You've probably heard of white fragility, that defensiveness that emerges when white folks are confronted with racial stress. White narcissism is like white fragility's older relative, who not only gets defensive but also manages to make the entire situation about themselves while claiming to be helpful.

White narcissism in allyship shows up when someone is so invested in seeing themselves as "one of the good ones" that they actually end up causing harm to the very people they claim to support. Read on to learn more about what this looks like.

Here's something we don't talk about enough: most of us became supervisors without anyone teaching us how.

We cobble together a style from memory — borrowing what felt good, trying to leave behind what hurt us. But without intentional reflection, habit and history can quietly take the wheel.

Our newest piece shares what came up in this year's Liberatory Supervision Cohort — the barriers, the antidotes, and the ongoing practice of leading with care.

Most well-meaning people think they understand the immigrant experience. They empathize. They sympathize. They read articles, watch documentaries, nod along when immigrants share their stories. But as our Co-Founder, Jess, writes, empathy and understanding are not the same as embodiment. They're not the same as living it in your bones. In this urgent reflection written amid escalating ICE raids and state violence, Jess challenges non-immigrants to move beyond empathy into co-conspiracy—because immigrant communities don't need an audience. They need people willing to risk something real.

We recently wrapped up our Building Bridges Cohort, a six-week journey designed to help leaders deepen their connections, grow their communication skills, and practice courageous bridge-building across differences.

When fighting for justice means making compromises we hate. A tough conversation about power, process, and who gets sacrificed in the name of politics. As someone who lives in California and has worked in both houses of Congress for Democratic politicians, I know firsthand how much these seats matter — not as abstract numbers, but as the difference between communities having a voice or being silenced.

We’re in the thick of polycrisis. Genocide. Climate catastrophe. Political gaslighting. Scrolling through the news in 2025 feels like drowning in grief, rage, and helplessness, on repeat. Every day, another blow. Another reminder that the systems around us are not built for our collective care. From the ongoing wars to wildfires choking our skies to the relentless attacks on democracy at home, the weight of this moment is undeniable.

If you’re still not sure whether the Trump administration is at war with immigrants, just look at Los Angeles today. The last time a U.S. President called in the National Guard without the support of state and local officials was during the Civil Rights movement, when President Lyndon B. Johnson called in federal forces to protect Civil Rights protestors. The parallel is unmistakable and deeply disturbing.

We’re living in a time where even the words we use to describe civil rights and human rights are being targeted. “Diversity.” “Equity.” “Inclusion.” “Belonging.” These aren’t just buzzwords — they are the foundation of the work many of us in the nonprofit sector do. They represent commitments to human dignity, to community, and to liberation.

We know the last few weeks have felt like a rollercoaster, leaving many of us reeling, angry, confused, and exhausted. But we cannot afford to stay silent or still. We are not powerless. Our communities need us now more than ever, and each of us has a vital role to play in creating the change we need to see. Healing and resistance go hand in hand, and now more than ever, we must root into community care and collective action.

Supporting employee financial well-being is not just about retention. It’s about living up to the values we claim to hold as nonprofit leaders. If we truly believe in social justice, equity, and inclusion, we must extend those principles to the very people who make our work possible.

How many of us, particularly those of us who identify as Black, Indigenous, and People of Color (BIPOC)/Global Majority, have been gaslit, seen as shit starters, called “the problem woman of color,” or been told that we’re difficult? How quickly do we then notice the impact of racial trauma on our mental health?

The truth is that we can’t end misogyny, patriarchy, and sexism on our own. These are forms of oppression that will take a lifetime of unlearning, recognizing biases, reframing, and empowering others to act. But by making some small moves forward, we can begin the process of transformation and dismantling the oppressions that Asian American women have to face.

We’ve been told time and time again — if you don’t like what you see, go and vote. But voting is a privilege when you live in states like Texas, where voter suppression is alive and well. And if you’re not a U.S. citizen or if you’re under the age of 18, voting isn’t an option at all. So what else can we do?