what makes the mission real.
FLEXIBILITY AND POWER SHARING
Young adults don’t always have the time or desire to jump into governance roles right away. Recognizing this, families like those at the Laird Norton and Tracy family foundations have created on- and off-ramps, allowing participation to ebb and flow with life stages.
They’ve also recognized the need to genuinely share decision-making. The Gibney Family Foundation even restructured its board to make space for new voices. Wasden wants the next-gen cohort to know, “You are capable. We need you. We’d love to have you.”
This openness includes accepting that new generations may bring different ideas. And that’s the point. As Cadence Miller, a program officer at the Laird Norton Family Foundation, put it, “If you want to have a perpetual foundation, you have to give the next generation some ownership.”
In other words: Legacy isn’t what you leave behind. It’s what you invite others to carry forward.
NICHOLAS TEDESCO IS THE PRESIDENT AND CHIEF EX
MCGOLDRICK
AND
ECUTIVE
STAGE CENTER
→ BY MARIYA MANZHOS → PHOTOGRAPHY BY HANNAH YOEST
THE BULWARK ‘CONSERVATISM’
WRESTLES WITH THE MEANING OF IN THE TIME OF SCRAMBLED
POLITICAL PARTY COALITIONS
TIM MILLER
SENSED THE REPUBLICAN PARTY was changing well before the rise of the current president. As a former staffer and big supporter of the 2008 John McCain campaign, he watched as vice presidential nominee Sarah Palin stumbled through Katie Couric’s foreign policy questions in a now-infamous interview. More unsettling to Miller, then in his 20s, was how quickly Palin’s populist appeal shifted the tone of the campaign, veering into what many saw as grievance-driven politics more interested in division than persuasion.
“I felt very out of place then,” says Miller, a former Republican strategist and MSNBC contributor. As Miller became more immersed in Republican campaign politics, his sense of alienation from the party he idealized growing up only deepened.
Raised in Littleton, Colorado, Miller came of age with a vision of the Republican Party as a beacon of values that made America what it was: a nation that respected individual rights and the rule of law, embraced immigrants, and prized leadership rooted in character. As a teenager, he got goosebumps watching Bob Dole’s Republican National Convention speech and carried around a pocket Constitution. He got his first rush of winning on the campaign of Colorado gubernatorial candidate Bill Owens, where he worked on weekends as an earnest 16-year-old intern.
As Miller climbed the ranks of Republican campaign politics, relishing the competition, he witnessed the party shift from the pragmatic conservatism of the George W. Bush and McCain era to today’s populist, anti-establishment fervor, driven by what
he saw as inflammatory rhetoric, a casual disregard for truth, and a growing tolerance for conspiracy theories.
Even as his disenchantment deepened, Miller believed he could help steer the party back to a principled, reality-based conservatism. In 2011, he went to work for Jon Huntsman Jr., the former moderate Utah governor, then running for the Republican presidential nomination. “I thought I could be part of the fight to bring the GOP back from the brink,” Miller wrote in his 2022 memoir “Why We Did It,” which chronicles how the class of Republican elites, himself included, paved the way for Donald Trump’s rise. After working as communications director for Jeb Bush’s failed 2016 presidential campaign, Miller became a vocal critic of the reality TV star who had clinched the Republican nomination. In one TV interview after another — then as part of anti-Trump Republican group Our Principles PAC — Miller sparred with Trump supporters and warned of the dangers of the candidate’s potential presidency.
On November 8, 2016, the Election Day that ended with Trump’s win over Hillary Clinton, Miller had a panic attack. The following morning, for the first time in years, he went to church for a reason other than making his mother happy. As Trump’s first presidency unfolded, supporting the Republican Party felt like betrayal of the values that had drawn him to it in the first place. As his political tribe became increasingly unrecognizable, he went looking for a new one.
For the past six years, The Bulwark, an independent media outlet first launched in 2018 as a refuge for Republicans disillusioned by Trump’s takeover of the GOP, has
become Miller’s political and professional base. From his home studio in Louisiana, he reacts daily to a stream of executive actions he views as deeply alarming: mass deportations without due process, overtures to Russian President Vladimir Putin amid relentless attacks on Ukraine, destabilizing tariffs, crypto schemes and defiance of Supreme Court rulings. Miller’s bewildered expressions and theatrical eye rolls have become a signature of “The Bulwark Podcast” — a visual shorthand for a party, and a nation, unraveling.
As Trump reshaped the Republican Party with his brand of populism, The Bulwark became a hub for conservatives who rejected their party’s direction but also felt unrepresented by the establishment Democrats — emerging alongside other pro-democracy, center-right media like the viral Lincoln Project and the analysis-focused Dispatch, all pushing back against the collapse of traditional conservatism. Even among those who once resisted him during the 2016 campaign, Republican opposition to Trump has largely vanished since he first came to power.
That resistance may be regaining traction, and The Bulwark is helping to harness the momentum. In six years, what began as an aggregator news site for Never Trump Republicans has grown into a robust independent media operation. In the past year, it added over a million subscribers on YouTube, now totaling 1.4 million, and has over 850,000 Substack subscribers, with 103,000 of them paid. In the last 12 months alone, Substack subscriptions have more than doubled. And the offerings are abundant: Under The Bulwark brand, there are nine newsletters and 14 podcasts, with new content arriving in the inbox multiple times a day.
The headlines scream for attention: “Trump’s BIGGEST Grift Yet — We Have RECEIPTS !” and “‘No MAGA Left Behind’?! Trump’s Pardons Are a Corrupt Free-For-All.” But there’s substance behind them. The day after the news broke that The Atlantic’s editor-in-chief Jeffrey Goldberg was inadvertently included in
POLITICAL IDENTITY
THE BULWARK HAS STEPPED INTO THAT HAS DRIFTED FROM ITS
THE VOID LEFT BY A REPUBLICAN PARTY
REAGAN- AND BUSH-ERA CONSERVATISM
LEAVING MANY OF ITS FORMER SUPPORTERS
POLITICALLY UNMOORED.
a Signal chat by now-ousted national security adviser Mike Waltz, Miller had Goldberg on The Bulwark’s eponymous flagship podcast. In a recent effort to understand MAGA -minded youth, Miller and his “For You Pod” co-host Cameron Kasky interviewed Natalie Winters, the 24-year-old protégé of former Trump strategist Steve Bannon. The newsletters teem with original reporting by journalists recruited from Politico and The Washington Post.
The hunger for what The Bulwark offers comes amid seismic political shifts, blurring traditional definitions of liberal and conservative, Democrat and Republican. As these familiar identities are reimagined, The Bulwark has stepped into the void left by a party that has drifted from its Reaganand Bush-era conservatism — leaving many traditional conservatives feeling politically unmoored. “The Bulwark is a voice of a Republican Party that dominated Republican politics for 50 years — that was principled, (supported) small government, strong defense, strong individual rights and that was more interested in doing than showing,” says Peter Loge, the director of the School of Media and Public Affairs at George Washington University. “It’s articulating values and ideas that I think people largely share.”
And it’s doing it in ways that people can relate to. As audiences flee traditional media for more personal, conversational formats, The Bulwark’s emotionally tinged commentary, streamed from the hosts’ homes, offers a more relatable alternative to the polish of mainstream news. “These strangers are in your bedroom — it feels
like you’re interacting with them,” says Loge. “They’re clever, funny, smart, a bit snarky. They’re not an old man yelling at the clouds.” One listener compared “The Next Level” podcast, co-hosted by Miller, to “cathartic therapy sessions.”
