I’ve spent more than two decades working in community development—on the ground with residents, across tables from city leaders, and inside systems that are often well-meaning but painfully disconnected from the people they’re meant to serve. During this time, one thing I’ve learned is that no matter how passionate or skilled we are, it’s easy to confuse hard work with impact. We hold meetings, conduct surveys, and roll out programs with the best intentions—but intention doesn’t always translate into trust, and structure doesn’t automatically equal substance.
I’ll be honest: I didn’t always get it right. Early in my career, I followed the playbook—I held the meeting, drafted the plans, and checked the boxes. I showed up in a suit, prepared and armed with facts and data, but often left without truly hearing what the community needed me to understand. Over time, through listening and a few hard lessons, I began to learn what authentic engagement really looked like. And what I learned was twofold: (1) It’s not just about presence—it’s about purpose, and (2) it’s not about checking off requirements—it’s about building trust.
This article is for the next generation of practitioners—those who are committed to doing this work with integrity, humility, and intention. What follows are practical, hard-earned tips to help you avoid the missteps, connect more deeply, and lead with respect in every room you walk into.
TIP: Rethink the Meeting Culture
If there’s one habit this field needs to break, it’s holding meetings just for the sake of holding them. Somewhere along the way, we started confusing gatherings with progress, as if putting people in a room is inherently valuable, regardless of whether the time is meaningful. I’ve attended more than enough community meetings to know that simply showing up is not the same as showing respect. When meetings are poorly planned, performative, or disconnected from what residents actually care about, people may attend once, but they rarely come back.
Very early in my career, I thought meetings were the default solution. Got a new initiative? Call a meeting. Need to fulfill a participation requirement? Schedule a session. It didn’t take long to realize how much time and goodwill we waste when we pull people away from their families, jobs, or evening routines—only to hand them an agenda that’s more about us than it is about them.
And then there’s the unspoken power dynamic. I remember walking into meetings dressed in what I thought was “appropriate” professional attire—a suit, heels, and a laptop bag. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was walking in with the unintentional message: I’m the authority in this room. It wasn’t until I made the conscious decision to dress down—sometimes in jeans, sometimes in flats—that residents started opening up in a different way. When people feel like they’re being spoken to instead of spoken with, engagement doesn’t stand a chance.
Even the way a room is set up is important. Both chairs facing a podium and a panel up front signal: we talk, you listen. But when you arrange chairs in a circle or arrange small tables where people can sit eye-to-eye, the energy shifts. People are more willing to share. They speak more candidly. The room becomes a space of conversation, not control.
Ultimately, community meetings should be purposeful, people-centered, and grounded in mutual respect and understanding. That means being intentional about every detail—from why the meeting is happening to how the chairs are arranged to what language we use when speaking. It also means knowing when not to have a meeting at all. Sometimes a phone call, a pop-up table at an event, or walking the block with a resident leader does far more to build trust than any two-hour gathering ever could. As I grew into executive leadership, I carried those lessons with me, and I expected my teams to do the same.
TIP: Prioritize Listening Over Talking
One of the most overlooked skills in community development is knowing when to stop talking.
A lot of what we’re taught as professionals is how to present—whether it’s data, plans, or polished solutions. We’re trained to lead meetings, manage conversations, and drive progress. But in real community spaces, that approach can do more harm than good. When we do most of the talking, we often drown out the voices we came to hear.
Very early in my career, I was afraid of public speaking. It never came naturally to me—and honestly, it still doesn’t. I thought showing up with all the answers made me look prepared and, truthfully, helped calm my nerves. I’d walk into rooms with tight agendas and talking points, focused on getting through the meeting without stumbling. What I didn’t see back then was how that need for control was getting in the way of real connection.
Everything started to shift when I let go of the script and started showing up with genuine questions instead. Right away, the room felt different. People leaned in. They spoke up. They shared things no report could capture and filled in the gaps the data had missed. I started hearing what really mattered—things I never would’ve known if I’d stayed locked into my plan.
But listening comes with a cost: you’re going to hear things that are uncomfortable. Community members will tell you when you’ve missed the mark, when your program doesn’t reflect their reality, or when your presence feels performative. And while it’s not always easy in the moment, I can say without hesitation—those conversations have made me a better person and a stronger leader. In fact, some of the most transformative professional relationships I’ve built began with difficult conversations. I’ve made a point to follow up after tense moments—not defensively, but personally. A phone call. A one-on-one coffee. A handwritten note. More than once, those follow-ups turned into something more profound—real trust, long-term collaboration, even unexpected friendships with some of the strongest critics in the room. That’s what listening can do when it’s not just about responding, but about learning and growing.
Authentic listening requires humility. It asks us to let go of the idea that we are the experts. It means walking into a room knowing that the people living the experience have a perspective you can’t Google, model, or quantify. It means acknowledging that the work is stronger when it’s shaped by the people who are most directly affected by it.
As I grew in my career, I started encouraging my teams to lead with listening. I’d remind them, you don’t have to show up with all the answers right away. Just be present. Ask a real question. Then pause—and give people the space to respond.
TIP: Meet People Where They Are
One of the fastest ways to lose trust is to build a process that works well for the system but not for the people it’s meant to serve. I’ve seen it too many times—meetings planned with no real thought to the daily lives of the folks we say we want to hear from. And when hardly anyone shows up, the assumption is often that the community doesn’t care. But most of the time, that’s not true. The problem isn’t interest—it’s access. If people aren’t in the room, we need to ask ourselves whether we’ve truly made space for them to show up.
