Timing, I've heard, is everything. After three years of trials and triumphs, I recently decided to leave my job as executive director of a college foundation. For a host of reasons I won't enumerate here, I concluded it was time to go. My decision, surprisingly, was easy, though my next one isn't exactly shaping up that way.
You may have noticed that our economy is about as stable as a Flying Wallenda in a hurricane. Banks are teetering, Wall Street needs repaving, and the federal government is busy scooping water from the bilge. At least gas prices are dropping (for now).
So I've left the comfy confines of academe smack dab in the midst of what experts are calling the most dramatic economic slide since the Great Depression. It's enough to make a guy, well, depressed. But I have some plans up my sweatshirt sleeve.
One involves the hope that colleges are still in the hiring mood. During the last decade or so, fund raising has been a hot field in academe. New positions were popping up everywhere, fund raisers were hopping from one job to the next in search of more mon — , uh, responsibility, and vacancies abounded. Likewise, donors remained generous, prompting institutions to invest even more in the development enterprise.
Well, a receding tide sinks all boats. Some experts are predicting not just a slowdown in growth, but an absolute decline in giving to higher education, which has happened a grand total of twice in the last 25 years. If donors stop saying yes, will colleges stop hiring those of us who ask? At a minimum, I assume institutions won't be in any hurry to create new positions in development, even if they are filling vacancies.
But imagine a more dire scenario: Say that colleges begin laying off fund raisers as the economy continues to sour, and charitable giving declines precipitously, in relative terms. Fewer jobs and more people on the prowl equal a seller's market, which drives salaries down. Not exactly a rosy picture, especially if you're on the outside looking in.
I'll hold off on the doomsday prophecy for now, though. I still see jobs out there, and I'm cautiously pursuing a few opportunities. I assume I'm not alone. Geography factors into the equation for the simple reason that selling one's house these days is about as easy as making the playoffs with your MVP quarterback on the shelf (shameless self-pity, I know, from a Patriots fan). Within my corner of the map, development jobs continue to crop up, if perhaps at a slower pace.
Meanwhile, I've been doing some consulting for colleges and universities, along with a range of other nonprofits. I'm working for a national firm with a great reputation, and I might indeed remain on this path despite its somewhat unpredictable nature.
For the most part, I'm helping organizations plan and execute capital campaigns. My specific role is to translate hopes and dreams into written documents suitable for donor consumption — not unlike what I've been doing in campus development offices for the past 18 years.
Clients, understandably, are cautious. It's one thing to run an annual fund, expect a slight decline in giving, and adjust your yearly goal accordingly. It's quite another to sit on the precipice of a campaign, watching the stock market tank as you plan to boldly announce your multimillion (or billion) dollar goal to a skeptical but sympathetic audience. My colleagues and I try to reassure clients that campaigns are long-term phenomena that can withstand economic uncertainties, and that the wealthiest donors — the ones who make or break a campaign — are the ones least fazed by downturns. People who can afford to give you $1-million may find that sum now represents a larger percentage of their portfolio than it did before, but they can still afford to give it. Still, some clients swallow that logic as if it were a quart of ipecac.
I'm also teaching. A college close to my hometown just started an online-only program in higher-education administration. I've taught before, but never online; I haven't even taken an online course. Here again, I assume I'm not alone in that regard. So far, it's been more challenging and rewarding than I would have imagined. Before this experience I was a bit of a skeptic. Consider me a convert.
So here I am today: writing, consulting, and teaching, cobbling together a nice living and truly enjoying the freedom this lifestyle provides. I get to spend more time with my kids — ages 8, 6, and 5 — and participate in school and community activities that I might otherwise have missed. I can hit the gym anytime I want, and I can mow my lawn on a Wednesday. My commute has gone from half an hour to half a minute — the time it takes me to slither out of bed, grab my gorilla slippers, and walk into the family room.
But yes, I might just trade it in for the right job in higher education. Corny as it may seem, I do miss the camaraderie, the relationships, the vibrancy of campus life, the pace of work, and the social and political issues that keep our industry so fascinating. Some things, naturally, I don't miss: bureaucratic quagmires, personality conflicts, managerial headaches, interminable meetings, parking nightmares and, of course, cranky donors.
It'll have to be the right position at the right place. It's not that I'm finicky, but rather that I'm at a point in my career where I'm eager for new challenges and not so willing to relive a déjà vu job situation. Maybe that's why I find consulting so intriguing — you get to serve a wide variety of clients with a range of problems to solve. The challenges never get old. If a new opportunity affords me the time to consult and teach on the side, even better. I can always write.
In any event, I'll always consider higher education my intellectual and emotional home. If I stick with consulting, I'll continue to help colleges and universities tell their stories and raise money. If I don't, well, it's probably because I've returned to administration or taken the plunge into full-time teaching and research.
Either way, I won't let a little thing like a recession stop me.
