I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to do work that matters when it feels like no one cares.
For the past few years, I’ve been advocating for rural East Texas communities—places like Buna, Newton, San Augustine. I’ve built communication frameworks, written strategic plans, installed digital kiosks, organized meetings, drafted policy briefs. I’ve tried to give voice to communities that have been systematically left out of planning conversations, to help people shape their own futures instead of having decisions made for them from far away.
Most days, it feels like pushing a boulder uphill alone.
The Generational Game
I’m starting to realize this work isn’t measured in months or even years—it’s generational. The infrastructure I’m building, these communication frameworks and pilot models and community briefs, they’re seeds that may not fully mature in my lifetime. And I think I’ve been measuring success wrong.
Maybe success isn’t getting county commissioners to read every brief I send. Maybe it’s that one local leader who picks up this work five years from now and has a template to start from. Maybe it’s just that these documents exist at all—proof that someone saw what was happening, cared enough to name it, and offered solutions.
That’s not failure. That’s foundation-building.
Celebrating What’s Actually There
When the big wins feel impossible, I’m learning to notice the small ones:
- A county commissioner who actually responded to a community brief
- A kiosk that’s been running for six months without breaking down
- One new business owner who showed up to learn about the community
- The fact that I’ve created templates other rural organizers can use
These aren’t nothing. They’re evidence of progress, even if they’re not transformation yet.
Finding My People
The San Augustine meeting this year reminded me of something important. Sitting around that table with Eddie, Nancy, Tania, and Marianne—people doing similar work in their own communities—I didn’t feel alone. We shared frustrations, traded contacts, problem-solved together.
I’ve been spending too much energy seeking alignment “up”—with county officials, state agencies, foundations—and not enough building lateral relationships with peers. Those relationships aren’t just strategic. They’re sanity-preserving. They remind me I’m not crazy for thinking this work matters.
The Documentation Matters
Even when nothing changes immediately, these reports I’m writing serve a purpose:
- They validate what communities are experiencing
- They create a record for future organizers
- They protect against institutional amnesia (“we didn’t know there was a problem”)
I need to remember that documentation is activism. Recording what’s happening, naming the gaps, proposing solutions—that’s meaningful work even when it doesn’t produce immediate results.
Letting Go of Universal Buy-In
Not everyone is going to get it. Some officials will remain indifferent. Some developers will keep ignoring community input. Some residents will stay skeptical of any change.
That’s okay. The goal isn’t to convince everyone—it’s to build enough of a coalition to create momentum. I don’t need universal support for this work to matter.
Taking Real Breaks
I’m bad at this one. I need to take actual breaks—not performative self-care, but real disengagement. Days where I don’t mention rural development. Weeks where the kiosks can wait.
This work will always be there. It’s generational, remember? Burning out doesn’t serve anyone.
What Does “Enough” Look Like?
I’m trying to get more specific about what meaningful progress would look like in the next year. Not transformation—just progress:
- Three communities actually using the communication framework I built
- One successful regional roundtable where rural leaders are at the table
- Maybe a single rural navigator position gets funded somewhere
When I make it concrete like that, I can tell the difference between “not enough impact yet” and “actually making progress.” They’re not the same thing.
Why I Keep Going
Buna, Newton, San Augustine—these aren’t abstractions to me. They’re people who deserve to shape their own futures. The work I’m doing affirms their dignity and their right to be heard.
That has value independent of whether it produces immediate systemic change.
The fact that I keep showing up, keep documenting, keep building frameworks when no one asked me to—I don’t think that’s naivete anymore. I think it’s moral courage. Or stubbornness. Maybe both.
The question isn’t whether to keep going. It’s how to keep going sustainably, strategically, with enough support to avoid burning out completely.
I don’t have all the answers yet. But writing this helps. Naming what’s hard helps. Remembering I’m building foundations, not finished structures—that helps too.
If you’re doing similar work somewhere else—advocating for a place everyone else overlooks, building infrastructure no one asked for, showing up when it feels pointless—you’re not alone. And you’re not crazy.
Keep going. The work matters.
John Hargrove Seeking Truth and Reality 