Although hosts disagree on policies — and they’ll banter about it on air — The Bulwark sees its overarching ethos rooted in one singular and urgent concern: the threat the current administration poses to America’s liberal democracy. “Everyone speaks for themselves, but at our core, we will not do blocking, tackling, or water carrying for Donald Trump and who he is,” Sarah Longwell, publisher and founder of The Bulwark, told me. Neither is the outlet bogged down by conventional political binaries. “I don’t care so much about right or left,” Longwell explained during our conversation in her Washington, D.C., office, her hand lightly pounding on the table to emphasize the point. She also runs a political communications firm, Longwell Partners, which shares the office with The Bulwark staff. “I care about up and down, I care about right or wrong.” Today, the outlet operates as a for-profit, funded entirely through subscriptions and advertising. Back in The Bulwark’s early days as a nonprofit, its donors included the likes of James and Kathryn Murdoch, the relatively more left-leaning son and daughter-in-law of conservative media mogul Rupert Murdoch. In a media ecosystem increasingly defined by ideological silos, The Bulwark has positioned itself as a moderate, principles-over-party alternative — offering a middle ground between left-wing “Pod
Save America” and the right-wing Daily Wire. And while it’s vehemently opposed to Trump, it’s also more than willing to call out the left. For instance, Longwell and Miller called on then-President Joe Biden to step down and criticized the abrupt evacuation from Afghanistan. On The Bulwark subreddit, one fan, who described themselves as “leftist,” wrote: “I honestly don’t agree with almost any of your politics but I find myself listening to you more than any other news source. I need someone who sees the threat and isn’t bogged down in party loyalty or purity tests.”
In this sense, The Bulwark aims to be something more than just another outlet of resistance, but a community that harnesses the postpartisan energy to imagine a future that no longer includes reviving the Republican Party of the past. “I just believe that the conservative project that at the time we all believed in isn’t coming back,” Longwell said. “That party is gone.”
But the very success that has turned The Bulwark into a media force also raises a thorny question: Who exactly is listening? Are these still conservatives searching for a political home — or mostly Democrats who find solace in hearing former Republicans roast the party they left behind?
IN 2017, SARAH LONGWELL JOINED AN invite-only group that met in the basement of the CNN building near the Capitol — “the meeting of the concerned,” as the participants called it. Hosted by the Niskanen Center, a libertarian think tank, the crew
included prominent conservatives, including Bill Kristol, the co-founder of the Weekly Standard, a now-defunct conservative publication that took an anti-Trump stance, as well as Mona Charen, a columnist who worked in the Reagan administration, and now hosts a podcast on The Bulwark. “That’s exactly what it was — a bunch of conservatives, who were concerned,” says Longwell, who describes her pre-Trump political identity as an old-school Republican “squish,” a jargon term used by stringent conservatives to describe the moderates in their ranks.
Longwell recalled getting agitated in one of the meetings over lots of talk and not enough action on the part of the group. She still believed she could steer the Republican Party back to the vision closer to the one embodied by Mitt Romney and John McCain. “Let’s do something,” she interjected. When Kristol, also in the room, asked what it was that they should do, Longwell suggested: “Well, you’re Bill Kristol, you’re famous.” Kristol, the son of renowned neoconservative Irving Kristol, gained prominence during the 1990s as a Republican strategist and neoconservative intellectual who defended the 2003 invasion of Iraq.
Longwell and Kristol soon began meeting for tea or drinks at the Madison Hotel in D.C., half a mile from the White House (the hotel has since been rebranded to Le Méridien). Longwell’s big idea then was to recruit an independent candidate to run against Trump in the primary. Kristol had attempted this in 2016: he had approached Mitt Romney, Nebraska Sen. Ben Sasse and even lawyer David French, who was at the time a National Review writer and is now a columnist at The New York Times. (Eventually Utahn and former CIA officer Evan McMullin, who called himself “the opposite of Trump,” agreed to run but made little national impact.)
To convince candidates they could beat Trump — and to make sense of what voters thought of him — Longwell started holding focus groups. The first round was especially eye-opening, she says. “One thing I remember totally missing was how much people wanted someone who was not a regular politician and also how many people had watched ‘The Apprentice,’” Longwell told me. She’d never seen “The Apprentice.” Despite some objections to Trump’s character, voters were drawn to his promise
of disruption, and they just felt like they knew him. “There was reticence, but they just hated Hillary Clinton more.”
Although Kristol and Longwell were unable to recruit a challenger to Donald Trump for the 2020 election, they joined forces on other ventures. Republicans for the Rule of Law, which they launched during the Mueller investigation, tries to protect legal proceedings from political interference — an initiative that’s part of their joint organization Defending Democracy Together. The partnership also led to The Bulwark.
In 2018, tensions between Kristol’s publication The Weekly Standard and its parent company, Clarity Media Group, came to a head over the magazine’s critical coverage of Trump, ultimately leading to its shutdown. Kristol turned to Longwell for help. “He said: ‘Can you help my friends? All these kids just lost their jobs,’” Longwell recalls.
The Bulwark soon absorbed several Weekly Standard staff, including editors Charlie Sykes, Jim Swift and Jonathan V. Last, who goes by JVL. And Longwell, for her part, tapped a longtime friend of her own.
DURING HIS YEARS AS A REPUBLICAN operative, Tim Miller developed what he later described as “championship-level compartmentalization,” a mental skill that allowed him to rationalize behavior he knew, deep down, was corrosive. This inner conflict was amplified by a more personal struggle around reconciling what it meant to be a gay man within a party that largely opposed same-sex marriage.
Intoxicated by “the game” of politics, he had thrown himself into opposition research and smear campaigns, targeting fellow Republicans like Mitt Romney, and
BILL KRISTOL, THE PROMINENT NEOCONSERVATIVE INTELLECTUAL WHO CO-FOUNDED THE WEEKLY STANDARD IN THE 1990S, HAS FOUND A HOME AT THE BULWARK, WHERE HE SERVES AS EDITOR-AT-LARGE.
helped shape a political culture that rewarded outrage, fear, and performative loyalty over honest debate and principled leadership. In his book, Miller describes how these tactics weren’t just tolerated but were celebrated within GOP circles. This kind of cynical, win-at-all-costs politics helped enable forces that led to Donald Trump’s power, he writes. But as Miller began to feel increasingly alienated from the Republican Party, many of his closest friends remained entrenched within it: “At first gradually, and then suddenly, nearly all of us decided to go along.”
Miller’s breaking point came in 2020 when Trump sought to overturn the election and maintained false claims of widespread voter fraud. Though speaking out against fellow Republicans drew media attention at the time, Miller wasn’t interested in any of it. “I just didn’t want to be that
person anymore,” Miller told me. “I wanted to be honest with people about where I was at mentally and ideologically.”
In a Bulwark post that year, Miller announced his public resignation from the Republican Party. Trump’s victory, he wrote, reshaped the political priorities and values he once took for granted like protecting free and fair elections, supporting pluralism and religious freedom, and upholding the rule of law. “As it turns out, my old party was on the wrong side of basically all of those,” he wrote.
Leaving the Republican Party felt like ending a “toxic” relationship, but it also meant losing a core part of his identity. “You kind of put on that jersey and that did define you — you were part of a team in Washington,” Miller told me. What was he if he wasn’t a “Republican PR flack” guy? The party divorce fractured his social and professional networks. He described getting emotional, hearing other former Republicans talking about the loss of a tribe, when they voted for a Democrat. But he was unwavering. Around that time, Miller considered leaving politics altogether. He even interviewed for a public relations job for the Los Angeles Lakers, before finding a new home at The Bulwark.
His raw and unscripted style is now central to the appeal of the media outlet. “Taking it as a whole, the story continues to be the most outrageous … thing that happened during Trump 2.0,” he said on camera after watching a “60 Minutes” segment about the White House’s deportation of over 200 Venezuelans to a maximum-security prison in El Salvador. His forehead furrowed, eyes narrowing in a mix of disbelief and revulsion. “Something that is beyond comprehension in a free country, something that is maybe among the worst things that this country has done in a long time.”
Ideologically, Miller describes himself as part of a broad, heterodox center with a mix of views that align with both Maryland Gov. Wes Moore, a moderate Democrat and a recent guest on Miller’s podcast, and moderate Republicans like Utah Gov. Spencer Cox
BULWARK PUBLISHER AND FOUNDER SARAH LONGWELL
“THE DEMOCRACY THEY’RE TRYING TO PROTECT IS ONE DEFINED BY
THEIR CLASS, THEIR ACCESS, AND A POLITICAL STATUS QUO
THAT HAS ALREADY FAILED MILLIONS OF PEOPLE.”
