- During Climate Week in New York, Mongabay Founder and CEO Rhett Ayers Butler joined discussions with grassroots leaders from the Global South that offered a sharper view of how philanthropy meets—and sometimes misses—the realities of frontline work.
- A common theme: philanthropy’s structures often clash with the realities of frontline conservation and climate work, prioritizing short-term, quantifiable outcomes over long-term, relational support that nurtures resilience and agency.
- Leaders noted that true impact often occurs outside traditional metrics—in community empowerment, social cohesion, and local leadership—yet rigid grant cycles and top-down governance continue to stifle this potential. A more durable model of giving would put more emphasis on trust, shared decision-making, mental-health support, and “disciplined optimism,” enabling frontline groups to sustain progress and adapt over decades rather than grant cycles.
- This article is a commentary. The views expressed are those of the author, not necessarily of Mongabay.
A few weeks ago, I wrote about navigating conservation’s crisis. During Climate Week in New York, I joined discussions with grassroots leaders from the Global South that offered a sharper view of how philanthropy meets—and sometimes misses—the realities of frontline work. Their reflections highlighted dynamics that merit further exploration.
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Philanthropy is purportedly rooted in a ‘love of humanity’, yet its operating systems are often transactional. Of course, “philanthropy” encompasses an extraordinary range of actors, from small family foundations to major multilateral donors, and not all fall into the same patterns. Still, the prevailing norms that govern much of the sector—short grant cycles, risk aversion, and an emphasis on measurable outcomes—tend to shape behavior even among those trying to work differently. For many frontline conservation and climate justice groups, whose pressures are intensifying across ecological, political, and personal dimensions, traditional approaches to giving can feel misaligned with present needs.
Too often, donors equate success with easily counted outcomes: hectares protected, tons of carbon sequestered, or numbers of beneficiaries reached. Yet much of the real progress happens off-ledger. An Indigenous woman leader breaking taboos to speak about gender-based violence, villagers reviving their language classes without outside funding, or waste pickers returning from international exchanges to form cooperatives are not “soft” outcomes; they are signs of social resilience. Impact today may not be impact tomorrow, and philanthropy that relies only on fixed indicators risks constraining the agency it hopes to build. That said, funders’ reliance on metrics often stems from legitimate accountability requirements—trustees, boards, or taxpayers need evidence of effectiveness. The challenge is not measurement itself, but finding ways to value change that defies easy quantification.
A more adaptive ethos would treat grants as two-way relationships rather than transactions. Funders could expect to underwrite learning, pivots, and even failure. One youth climate organizer once described a $2,000 grant in West Africa that initially flopped. Ten years later, the same group had won a national award for emissions-reduction work in the very municipality where it had once failed—an achievement made possible by funders who stepped in after the first donor had walked away. This philosophy reflects a broader pattern across conservation: a sense of meaningful contribution is one of the strongest protective factors against burnout, yet chronic underfunding and job insecurity can erode it, if not prevent people from being involved. Protecting those who protect nature requires investing in their well-being as people and staying power, not only their deliverables. Still, flexibility is not a cure-all; it works best when paired with transparency, mutual trust, and clear expectations on both sides.
Money alone rarely shifts power; governance of money often does. Community leaders and rights-holders seldom sit on foundation boards or advisory groups, yet ensuring they are part of decision-making that affects them can help recalibrate priorities and processes. Without such participation, funding structures risk remaining top-down: communities are told which activities qualify, which expenses are permissible, and which timelines apply. Some ecosystem restoration programs, for instance, overlook the less visible but essential work of community organizing, even though such engagement is critical to long-term success. Real lives are not lived in thematic buckets, yet philanthropy often demands it. The result can be a paradox: funders articulate holistic visions while rewarding narrow proposals, while expecting systemic change to happen within a short grant cycle. This dynamic discourages intersectional leadership—people who embody the connections between climate, livelihoods, and social equity—but who are forced to present as single-issue specialists to fit grant categories. Even locally led organizations, however, face their own internal hierarchies and uneven structures of support; shifting decision-making power outward is often most effective when it goes hand in hand with strengthening accountability and governance within.
All of this unfolds amid mounting strain. Tropical primary forest loss has risen markedly in the 2020s; civic space is shrinking; violence against defenders is increasing. Inside many movements and organizations, a quieter crisis persists: high psychological distress, burnout, and, too often, tragedy. A global survey of more than 2,000 conservation professionals found that over a quarter scored in the moderate-to-severe range for psychological distress. Women, early-career staff, and those with weak social support were most at risk. Yet mental-health safeguards remain uncommon in grants or program budgets. Some funders are beginning to underwrite well-being plans, rotate high-stress assignments, and ease reporting burdens that sap energy without improving outcomes—steps that could become the norm rather than the exception. The link between funding structures and well-being is often indirect but real: short-term grants and job insecurity amplify stress, while predictable support allows people to plan, rest, and sustain their commitment.
History suggests that every major social transformation—from anti-colonial movements to environmental milestones—has required resources. What made that support transformative was not only its scale but its patience and respect for leadership on the ground. Philanthropy today often operates under short time horizons and strong pressures for demonstrable results in line with external metrics. Yet systemic challenges—from climate change and biodiversity loss to widespread inequality—demand longer-term commitment and an embrace of complexity that short grant cycles rarely allow. When support is episodic or reactive, frontline groups can be left chasing short-lived funding trends while confronting problems that unfold over decades and generations. Of course, resources alone cannot resolve the deeper inequities that underlie these crises; philanthropy itself exists within global power structures that concentrate wealth even as they seek to redistribute it. Reforming practice is necessary but not sufficient to redress those imbalances.
A more resilient model of giving would be flexible, responsive and enabling, funding more when public budgets retreat and grounding support in durable public values and locally led strategies and movements. Frontline groups need not only financing but also the information and tools to act effectively: open data, cross-border collaboration, and spaces for peer learning can be as catalytic as money itself. Funders can also help weave coalitions around around shared interests such as land restoration that secures water and rewilding that reduces fire risk. They can recognize that mental-health support, legal defense, and personal security are not ‘nice to have’ extras but integral to sustaining people who work under extraordinary pressure. And they can practice what might be called disciplined optimism: setting realistic, verifiable goals; learning publicly from what does not work; and using small, proven examples to inspire broader change. Such steps won’t erase the tensions between accountability and trust, or between scale and intimacy, but they can make those tensions more productive.
The argument is not that metrics or accountability should vanish. Rather, philanthropy could become more movement-oriented: funding leaders across challenges and pivots, co-governing resources with communities, and planning for decades, not grant cycles. Such an approach aligns with what many frontline groups are already doing out of necessity and with resources mobilized internally. It also offers funders a more durable form of risk management—investing in the agency and resilience of people who will still be there after project windows close. The practices that endure under pressure—trust-based relationships, shared governance, fair living wages, support for mental health and well-being, and stories of modest but real progress—are already known. What philanthropy may need most now is not a new playbook but the resolve to apply these principles consistently, and the humility to learn alongside those who live the consequences of its choices.
Redwoods in California. Photo by Rhett Ayers Butler.
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