When I started my first fundraising role at 28, I had no idea what I was stepping into. I wasn’t sure how I was going to navigate the challenges ahead, and I certainly didn’t feel prepared. I had no formal training, no experience—just a drive to learn and a deep desire to make an impact. I thought I knew what to expect. I figured I would pick up skills, develop a deeper understanding of the field, and grow in my role. What I didn’t expect—what I never could have imagined—was how profoundly the people I met along the way would shape me, not just as a professional, but as a person.

There have been so many people who have influenced my career, and I could write about all of them. I want to focus on three who really stand out: the mentor who believed in me before I could believe in myself, the man who made me question whether I truly belonged in this field, and the donors and volunteers who taught me lessons I never saw coming.

When I was offered my first fundraising job, I smiled and said yes—but inside, I was terrified. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t qualified. I felt like I had somehow convinced someone to believe in a version of me that didn’t yet exist. In the days before starting, I scoured the internet for articles about stewardship strategies, capital campaigns, and anything else I could find to help me get my bearings. Most of the terms felt like a foreign language. I was desperate to be good at something I had never done before.

What grounded me in those early days wasn’t knowledge—it was trust. My mentor at the time didn’t expect me to show up fully formed. She expected me to ask questions, to be honest and to try. That kind of trust was simple, but it was everything. It gave me space to grow.

And yet, doubt crept in

I remember attending a professional development session just three months into the role. I sat quietly in the room, trying to learn the basics. And then the speaker said it—bluntly, without hesitation: “Do not hire the 28-year-old.” According to him, someone so young would ruin donor relationships and harm an organization’s credibility.

I remember the heat rising in my face. I felt exposed, humiliated. His words confirmed every fear I had been carrying. Was I a mistake? Had I been given a role I had no business being in?

I told my mentor what had happened. She didn’t flinch. She looked me in the eye and said, “Prove him wrong.” It wasn’t a pep talk. It was a challenge. And it carried with it a belief in me that I wasn’t yet ready to hold for myself.

So, I dug in. I worked late. I rewrote my donor emails until they felt authentic. I watched webinars, read case studies, and took notes on every interaction. I led with humility—not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I had no choice but to be honest about where I was and be willing to do the work to grow.

A major milestone

Six months later, I secured my first major gift: $25,000. I barely remember what I said to the donor, but I will never forget how it felt. It wasn’t just a milestone for the organization. It was a turning point for me. It was the first time I allowed myself to believe that maybe—just maybe—I was meant for this work.

Along the way, I learned that the most meaningful lessons didn’t come from books or workshops. They came from the people around me. Donors and volunteers who, despite their busy lives, showed up with grace and generosity. They reminded me what dedication looked like. They taught me the value of service, and they showed me how to live with purpose.

Two individuals stood out: one always pushed for excellence, expecting us to think critically, plan ahead and be prepared for what was to come. The other was a quiet, kind soul who knew how to make you feel seen in the most unassuming ways. She had a gift for delivering words of encouragement just when I needed them most, and her belief in me was unwavering. Her impact wasn’t in grand gestures, but in the way she showed up—gently, consistently, and with heart.

Their mentorship taught me to lead with empathy, to trust my instincts, and to build relationships rooted in respect. These values didn’t just shape the way I work; they shaped the way I show up in every part of my life—as a mom, a wife, a friend.

I still think about the man at the workshop—the one who doubted me. His words stung, but they weren’t wrong. I wasn’t ready—yet. But I was willing. And in this profession, willingness is one of the most powerful tools we have; willingness to learn, to fail, to ask for help. It’s something I continue to lean on as I grow in this field.

This career journey isn’t over. I am still learning, still growing, and still working through self-doubt more often than I care to admit. I have learned, however, to pause and look back—not to dwell on where I’ve fallen short, but to celebrate how far I’ve come. And, at the heart of it all, are the people who shaped me along the way—those who believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself, those who challenged me to be better, and those who taught me lessons I never expected to learn.

To everyone along this path, thank you. You’ve been more than just a part of my career. You are part of who I am.

Marla Smith, CFRE, is the Director of Foundation & Communications at Pathstone Foundation, where she leads fundraising and communications efforts to advance mental health services in Niagara. With over 15 years of nonprofit leadership experience, she is passionate about fostering trust, transparency, and meaningful donor relationships through ethical and strategic fundraising practices. An active sector volunteer, Marla serves on the Board of the AFP Foundation for Canada and is a CFRE Ambassador. She also chairs National Philanthropy Day and Education for AFP Golden Horseshoe, championing professional development and philanthropy across the sector. msmith@pathstone.ca