— as long as he doesn’t cozy up to Trump, he clarifies. “I see myself in that broad middle,” says Miller, who was heading to Coachella the day after we spoke (he’s a big music buff and features his favorite artists in his episodes’ outro music). Miller’s fans may share his small “l” liberal outlook, he says, even while disagreeing with him on policy — all united by a desire for straightforward, unfiltered analysis. Among The Bulwark listeners are “red dog Democrats,” former Republicans who now vote Democrat, and more “swingy-ish” voters, as Longwell put it, a decisive minority she hopes to persuade. “We want our influence to be that people care about preserving the American experiment,” Longwell says.
is now circling back with even more influence. If the goal was to protect the GOP from Trump or protect the country from Trumpism, The Bulwark has done neither. This leads to a deeper question. Who, exactly, is The Bulwark speaking to now? Its audience numbers are undeniable, but are those listeners truly conservatives looking for a political home? Or are they mostly frustrated Republicans, Democrats and independents who have found in Miller and his colleagues a kind of cathartic entertainment — a place to laugh, fume, and process the daily outrages of the Trump era with people who know the GOP from the inside? The risk is that The Bulwark has become less a conservative voice than a community of Never Trumpers.
compelling alternative to the stiffness of the mainstream news. For similar reasons, shows like “Pod Save America,” “The Fifth Column,” “The Ben Shapiro Show” and “Chapo Trap House” have attracted large and loyal followings. Today nearly a third of Americans get their news from YouTube regularly, according to Pew Research Center. (About 20 percent turn to Instagram for news and 17 percent to TikTok.) An early adopter of Substack, The Bulwark began expanding its YouTube content “to meet people on the platforms where they are,” Longwell says.
FOR ALL ITS
SUCCESS,
THE BULWARK can also be read as a kind of failure. After all, The Bulwark never intended to be just another niche media brand, cranking out newsletters and podcasts. Its ambitions were much larger. The point of all the chatter, all the eye rolls and snark and late-night recordings, was to serve as a bulwark — literally — against the destruction of American democracy. Or as they saw it, to stop Donald Trump. And on that score, it has failed. Trump is more powerful than ever before. During his first term, The Bulwark trained its fire on particular figures — Stephen Miller, Steve Bannon — with the hope that public shaming might force the administration to cut them loose. Not only were those efforts ignored, the same cast of characters
The irony is hard to miss: in trying to defend conservatism from Trump, The Bulwark may have lost its ability to speak as conservatives at all.
ON A RECENT THURSDAY EVENING,
about 3,500 subscribers tuned in for an Ask Me Anything session with Longwell, Miller and Last, their heads forming a triptych on the screen. The chat flashed with a stream of questions and fan comments: “my favorite trio,” “What to make of Trump moving Waltz to the U.N.?” and: “Why do I have a crush on so many Bulwark hosts?”
This parasocial familiarity — where the audience feels like they personally know their hosts — and the emotional connection it creates makes The Bulwark a
That emotional bond helps drive the engagement. To the Bulwark fans, the new political reality is less about party loyalty and more about personal alignment with voices that feel resonant and authentic. “People are drawn to the nonpolitical qualities of these YouTubers — their voice, whether they have a jerk-like persona,” says Reece Peck, associate professor of media culture at the College of Staten Island at CUNY, who is working on a book about political YouTube. “They start off just interested in their style and their performance. But then once they establish that bond, that parasocial bond, they start to adopt their policy positions.”
The AMA that night kicked off with a question from a woman named Hillary, who wondered what the post-Trump era could look like. Longwell laid out her vision for getting there — driving Trump’s approval ratings to 32 percent, a threshold she considers “failure territory.” That kind of shift, she argues, could fracture Republican loyalty and diminish Trump’s grip on the party. To speed up the downfall, she wants voters
IT’S ALSO ABOUT THE SYSTEM THAT PRODUCED HIM
“THE CRISIS ISN’T JUST ABOUT TRUMP. A SYSTEM THEY STILL SERVE.”
to share their “negative personal consequences” — stories of how Trump-era policies have affected their lives, from job loss to rising grocery bills to missed medical treatments due to halted research. “I think (the Republicans) become a shell of a party once he’s gone,” said Longwell.
Someone asked whether starting a third party could be a viable way to challenge Trump. “It’s so cute, I love it,” Miller chuckled and smiled. “It’s a classic Q&A question.” It’s a long shot, he went on, and offered a few ideas, including a rare outsider candidate, a “unicorn” with broad, cross-cutting appeal. “The third party is not a thing,” Longwell said, noting that the two parties are too dominant for a third-party alternative.
What makes these Republican strategiststurned-analysts great YouTube performers is a kind of pugilistic and hard-nosed edge, says Peck. “They are a little more bullish and more in tune with your normie, average voter,” he told me.
But the portrait of the average Republican voter today has changed with Trump’s scrambling of traditional party coalitions. The GOP, once the party of business and the educated, has become increasingly working-class and racially diverse, while Democrats have grown more reliant on affluent, highly educated voters — many of them former suburban Republicans. One Bulwark subscriber, who identifies as “center-left,” told me that he’s found helpful checks from The Bulwark on the Democratic Party that helped him “nuance his own thoughts and opinions more.”
Yet some see serious blind spots. Evelyn Quartz — a former Capitol Hill staffer who also served as a press secretary at the Lincoln Project — argues that the juggernauts of the pro-democracy centrist movement, including The Bulwark, are promoting a narrow version of democracy that seeks to maintain existing power structures that benefit elites, rather than confronting the deeper systemic failures that have eroded public trust and that enabled Trump’s rise in the first place.
“The democracy they’re trying to protect is one defined by their class, their access, and a political status quo that has already failed millions of people,” Quartz says. In her piece titled “Why the ‘Pro-Democracy’ Center Can’t Save America,” published in Compact, a cross-ideological magazine, she writes that The Bulwark “now functions as a content mill for elite self-reassurance.” While she doesn’t question the sincerity of The Bulwark’s efforts, she writes, “beneath that moral clarity is a problem they can’t — or won’t — admit: The crisis isn’t just about Trump. It’s also about the system that produced him — a system they still serve.”
What The Bulwark offers is “crisis management designed to help the same people in charge,” Quartz told me, rather than a vision. A real path forward, she said, would be dismantling the institutions that have concentrated wealth, shielded elites and eroded public trust. “I’m not talking about abandoning democracy — I’m talking about refusing to preserve systems that protect the powerful while failing everyone else,” Quartz said.
But Longwell rejects the idea that The Bulwark doesn’t interrogate the system that gave rise to Trump — across platforms, she says, the conversations have consistently grappled with the economic and cultural forces that preceded him, like inequality, protectionism and exhaustion with the status quo. Her ongoing weekly focus groups explore why people voted for Trump. “If you engage with The Bulwark, nobody has done more wrestling with conditions that gave rise to Trump and rethinking their priors,” she said in response to Quartz’s critique. Longwell acknowledges that the early pro-democracy efforts risked being seen as defending the status quo, a kind of resistance that wasn’t ultimately sustainable. Neither was the “Never Trump” label, once central to the outlet’s identity. “The term was useful when Trump was still an aberration — a shock to the system,” says Longwell. “It is no longer useful when Trump is the party, and the whole party is trying to be like him.”
Although preserving “bedrock principles” is driven by a conservative instinct, The Bulwark’s vision, she insists, is not trapped in nostalgia. Instead, Longwell, who no longer identifies as a Republican and says she isn’t “tribally attached,” wants The Bulwark to be a place that moves beyond partisan reflexes to something more constructive and future-focused. “ Lots of people voted for Donald Trump because they think he transcends politics,” she told me. “I want to transcend politics. I want to transcend the quaint, older versions of right or left. And I want us to get to a place where we’re thinking — if Trump’s going to tear it all down, what are we going to build next?”
