CAMINANTE, No Hay Camino
Caminante, no hay camino — se hace camino al andar.
Traveler, there is no road. The road is made by walking.
As I complete Tackling Finance in the Social Impact Sector, the fifth and final course in the UPEACE Global Leadership Diploma, I find myself returning again and again to this line from Antonio Machado. Not because the course was poetic in tone, but because its methodology revealed something deeply human about funding and social change: there is no universal map of philanthropy—only practice, clarity, relationship, and motion. The road is made by walking.
This course did something quietly radical. It took a process that often feels intimidating, opaque, or performative and made it simple—almost elegant. Fundraising was stripped of mystique. Instead of jargon or heroics, we were invited to do something far more grounded: tell the truth about our work. Name the problem clearly. Articulate the gap honestly. Build a budget rooted in reality rather than aspiration. Ask for what the work actually requires.
It felt like getting back to basics.
And yet, as I worked through the steps, a deeper discomfort surfaced—one I would be dishonest to ignore.
In the social sector, we often rely on a familiar vocabulary: innovation, scalability, impact metrics, sustainability. These words circulate endlessly, as if saying them enough times might produce a more just world. But beneath that language lies a quieter truth—one most practitioners know intimately and rarely say aloud:
If I had a living wage, I could do this work sustainably.
This is not a complaint. It is a structural observation. It is the foundation upon which all “impact” rests. It was the truth that shaped The CAMINANTE Project years ago, and it remains the truth shaping my work today with The Geographical Imaginations Expedition & Institute (The GIEI). Transformation requires practitioners who can remain in the work long enough for transformation to unfold.
The course clarified the how of fundraising. But it also sharpened my critique of the systems we are asked to fundraise within. Three tensions stand out.
First, scarcity is often treated as a measure of worth. In much of philanthropy, low overhead and minimal compensation are framed as moral discipline. But chronic under-resourcing does not build resilience—it erodes it. Austerity produces burnout, turnover, and fragility. Initiatives struggle to adapt, retain people, or weather complexity. Supporting the human capacity behind the work is not excess; it is foundational infrastructure.
Second, certainty is demanded in an uncertain world. Funding structures frequently ask practitioners to predict outcomes that cannot honestly be known in advance. Yet the most meaningful social change is emergent, relational, and iterative. Understanding develops through practice, not prediction. As Machado reminds us, al andar se hace camino—the path becomes visible only by walking it. When certainty is demanded too early, imagination narrows and learning is constrained.
Third, funding decisions are often distant from the lived realities of practice. Many are made far from classrooms, communities, and the daily tensions practitioners navigate. This distance tends to produce compliance rather than collaboration, reports instead of relationships, metrics instead of meaning. And yet, when funders engage with proximity, humility, and curiosity, something shifts. A shared language emerges. Trust deepens. The work becomes more honest—and more viable.
Actually, there is also a fourth tension I feel compelled to name.
There must exist hundreds—likely thousands—of thoughtful, rigorous, deeply ethical proposals that never receive real consideration, not because they lack merit, but because they seek to accomplish something that cannot yet be fully measured by our current metrics. Work that aims at shifts in mindset, meaning, belonging, imagination, or culture often fails to survive first-round filters. These proposals disappear quietly, not because they are weak, but because our tools for recognizing value remain incomplete.
This is not necessarily a failure of individual funders. It is a systemic limitation.
This reflection is my way of holding these tensions honestly. To do so even more, I chose a familiar form: a proposal. A one-page funding document. A hermit crab essay—a reflection written inside the very genre we are trained to master.
Sometimes the clearest way to reveal a system’s limits is to write from within its structure.
The hermit crab proposal linked here—What Does It Take to Fund Imagination?—is not a rejection of fundraising. It is an invitation to think more carefully about what we ask for, what we reward, and what we risk losing when we prioritize speed, certainty, and visibility over patience, trust, and the long play.
Because the road is made by walking.
With clarity and gratitude,
Kevin
St. Lucia Day has always felt like a soft interruption in December—a small lantern held up against the long night. But this year, I find myself thinking about the day not just as a celebration of light, but as an invitation to rethink the structures that shape the darkness.
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