"What to Do When You Lose Your Biggest Donor"

I know what it’s like to lose a major donor. I’ve been there—sitting with the reality that a single person or institution whose support once anchored your organization has pulled away. In my case, the donor wasn’t just a funder; they were my board chair, someone I trusted, someone who believed in the work I was doing. And then, one day, they were gone.

These losses never come at a convenient time. More often than not, they hit when the budget is already stretched, when reserves are thin—or nonexistent—and when the organization is either breaking even or quietly operating in deficit. Many of us, whether we admit it or not, built our organizations on the assumption that institutions like USAID or longstanding foundation partners would always be there. We thought the money would keep flowing because the work was good, the need was real, and the relationship felt strong.

But funding isn’t permanent. Donor priorities shift. And over time, dependency can set in—quietly, almost imperceptibly—until the entire organizational structure is leaning on just one or two pillars. When one of those pillars is removed, the foundation shakes.

What I didn’t expect was how that loss would bring me back to center. It made me question how we build—and fund—our work. For a long time, I didn’t see myself as an authority. I second-guessed what I knew. But as I started working alongside other organizations navigating similar challenges, and as I began shaping Ndisu Consulting, I started to recognize that what I had learned—through experience, failure, and rebuilding—was worth sharing.

When I lost that donor, I was 34. They had been giving $50K a year—an amount that made a real difference in our budget. At the time, it felt like everything was on the line. Now, I work with Executive Directors facing even steeper losses—$500K, $1 million, sometimes more. The stakes are higher, and so is the pressure.

But moments like these can offer more than just crisis. They can open a door. Not just to replace what was lost—but to reimagine the entire approach to funding. To build something more stable, more intentional, and less dependent on a single source.

Right now, we’re living through a shift. People with resources are beginning to reflect more deeply on the purpose of their wealth—how it aligns with their values, their legacies, and their desire to be part of something meaningful. There’s an emerging consciousness that wealth, when hoarded, serves no one—not even the holder. And more importantly, that it can be put to work in service of justice, community, and real change.

As Tupac Shakur once questioned, why should a billionaire with just two children own multiple homes, while a larger family has nowhere to live? It’s not just a matter of fairness—it’s a confrontation with a system that makes excess acceptable while scarcity remains widespread. His words point us to a deeper truth: wealth without purpose or redistribution becomes meaningless.

We see this reflected in conversations about reparations, ethical investing, and legacy giving. And we see it in the rising interest from members of the African diaspora who want to support solutions rooted in the communities they care about. There’s a growing readiness to give—not out of guilt, but out of vision.

If you’ve lost a major donor, here’s what I’ve learned—and what you can do next.