BY THE END OF APRIL, A HUNDRED DAYS into Trump’s second presidency, Trump’s approval rating had sunk to 42 percent, with disapproval rating hitting 54 percent, according to The New York Times-Sienna poll. It marked the lowest approval for any president at this point in a term in more
than 80 years. His economic approval rating was especially weak at 42 percent, driven by voter concerns over high prices and his aggressive use of tariffs. Immigration, though still a divisive issue, showed somewhat stronger approval.
“A little bit (of) cold comfort for many of you and I know for us here,” Miller announced on the podcast. And while the polls fluctuate, the “historically ugly across the board” numbers might affect how Republicans think and act toward Trump. “The question is, how ugly does it need to get before you see a change in behavior?”
Miller and Kristol dove into the poll on the weekly Monday podcast they co-host. In addition to driving down Trump’s approval ratings, Kristol said, it’s about recruiting local candidates who would be a better match for the broader political makeup of the state or district, as opposed to defaulting to the usual candidates like a local party insider who may win the nomination but lose in the general election. He summed it up this way: “Recruiting good candidates and
driving Trump’s numbers down are very — I don’t know if they’re achievable goals, but they’re very … concrete goals.”
Miller couldn’t resist offering advice for candidates running in red states: pick a cultural issue of disagreement with the Democratic Party and “talk about it a lot.” Highlighting that difference, he says, gives voters a local figure to connect with — rather than associating them with national Democrats — and can open the door to electoral success.
I asked Kristol if he still considers himself a conservative today. “I do in some senses of that word,” he said. He was never 100 percent conservative, anyway, he said, and most people tend to combine some measure of conservatism and liberalism. He’s still attached to the philosophical notion of conservatism, rooted in skepticism of rapid change, respect for tradition and wariness of left-wing utopianism. However, in practical politics, most of what is called conservatism today has been overtaken by Trump. “If 90 percent of the elected officials who
say they’re conservative are de facto Trumpist, it becomes a little academic … to insist on the distinction.”
Kristol, who voted for Kamala Harris in 2024, said he feels comfortable in much of the Democratic Party today, at least where he lives in Virginia. In the 2025 gubernatorial race, Kristol is supporting Democratic candidate Abigail Spanberger, a former congresswoman and CIA officer. “I think the idea that if you’re a conservative, you just pull the Republican lever automatically, I think that’s now a mistake,” Kristol said. Longtime conservatives should “at least consider” voting for Democrats, he advises, at least some of the time.
He envisions a post-MAGA Republican Party led by figures like Liz Cheney, Mitt Romney and Adam Kinzinger, focused on strong foreign policy and a commitment to America’s role as a global democratic leader. Economically, it would champion free markets and entrepreneurship while embracing pragmatic regulation, shifting the conversation away from extremes toward sensible debates on taxes, governance and growth.
The familiar identities and labels hold a powerful pull, so I wanted to know what it would take for Miller to feel at home in the Democratic Party. He immediately directed me to the photo on Instagram of him with his daughter beaming after voting for Harris — the “easiest vote” he’s ever cast.
“I don’t know.” He pauses. “My experience is just different than other peoples’. I voted for people I disagreed with my whole life.” He was never a strict ideologue, identifying more with the “small-c” conservatism of thinkers like Michael Oakeshott, a British philosopher who championed measured, incremental progress rather than sweeping radical change. “That’s where I’m at,” he says. As for whether he’d formally switch parties, he’s more circumspect: In politics, “we’re trying to do the best we can with the choices we have and make sensible decisions,” he said. “Currently, my focus is on the acute threat of Trump and doing everything I can to sound the alarm.”
EDITOR JONATHAN V. LAST (LEFT), MILLER AND LONGWELL SEE THE BULWARK AS A FORUM THAT MOVES BEYOND PARTISAN REFLEXES, THAT — AS LONGWELL PUTS IT — TRANSCENDS “THE QUAINT, OLDER VERSIONS OF RIGHT OR LEFT.”
THE CASE FOR BIG BETS
LASTING CHANGE COMES WHEN PHILANTHROPY DARES TO THINK BIGGER THAN CHARITY
LBY RAJIV SHAH
AST MARCH, I met Oswald “Oz” Hutton. Oz, a Marine Corps veteran, was one of 250 veterans participating in the new health initiative through the VA Salt Lake City Health Care System. The program, called Food is Medicine (FIM), is an attempt to revolutionize the way our health care system treats diet-related diseases, like the hypertension Oz had struggled with for years. For Oz, his hypertension was more than just a health threat — it also constantly strained his body and his bank account. Food is Medicine promised to be an answer to both those problems.
The main idea is straightforward: Rather than alleviating patients’ symptoms with medication, FIM aims to address chronic
illnesses like hypertension, diabetes, obesity and heart failure at their root cause — diet. What makes the idea novel is that Food is Medicine goes beyond just telling people how to eat better. It makes eating better more affordable and accessible by treating food access as a medical intervention, integrated into the health care system itself. Through nutrition support like produce prescriptions, medically tailored meals and healthy grocery programs, FIM aims to make health more accessible and affordable to more people than ever.
For Oz, the program was a way to take back control of his health, his life and his future. “By eating better, I have energy,” the Salt Lake City resident told me. “Now, when I go outdoors, I want to stay outside and do things.” The program provided practical support — a monthly $100 debit card that Oz could use on fresh produce at his local grocery store — but the financial benefits extended far beyond groceries. After six emergency room visits in 2024, Oz told me the program had helped him stay out of the ER for the past three months.
Oz’s story is remarkable, but it is not unique. A growing number of people across the United States are finding a new pathway to health through FIM, and models based on current research show that if FIM services were scaled to all eligible Americans, it could save an estimated $23 billion in health care spending per year. That’s why, in 2024, The Rockefeller Foundation, which I lead, made a $100 million commitment to help expand Food is Medicine across the nation — and in particular help veterans like Oz — as part of a broader $220 million investment in expanding access to good food.
FIM has the potential to turn the tide on the country’s diet-related disease crisis. It could empower health providers with a
concrete tool to help patients take control of their health. It may change how people talk and think about health in the United States, what is making us sick and what we can do about it. It’s a chance to solve a challenge by reimagining what is possible.
It’s what I call a “Big Bet.”
TOO OFTEN, PEOPLE end up feeling so helpless in the face of big, tough challenges that, rather than setting out to address root causes, they look for answers to only a small part of the problem. Some people even give up altogether. This is what I call the “aspiration trap.” It’s why, instead of going big enough, would-be world-changers settle for doing good enough. It’s also the reason so many have grown cynical, detached or apathetic toward the idea of progress.
Big bets offer us a way to escape that trap. Because they require setting profound, seemingly unachievable goals and believing they are achievable, they often reveal new ways of thinking or doing that were previously unimaginable. They also stir others to act alongside you. People are looking for a reason to be optimistic, to believe in a future where their children will have more access to health, wealth and opportunity than they had. The bigger your goals, the more likely you are to gather allies and supporters, and the more likely you are to succeed.
Regardless of the scale of the issue, the principles of making any big bet are the same: They require finding a new way of thinking or doing things — often inspired by a technological advance or a novel method. They require developing broad alliances, often among unlikely partners, that can summon sufficient resources and diverse capabilities to break through the barriers that so often limit social progress. And they require taking a data-driven, businesslike approach by focusing on measurable outcomes and finding the most efficient, effective pathways forward.
Those three elements — innovation, partnership and persistence — have been at the heart of every successful initiative I’ve encountered over my 30-year career in
government, the private sector and philanthropy. They are what set apart those who have improved life for countless millions of people from those who fizzled out.
The big-bets approach to philanthropy isn’t something I came up with — it’s an idea built into the DNA of The Rockefeller Foundation by John D. Rockefeller when he founded our institution in 1913. Back then, he had a different name for it: “scientific philanthropy.” This idea was novel, even revolutionary, at a time when both “science” and “philanthropy” were unproven paths to progress, let alone as a combined concept.