Meeting people where they are requires us to think beyond our own comfort or internal processes. We must account for the fact that many residents face real barriers—such as transportation, caregiving responsibilities, nontraditional work hours, and, increasingly, limited internet access. The pandemic taught us that virtual meetings can be a valuable tool for expanding reach, but they are not a silver bullet. Virtual platforms offer flexibility and convenience, but they also expose gaps in digital access and literacy. Just as some people couldn’t easily make it to an in-person meeting before the pandemic, others now struggle to participate because they don’t have reliable broadband, the correct device, or a quiet place to log in.
That’s why I’ve long advocated for offering both in-person and virtual options whenever possible—not to double the workload, but to double the opportunity for people to engage on their terms. It’s not enough to say we’re being inclusive; we have to build inclusion into the structure of how we work. When we fail to do that, we send the message—intentional or not—that some voices matter more than others.
Throughout my career, I’ve encouraged my teams to be flexible, creative, and grounded in reality. If we claim to want participation, we must create conditions that make it possible. That means taking the time to understand the communication and access patterns of the people we’re trying to reach. It might mean holding meetings in neighborhood spaces rather than government buildings. It may involve adjusting start times, providing transportation or food, or collaborating with trusted community liaisons to open doors that wouldn’t otherwise be accessible. It always means being willing to adapt—not once, but as often as necessary.
However, this principle extends beyond logistics. Meeting people where they are is about respect. It’s about acknowledging the lived experiences that shape how people show up—and being willing to meet those experiences with humility, not judgment.
TIP: Communicate for Understanding
We work in a field full of acronyms, technical terms, and bureaucratic language. But if our goal is to engage the community, then our language can’t be designed for insiders. It has to be for everyone.
I’ve reviewed countless materials over the years—flyers, program guidelines, meeting slides, social media posts—and far too often, I find myself thinking, Who is this actually for? Because if a resident needs a government translator to understand what’s being offered in their own neighborhood, we’ve already created a barrier. Communication that confuses isn’t neutral—it’s exclusionary.
Using simple words and organizing content clearly enhances understanding and builds trust. Research consistently shows that people are more likely to engage, participate, and act when public information is presented in plain language. Furthermore, national literacy assessments reveal that a significant portion of U.S. adults struggle with materials written above an eighth-grade level. That’s not a failure of the community. It’s a wake-up call for institutions. If our outreach materials, websites, and public notices are written for policy experts instead of residents, then we’re not practicing inclusion—we’re just performing it.
That principle applies across the board—whether we’re speaking at a community meeting, posting on social media, or responding to questions at a public hearing. Every word we choose either builds trust or erodes it. And too often, we forget that even well-intentioned language can come off as cold or condescending if it doesn’t meet people where they are.
That’s why I encourage my clients to stop writing for funders or city attorneys when addressing the public. Write for the people who are living the issues we’re working on. Use plain language. Say what you mean. And don’t bury the lead—put the most important, most helpful information front and center.
Social media has made this both easier and more complicated. On one hand, it’s a direct line to the community. On the other hand, it can become a dumping ground for tone-deaf messaging and out-of-context updates. When using social media, it’s important to be responsive, be human, and treat it like a conversation, not a broadcast. And if you wouldn’t say it in person to someone’s face, don’t post it on your organization’s account.
Communication is about connection. It’s not enough to be heard—we have to be understood. And in a world where mistrust runs deep, respectful action coupled with the effective use of words can build a bridge.
TIP: Let the Community Validate the Data
Typically, community development professionals rely heavily on data to tell a story. We map poverty rates, track eviction filings, measure health outcomes, and disaggregate numbers by census tract, ZIP code, or neighborhood. And while those figures are necessary, they’re not complete—not without the voices of the people who live behind the numbers.
Early in my career, I would come to meetings prepared and confident that the numbers spoke for themselves. I’ve since learned that data can reveal a trend, but only the community can determine whether that trend accurately reflects reality. Data shows outcomes. People explain causes.
That’s why one of my core principles is this: never lead with data that hasn’t been tested in the community. Just because something looks true on paper doesn’t mean it feels true to the people experiencing it. Sometimes what’s missing isn’t a data point—it’s context. And context is everything.
I encourage partners to present data not as fact, but as a conversation starter. We share what we see, and then we ask, Does this match what you’re living? What are we missing? What’s underneath the surface? That approach doesn’t weaken the data—it strengthens it. It also communicates that we respect the community enough to treat them as experts in their own experience.
This kind of validation requires time and humility. But it’s also the difference between developing programs for people and designing solutions with them.
Do the Work That Matters
Community development is not about managing programs; it’s about empowering people. It’s about building relationships, earning trust, and being honest about the responsibility we carry. Every meeting we hold, every word we write, and every program we implement sends a message—whether we intend it to or not.
To the emerging professionals stepping into this work: your credentials will open doors, but your adaptability will determine what you build once you walk through them. Show up curious. Speak plainly. Listen deeply. Design with—not for. And when the process gets uncomfortable, lean in. That’s usually where the real growth happens.
To those of us who have been in this work for decades, we don’t need to reinvent our passion, but we do need to reexamine our practices because the future of this field depends on whether we can move from performative engagement to purposeful connection.
Community development at its best is a conversation—one built on mutual respect, shared understanding, and truth-telling. It’s about creating space for others to lead, speak, and shape the outcome. That’s the work that lasts. That’s the work that matters.