We were on our way to New Orleans to celebrate my sister’s birthday, which happened to fall on Mardi Gras Day that year. As you might imagine, the mood at the gate was festive. People headed to Mardi Gras are generally in good spirits.
When our flight was delayed, some fellow passengers headed to a nearby bar. After all, the promise of a Mardi Gras celebration waits for no one.
By the time our plane arrived, deplaned, and we boarded, a few people who had clearly enjoyed themselves at the bar had managed to bring some of their own alcohol onboard. Long story short, they were unceremoniously removed from the flight while the rest of us waited.
It was already quite a trip, and we hadn’t even left SFO.
Then the pilot’s voice came over the intercom with another update. After the series of delays, our crew had “timed out.” We would all need to deplane and wait for a new crew to arrive before we could continue on to New Orleans.
As a traveler, I was not happy. None of us were thrilled about spending additional hours waiting.
But the concept of a crew “timing out” has stayed with me.
Of course we want the people responsible for our safety to be well rested and not working beyond their capacity. In some professions, clear boundaries exist to ensure people receive the rest they need to do their work safely and effectively.
What if we took this approach to our work in the nonprofit sector?
Many of the people I encounter in our sector are working in a chronically “timed out” state.
In a field where the stakes are high and the needs are endless, how we identify and honor thresholds—for ourselves and for our teams—often determines our ability to create meaningful, lasting change. It also has profound implications for our long-term well-being.
If an exhausted pilot is pushed beyond their limit, the consequences can be catastrophic.
When nonprofit professionals are pushed beyond theirs, the consequences are often quieter and less visible, but no less damaging. Burnout. Turnover. Compassion fatigue. Diminished creativity. Strained relationships. The gradual erosion of the very people our communities depend upon.
What might be possible if we recognized rest and care not as rewards, but as essential conditions for doing our best work?
Let’s imagine—and then build—a culture where people are encouraged to recognize when they have reached their limit. A threshold for rest and care that allows us to sustain ourselves, our leadership, and our impact for the long haul.