John D. Rockefeller’s philanthropy didn’t seek to better a few lives with charity. He saw the potential for science to create change on
TOO OFTEN, PEOPLE END UP FEELING SO HELPLESS IN THE FACE OF BIG, TOUGH CHALLENGES THAT, RATHER THAN SETTING OUT TO ADDRESS ROOT CAUSES, THEY LOOK FOR ANSWERS TO ONLY A SMALL PART OF THE PROBLEM.
a vast scale, from ending hunger to wiping out disease, and he and his successors have sought to follow through on that vision. Even though those challenges still exist today, I would argue that the change they achieved was far more sweeping because they set out to solve problems rather than settle for incremental improvements.
One of The Rockefeller Foundation’s earliest initiatives — combating hookworm disease in the American South — demonstrated the power of this new approach. What started as a targeted health intervention became the foundation of the United States’ entire public health system, proving that, by thinking big enough, it’s possible to reshape society for generations.
To set the scene: Between 1865 and
1910, an estimated 40 percent of the population in the American South suffered from hookworm disease, a parasitic infection that stunted growth, caused extreme fatigue and made victims more prone to other infections. The disease was so widespread and debilitating that some claimed the sluggishness it caused was a factor in the South’s defeat in the Civil War. But for decades, most people were either entirely unaware of hookworm or simply accepted it as a fact of life, even as it took its toll on economic development, reinforced poverty and reduced educational performance for generations of children.
For John D. Rockefeller and his adviser, Frederick Gates, hookworm was an opportunity to put scientific philanthropy to the test. As Gates put it, “disease is the supreme ill in human life.” If they could take an innovative approach to solving a disease like hookworm, they could prove their theory while also helping current and future generations of Americans. Their proposed solution was unprecedented: a coordinated campaign to treat hookworm patients, educate communities on methods of prevention and build health infrastructure to prevent reinfection. Their approach may seem familiar today, but at the time it was a revolutionary, innovative approach to a long-standing problem. The foundation built partnerships to establish new health agencies in the region and made data-informed decisions on where, when and how to act. Before The Rockefeller Foundation’s hookworm work, concepts like community-level health agencies, data mapping and targeted health education campaigns were not widely developed or institutionalized anywhere. And even though hookworm remained problematic in the American South for years to come, that first big bet pioneered something that would eventually eliminate it and countless other ailments worldwide. Today, we call that something “public health.”
Ultimately, the foundation’s work provided an early model for health systems that have been vital in fighting everything from yellow fever to Ebola to Covid-19. It set the
stage for the United States’ county-based health system and even influenced the establishment of early predecessors to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
That’s the magic of a big bet. When you show others what’s possible and give them a reason to be optimistic for the future, they’ll be inspired to follow in your footsteps. That’s how the seed of an idea grows into something tangible, lasting and transformative.
MORE THAN A century later, Americans face another health crisis that demands the same kind of thinking that Rockefeller and Gates used to take on hookworm. But the most significant health threat facing us today isn’t any parasite, virus or bacteria — it’s our diet.
Diet-driven diseases like diabetes, obesity and heart disease affect an estimated 133 million Americans and contribute to 500,000 deaths every year, with veterans like Oz being impacted at an even higher rate than the general population. And even though Americans spend more per capita on health care than any other developed country, we still fall far below average in terms of health outcomes. The result is a national $1.1 trillion health care bill for diet-related diseases — an amount equal to the money Americans spend annually on food.
Just as the hookworm campaign reimagined health as a community challenge rather than an individual one, our big bet on Food is Medicine demands we think beyond treating individual symptoms to addressing the barriers that prevent people from eating well.
That work is paying off and still building momentum: FIM has now expanded to 14 states and reached over 100,000 patients to date. At the same time, we are continuing to support the American Heart Association’s vital research into the benefits of FIM interventions, and, in partnership with the United States Department of Veterans Affairs, we’ve helped launch five veteran-focused FIM pilots — including the one Oz joined in Salt Lake City. Veterans face particularly
acute health challenges: 75 percent of Afghanistan and Iraq war veterans were overweight or obese at their first Veteran Health Administration visit, and diabetes affects nearly 25 percent of veterans compared to 20 percent of the general population. Those pilots were a way to both put FIM to the test and to reach a population disproportionately affected by diet-related illness.
The results show promise: Participating veterans have reported improved physical and mental health, as well as a greater appreciation for nutritious food. Some have even started gardens to grow their own produce (“Who knew that I would learn to love beets?” one of them joked). That enthusiasm isn’t unique to veterans. Our data show that nearly 90 percent of Americans would prefer to rely on healthy eating, rather than
REGARDLESS OF THE SCALE OF THE ISSUE, THE PRINCIPLES OF MAKING ANY BIG BET ARE THE SAME: THEY REQUIRE FINDING A NEW WAY OF THINKING OR DOING THINGS.
medications, to manage their health, and almost 4 in 5 thought FIM interventions should be covered by both public and private insurance.
The demand is clear, but scaling our big bet on FIM will require us to continue broadening our research base and building bigger partnerships. Pilot programs are the first step, and we are still working to bring employers, insurers and state and federal governments on board, too. That will take time and effort, but the long-term value is worth overcoming short-term difficulties.
Americans will lead happier, healthier, longer lives. Employers and governments will save money. Even insurance companies should see the light: After all, paying for broccoli is cheaper than paying for a heart bypass operation.
THE HOOKWORM AND Food is Medicine campaigns are just two examples of how approaching a problem through the lens of big bets — with innovation, partnerships and data — can solve problems. But the reason I’m telling you about them isn’t to suggest that you need to launch your own hundred-million-dollar initiative. After all, there is practically no one in history with access to the resources of John D. Rockefeller. I’m sharing them with you to show you a fresh, optimistic perspective on what’s possible when we refuse to accept problems as permanent. What matters isn’t the money — what matters is your ambition and belief that large-scale change is possible.
Looking at the world, there is no shortage of problems that need big bets and big bettors like you. Anyone from an intern to a president in any organization — banks, government agencies, universities or community groups — can benefit from the big bet mindset. In fact, you have unprecedented power to do so.
We are living in one of the most innovative moments in history. Every day, we hear of breakthroughs in science, technology and social understanding, to name just a few. Since the Industrial Revolution, innovations have created incredible opportunities for so many people, even as far too many are left behind. Big bets are the way to ensure that modern advancements benefit all, not just the lucky few. As we embrace those revolutions, it’s up to each of us to ask ourselves: Will we allow them to widen or shrink the gaps in human opportunity?
Our challenges and problems persist not for a lack of answers or the capacity to generate them; they persist because we too often fail to try. Just as Oz discovered that changing his thinking toward food could transform his entire life, you might find that thinking bigger about our world’s challenges opens possibilities you never imagined.
RAJIV
NO ONE GIVES ALONE
INSIDE THE RADICAL PARTNERSHIPS RESHAPING HOW GENEROSITY WORKS
BY JEAN OELWANG
APROVEN TIME and again is that no one achieves anything great alone. Yet, it seems we’ve forgotten this. We’ve encouraged and incentivized hyper-individualism from the time we start school through our working lives.
This not only undermines our collective ability to solve problems, but it also hurts our well-being. The Harvard Study of Adult Development, the longest-running study of its kind, has tracked participants since 1938 in pursuit of one question: What makes a good life? The answer wasn’t wealth or career success — it was relationships. Strong, loving relationships are the greatest predictors of health,
happiness and longevity. As former study director George Vaillant put it, “The only thing that really matters in life is your relationships to other people.”
If hyper-individualism is a cultural crisis, the cure is hyper-connectedness. We can reset our systems by building deep connections with one another and shaping meaningful collaborations. There is an old African proverb: “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” I believe this statement is misleading. The only way we can go both fast and far is if we go together, if we collaborate at a scale that we can’t even begin to imagine yet. The challenges we face today are too complex and interconnected for solo solutions. They require radical collaboration.
Radical collaboration is a way of working together where individuals, organizations and communities with differing perspectives and backgrounds come together not just to get along but to achieve something great. It breaks down traditional barriers and fosters a more inclusive, innovative environment.
FORTUNATELY, WE HAVE some great teachers showing how this can happen. Our team at Plus Wonder interviewed more than 65 diverse partnerships and they all had two things in common: longevity of their partnership and the ability to leverage their relationships to make a positive impact. Our world is built on relationships — business, civic, romantic, familial. These intentional partnerships ripple outward, shaping systems, movements and entire societies.
President Jimmy Carter’s celebration of life service was a master class in collaboration across divides. One of my favorite moments was when President Gerald Ford’s son read a eulogy that his father had written before he died. “According to
TRUTH
THE STRONGEST COLLABORATIONS DON’T BEGIN WITH JUST STRATEGY AND SHARED GOALS BUT WITH SHARED HUMANITY.
a map, it’s a long way between Grand Rapids, Michigan, and Plains, Georgia. But distances have a way of vanishing when measured by values rather than miles. And it was because of our shared values that Jimmy and I respected each other as adversaries even before we cherished one another as dear friends.”
Carter’s connections extended beyond the personal. He was also a member of The Elders, a group of independent global leaders founded in 2007 by former South African President Nelson Mandela and his wife Graça Machel. This diverse group came together with no other agenda than to focus on peace and human rights to achieve what’s right for people and the planet.
The Elders began not with a United Nations mandate or policy summit, but with the vision of two dear friends, Richard Branson and Peter Gabriel. They took the idea to Mandela, who agreed and gathered a group of leaders to bring it to life. I’ll never forget when Mandela came to the very first Elders’ meeting, walking through a corridor of human joy — South Africans from local communities singing and dancing as he entered the gathering. He addressed the audience with the words, “As institutions of government grapple — often unequally — with challenges they face, the efforts of a small, dedicated group of leaders, working objectively and without any vested personal interest in the outcome, can help resolve what often seems like intractable problems. We have the makings of such a group. Using their collective experience, their moral courage and their ability to rise above the parochial concerns of nation, race and creed, they can help make our planet a more peaceful, healthy and equitable place to live.”
The Elders have nurtured a powerful collaboration not only among themselves, but also with the core group of philanthropists who support them, and with frontline partners all over the world. Over the past 20 years, it is clear that they became who they are because of each other and the partnerships they’ve shaped around them.
That’s how they’ve been able to multiply their impact in the world.
As we look to the future of philanthropy, these partnerships remind us that collaboration isn’t a strategy — it’s an imperative that none of us can do it alone. In an era of isolation and polarization, we must rebuild trust by investing in partnerships. It’s not easy, but it is the only path forward if we want to ensure a future for generations to come.
SO, WHAT MAKES a great partnership? After analyzing thousands of pages of transcripts from our 65 interviews, we identified six recurring patterns present in the most successful partnerships and called them the “Six Degrees of Connection”:
Something bigger – Find a shared purpose through deeper connections, finding something bigger to unite people.
All-in – The most successful relationships have partners that feel 100 percent supported by the other partners. This kind of support gives confidence and freedom to not only be all-in, but to go big.
The ecosystem – The ecosystem is a moral framework built on enduring trust, unshakable mutual respect, united belief, shared humility, nurturing generosity and compassionate empathy.
Magnetic moments – Create rituals and practices that reinforce the connection, that remind partners of the spark that first brought them together.
Celebrate friction – Friction is unavoidable, but thriving partnerships create tools to rise above the conflict and to use disagreements as opportunities to learn and grow.
Collective connections – A framework to scale collaborations, with deep connections at the center serving as role models, hubs of momentum and connective tissue.
These patterns don’t appear overnight — they’re forged through intentional, consistent effort. Often, the most resilient partnerships begin with a strong personal
foundation. Take the story of Airbnb, founded in 2007 by friends Joe Gebbia, Brian Chesky and Nate Blecharczyk.
Gebbia and Chesky were roommates struggling to pay rent in San Francisco when they saw an opportunity: A major design conference was coming to town, and all hotels were booked. They decided to rent out air mattresses in their apartment and offer breakfast — hence the name “Air Bed & Breakfast.” To turn this one-time idea into a scalable platform, they brought in Blecharczyk, a technical genius and old friend of Gebbia’s, to help build the website. Their collaboration embodied the Six Degrees from the start. Something bigger? They believed in making people feel at home anywhere in the world. All-in? The trio maxed out credit cards, racked up debt, and lived off cereal while deepening their friendship to build the company. Ecosystem? They put trust at the center of absolutely everything they did, expanding their web of trust to their guests and hosts. Their respect for one another’s skills and shared vision helped them navigate countless early challenges. They also established magnetic moments — like staying grounded in user stories and regularly reflecting on the company’s mission — that kept their bond strong. They had to celebrate friction, facing disagreements over design, branding and business strategy. But those conflicts only deepened their respect and trust. And through collective connections, Airbnb grew into a global movement — empowering hosts, guests and communities around the world.
THE STRONGEST COLLABORATIONS don’t begin with just strategy and shared goals but with shared humanity. When partners truly value one another beyond the work, they create space for trust, vulnerability and longevity.
But a deep value of relationship alone isn’t enough. Great partners complement each other — they don’t echo each other. Enduring partnerships are built on complementary strengths that together form a more
complete whole. That “electric current of difference” is not a weakness — it’s what keeps the partnership alive and thriving.
Equally important is the ability to challenge and stretch each other. Take, for example, Tony and Pat Hawk, siblings who oversee the Tony Hawk Foundation (now The Skatepark Project). While Tony brought global visibility and a passion for skateboarding, Pat provided the operational leadership and strategic vision needed to build lasting impact. Together, they’ve helped fund and advocate for hundreds of safe, accessible skateparks in underserved communities. Their ability to combine distinct strengths in service of a shared mission — expanding opportunity through
IT BEGINS WITH CHANGING HOW WE MEASURE SUCCESS, FROM FAME AND ACCUMULATION OF WEALTH TO THE TRUE MEASURE OF SUCCESS IN HOW MANY LIVES WE CAN MAKE BETTER BY LIVING A LIFE OF SERVICE.
skate culture — demonstrates how enduring partnerships can drive meaningful, long-term change. And they both speak about how they learned from one another and stretched themselves into new areas of expertise.
The Hawks’ complementary approach can work in philanthropy as well. The best partnerships are often organizations and people who come together across deep differences and challenge each other to step out of their comfort zones to do something more audacious than they ever could have done on their own.
Donors often unknowingly create silos between charities based on the way we give funds. We can correct that by reimagining
how we create incentives to bring charities together. Charities need the freedom to not be frightened of merging efforts to have outsized impact in the world — which is often a much more joyful path.
I remember some 15 years ago we started a charity called the Carbon War Room to create market-based models to reduce carbon. What we lacked in technical and scientific expertise was found in the not-for-profit RMI, led by Amory Lovins. So we merged, bringing together the best in entrepreneurial ideas with the best in science to create a force that is now 10 times the size with exponential impact.
The future is arriving faster than ever, and we find ourselves at a crossroads of connection. We can choose to unite — combining our perspectives, talents and resources to propel society forward — or we can slip further into isolation, clinging to an individualistic mindset that ultimately serves no one. The path we choose matters not just for today, but for tomorrow — and for generations to come.
Swami Sivananda wisely observed, “Illness begins with ‘I.’ Wellness begins with ‘we.’” If we want to thrive, we must choose connection. The transformation of society will not come from self-interested individualism, but from impact shared. It begins with changing how we measure success, from fame and accumulation of wealth to the true measure of success in how many lives we can make better by living a life of service.
Wisdom from global traditions can guide us forward. One such example is the Seventh Generation Principle, an ancient philosophy passed down from the Iroquois. It teaches that every decision we make today should be made with seven generations in mind. It’s a principle rooted in sustainability, responsibility and long-term thinking — but at its heart, it’s about partnership. It invites us to see our lives as part of an ongoing collaboration with those who came before us and those who will follow.
JEAN OELWANG IS THE FOUNDING CEO OF VIRGIN UNITE AND THE PLANETARY GUARDIANS, AND CO-FOUNDER OF PLUS WONDER.
BLANKET STATEMENT
HOW QUILTING BECAME FINE ART
BY ETHAN BAUER
The fabric she chooses features a melange of blues, from sky to Carolina to navy. Pulling in swatches of yellow, gray and white, she snips each one into a shape. She selects shapes to sew to other shapes and to her blue base, the accents helping to form a square. Then she repeats the process, block after block. Their sizes vary, because this is a human creation, but the results fit together in uneven rows. Eventually, a perimeter of twisting leaves frames a border of squares surrounding a deep-blue field dotted with what look like little white tadpoles. A massive eight-point star of stunning complexity rules from the center of the quilt.
Laurie Robinson, an understated 62-year-old from Logan, Utah, is pleased. Behind the quilt’s face, she will fill it with batting — stringy fluffs of practical cotton, luxury wool or an economical polyester blend — which lends both insulation and structure to the finished piece. A quilt isn’t a quilt without that, but she is most particular about the backing, the side meant
for human contact. Some use more scraps, cozy flannel, elegant voile or lightweight quilters’ linen, but she prefers a velvety microfiber called “minky.” She doesn’t make modern fine-art quilts, which can be intricate like tapestries and are best viewed
WHEN AMERICANS THINK ABOUT QUILTS, THEY THINK OF THE QUILTS THEIR MOTHERS OR GRANDMOTHERS MADE. SO WHY NOT USE A QUILT TO TELL A DIFFICULT STORY?
on a gallery wall, from a safe distance. No, Robinson’s quilts are made to be snuggled in as much as they may bring spirit to a new home or comfort to a funeral.
Once the quilt is assembled, she sends it out to a machine quilter for finishing.
Guided by a computer, this modern marvel can sew complex patterns into the quilt’s surface, like dragons or sailboats, or it can simply seal the edges and connect the three layers in precise harmony. Robinson admits this with a tinge of embarrassment, as if this makes her quilts not fully her own. Hand-finishing is more intricate but also more time-consuming, and technology has found a role in this space as in any other part of the modern world. Besides, she has other things to do.
After all, quilting is often a social pursuit. Robinson has twice served as president of the Needles and Friends Quilt Guild, a local group with about 100 members, mostly women, ranging in age from their 20s to their 80s. They gather each Tuesday to work together, catch up on their projects and share a community born of a centuries-old practice that is still thriving, in sometimes innovative ways. This most American of folk arts has nestled itself comfortably into these new times, with a presence at trade shows, on social media and even in the
finest art museums, where it is seen as a radical and unique medium for storytelling. But here, in Logan, quilting is still about making connections, one stitch at a time.
SQUINT HARD ENOUGH and you might see a pattern on this ancient chunk of ivory, carved around 3000 B.C. and worn by the elements across the intervening millennia. “The Ivory King,” a statuette now ensconced at The British Museum in London, portrays an aging ruler whose robe or garment bears a diamond pattern in columns with a decorative border. This relic is often cited as the earliest known evidence that humans made quilts. Even if this item would have been worn as a robe over the monarch’s shoulders, it speaks to the place quilting held in society.
One of the oldest surviving quilts hangs three miles away in South Kensington, in the Medieval & Renaissance Galleries of the Victoria and Albert Museum. Crafted in Sicily in 1390, the “Tristan Quilt” depicts the tale of Tristan and Iseult — a Cornish hero and his Irish bride — in linen, beige-on-beige, through 14 graphic panels shaped with white and brown thread and cotton stuffing. In nearby halls, the museum’s quilting and patchwork collection displays a range of sumptuous 17th-century bedcovers and present-day art projects and fashions.
The patchwork quilts that are now so familiar across middle America didn’t emerge until early American colonists forged west. While their wealthier urban counterparts on the coast could import specialized fabric for “applique” quilts as status symbols, those living on the frontier had to use and reuse every scrap of fabric at their disposal. The skills they developed in so doing were later turned to a new, expressive dimension, when the industrial revolution made fabric more abundant and therefore affordable. Perhaps this was when quilting as a folk art was born, a creative form passed down through families and communities rather than institutional education or even apprenticeships.
That practice flourished in the Intermountain West, where pioneer women
melded function, thrift and artistry to create their own tradition. Like their know-how, their quilts became treasured heirlooms — some passed down for over 160 years — and records of their times. Fabrics and patterns speak of their poverty and prosperity, while texts and motifs enshrine feelings, anxieties, beliefs and family histories. “The art of quilting can help us share stories of the relationships that make up our individual and communal identities,” observed an archived bulletin for a 2012 exhibit at the Church History Museum in Salt Lake City. “Seemingly commonplace quilts can illustrate the complex nature of human ties.”
In a time when women’s voices were not always welcome in mainstream soci-
QUILTING BECAME ITS OWN FRONTIER WHEN THE MODERN ART MOVEMENT EXPANDED THE BOUNDARIES OF WHAT COULD BE DEFINED AS ART.
ety, quilts offered an outlet for expression and even solidarity. In 1836, abolitionists in Massachusetts sold the first known “Abolition quilt” at a fundraising event. Sized for a crib, it features a grid of eight-point stars in burgundy, slate blue, olive green and more colors, with a poem by Quaker author Elizabeth Margaret Chandler transcribed in its center block, reminding readers to think of enslaved mothers whose children had been taken. Over the next century, women made quilts to support temperance, women’s suffrage and patriotic loyalty during the Great War.
Quilting became its own frontier in the 20th century with the arrival of the modern art movement, which expanded the boundaries of what could be defined as art. Alongside schools like impressionism or Dadaism arose smaller ideas like “found art” — when
artists highlight the beauty in neglected or ordinary objects. Emelie Gevalt, deputy director of the American Folk Art Museum, explains that artists used quilts to package found art objects, turning shreds of the past into raw materials that let them explore budding ideas of “Americanness.”
Immigrants have always formed part of that patchwork. In 1933, Anni Albers came to the United States from Germany, a trained artist who chose to work in textiles. She taught weaving at the respected Bauhaus school until she fled Nazi persecution of the Jews in her country. Bringing her expertise stateside, she worked to blur the traditional line between craft and fine art, elevating quilts from county fairs to eminent museums. Today, fine art quilts are not old blankets but a modern medium, analogous in a way to oil paintings or marble sculptures.
Still, the heart of quilting is among the people, a way to communicate feelings, whether welcoming a newborn or mourning a loss — sometimes on a grand scale. Launched in 1987, the AIDS Memorial Quilt eventually became history’s largest community art project, piecing together 54 tons of patchwork, each piece weighed down with grief and memory. Similarly, the United in Memory 9/11 Victims Memorial Quilt consists of more than 140 panels, each remembering 25 victims of the 2001 terrorist attack, enough to cover five football fields.
And quilting is still about people. This October, more than 40,000 will descend on the International Quilt Festival in Houston, hoping to learn, source supplies or simply to glimpse something beautiful that has meaning to them. It’s the largest trade show in a roughly $5 billion industry, hosting workshops, guest speakers and more than 1,200 quilts. But it’s just one of many such events around the world, from Amsterdam to Nairobi, Santiago to Yokohama, each devoted to a craft that seems as persistent as the tough survivors who created it.
PICTURE A TABLE runner, longer than it is wide. What looks like a simple checkerboard
— alternating black, white and deep red squares against a red background with black borders — becomes more intricate on closer inspection. Each red square features a smaller grid of red and black; each white square is dotted with silvery spirals. It’s a decorative piece, displayed mostly for its instructional value in a 2009 YouTube video meant to teach viewers how to assemble a standard “four patch” pattern. It was also the first quilt Jenny Doan ever shared on the platform.
She didn’t expect her new tutorial business to go too far. “Nobody my age is ever gonna go to the computer to learn anything,” she told her internet-savvy kids. Lucky for her, they insisted. At 51, she needed to replace the retirement savings she and her husband had lost in the financial crisis of 2008, and while she was a relative newcomer to quilting — a hobby she’d picked up after moving to Hamilton, Missouri, 11 years before — she had a knack for it. She also had the kind, patient demeanor of an aunt who brings pies and scrapbooks to a family reunion.
Doan couldn’t have been more wrong. Her content resonated far and wide — and fast. She launched the Missouri Star Quilt Company, which today has more than 970,000 subscribers on YouTube, and counting. Her matter-of-fact videos have been viewed nearly 350 million times. Now 68, she has become the biggest quilting influencer in the world. Forbes even dubbed this Latter-day Saint grandmother the “Oprah of quilting” and listed her in its 50-over-50 list in 2022. There are now 27 quilt shops in Hamilton, making it a “Disneyland for middle-aged women,” in her words.
Her approach was always simple: to make quilting accessible. Maybe that makes her more like Bob Ross, the iconic, frizzy-haired host of “The Joy of Painting,” which aired on PBS until his death in 1995. Like Ross, Doan emphasizes happy accidents over perfect quilts. “Mine are not so perfect and fine,” she admits, “but they’re mine.” She wants to see her creations “loved and worn out,” not stored away.
While Doan has made art quilts, she refuses to judge competitions, because that would go against her guiding principles. “I love blessing the lives of the people around me with something that will keep them warm and feels like a hug around them,” she says.
A STORY JUMPS from the cloth in striking black-on-white, with leafy green highlights. A Black family is on a road trip, with suitcases piled atop what looks like a 1940s Buick. Dad wears a suit and carries bags while Mom flaunts a hat over her Sunday dress and kids eyeball a picnic basket freighted with fruit and drinks. Compasses anchor
IN A TIME WHEN WOMEN’S VOICES WERE NOT ALWAYS WELCOME IN MAINSTREAM SOCIETY, QUILTS OFFERED AN OUTLET FOR EXPRESSION AND EVEN SOLIDARITY.
each corner, but one image looms over the scene: “The Negro Motorist Green-Book.” It’s left for the viewer to discover that this was a safety-minded travel guide for an era when it wasn’t always safe for Black folks to be “just passing through.”
Quilts connote warmth and comfort, while this story is anything but. That contrast is an intentional theme in Dr. Carolyn Mazloomi’s work. “When (Americans) think about quilts, they think about the quilts their mothers made, their grandmothers made,” says the 77-year-old Louisiana native. “So why not use a quilt to tell a difficult story?” Mazloomi specializes in “narrative quilts” that often depict the experience of Black Americans, from tragedies like the 1921 massacre that decimated Tulsa’s “Black Wall Street” to triumphs like
Marian Anderson singing “My Country, ’Tis of Thee” at the Lincoln Memorial in 1939, after she was shunned for her race by the city’s cultural venues.
The widely acclaimed artist first came to quilting almost 50 years ago when she encountered a “mesmerizing” piece from the Kentucky Appalachians, with patchwork in the center and appliquéd eagles in each corner. Ignoring the “no touching” sign, she ran her hand over the stitching and felt something that “touched my spirit, my soul,” she says. Later, her own first quilt came out of the wash looking like “a three-dimensional fried egg.” Still, she persisted, eventually finding her own hand and her own voice. Her quilts visually narrate the stories of renowned Black figures like Emmett Till, Rosa Parks and the Tuskegee Airmen, alongside intimate portrayals of a grandmother’s love, a gospel choir and little boys shooting marbles.
Longing for the company of a quilting circle, Mazloomi placed a magazine ad for fellow Black quilters in 1985, attracting nine responses. That started the Women of Color Quilters Network, a group that now has 1,500 members — with enough sway to replace the headstone of Harriet Powers, the freed slave who became the “Mother of African American Quilting” in the 1800s. The Network’s quilts were also featured recently at the Smithsonian American Art Museum. “To know that those quilts are there forever for our descendants to come and look at those quilts in public,” Mazloomi says, “it’s important.”
She’s now in the Quilters Hall of Fame and has seen her work featured at major venues like the Smithsonian, the American Folk Art Museum and the Museum of Art and Design in New York City (she also has a doctorate in aerospace engineering). But her favorite quilts feature her grandchildren. “Each one has a quilt, and I plan to give them more,” she says. She has time. “Cloth is a cradle-to-grave affair. It’s the first thing we’re swaddled in at birth. It’s the last thing that touches our body upon our death.”
A SERIOUS NOTE
BY KEVIN LIND
My niece was baptized at the very small parish church of a very small town on the coast of Rhode Island. The chapel stood on a hill overlooking Narragansett Bay, with cedar shingles and a white steeple, framed by bursts of pink flowers. When my brother asked me to be her godfather, I had instinctively reached for the closet to make sure I’d dry-cleaned my navy-blue blazer. Now, as I stepped inside, it was a comfort to know that I looked like I cared about what I was walking into. As my grandmother often reminded me, “There is a time and a place for everything.”
Conversely, the navy blazer — what some erroneously call a “sports coat” — can dress up almost any occasion that doesn’t require pants that match a jacket. Mine is cut from wool that’s dyed a dark, nautical blue and single-breasted, with a notched lapel, brass buttons and structured shoulders. The wool’s not fuzzy but slick and shimmers in the right light. In the northeast, where I’ve lived most of my life, it’s reminiscent of holiday parties, bucolic campuses and stodgy old uncles. It’s Americana in cloth. I had to learn why that matters.
“And now,” my grandmother would finish, “is neither the time nor the place.” As was often the case, we’d be heading to a school event, a funeral or a holiday, and my shirt would be untucked, my hat on backwards, with no jacket in sight. She’d tell me to go
get changed, but the real message was to respect and celebrate certain moments by simply wearing the right clothes. Despite the garment’s nickname, I haven’t worn a “sports coat” to play baseball or football since I was a boy, but I’ve had one tucked into the corner of every closet since.
That old schoolboy jacket earned some extra patches and repairs, but time treats them all the same. The supple cloth gets hard and shiny under the arms; buttons sag and swing like golden cherries; collars and elbows fray. Even so, its successors have shepherded me from job interviews to life’s more serious milestones. I’ve crossed my arms in funeral parlor parking lots, standing with other men in the same blue armor, mourning the losses of grandfathers and uncles who taught me to only button the top button.
Before the baptism, I pushed my arms through the sleeves of my newest blazer, a graduation gift from my wife, who rightly thought that occasion called for a crisp look. I still savor the glide of the liner against my shirtsleeves before flipping the coat up onto my shoulders and unpopping the collar. “Looking sharp, kid,” I thought when I saw myself in a mirror, echoing the words of my lost mentors. Walking down the aisle to my niece, who wailed throughout the service, it seemed to me that I’d become that older uncle. I think that would make my grandmother smile.
AN ODE TO THE NAVY BLAZER
PER SISTENCE Failed, failed, failed. And then...
TOUCHING BLUE
BY ISAAC TIMM
The blue Ford cocks up its front wheel, a paw aimed to climb the clouds. Then it comes down with a thump, the road re-draws the sky, once again flat
against the earth as we bump-up the Jeep track into the mountains, toward the high meadows of Indian Farm.
The V-8 growls through the axles, as smoke of burning rubber comes into the bed, granite burning like basalt —
The girl cousins scream, the truck looks to tip, fall down the mountain but my father has the wheel — under his hands it climbs sure.
I’m pushed deep into backpacks feel boxes of mac-&-cheese against my face then candy bars
which I steal, stuffing pilfered chocolate into my cheeks, a painted squirrel, chin dripping guilt.
It’s the beginning, when we reach the cabin at road end, we will continue the climb to sky on foot.
“AQUIFER,” A CHAPBOOK-LENGTH COLLECTION OF ISAAC TIMM’S POEMS, WAS PUBLISHED IN 2025 BY MOON IN THE RYE PRESS.
SAN RAFAEL SWELL, UTAH | PHOTOGRAPHY BY AUSTIN PEDERSEN
THE FIRST CREDIT UNION CREATED FOR MEMBERS OF CELEBRATING 70 YEARS OF THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS.
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