What Legacy will you Leave?

4 days ago
4 min read

You often choose a career in fundraising because you want to make your mark on the world. Whether that mark is big or small, if you’re going to spend the majority of your life at work, you want it to mean something. At least, that’s what drove me to do what I do today.

For me, that spark came after reading about Daniel and Justine Flynn and their pursuit of using profit for purpose. Through bold, genius marketing stunts, they drew attention to a stark reality: millions of families in developing countries live in extreme poverty and lack access to one of the most basic human rights – clean water. Their story, Thank You Water, made me realise that work itself could be purposeful – that meaning and impact didn’t have to sit outside your career.

That realisation changed how I showed up at work every day. I quit my job in events and pursued a career in fundraising. I took on research projects and urgent funding needs with relentless determination, leaving no stone unturned to find a funder. The “professional nag”, as fundraisers sometimes jokingly call ourselves. I saw myself as a frontline fundraiser – someone whose role was to drive an organisation’s mission, fuelled by deep values alignment.

Then I joined Austin Health.

It was there that I met my then Director, Debbie Shiell. She asked me to meet with every department across the hospital to understand their funding needs. It was an interesting exercise. I had come from a university environment where researchers were driven by being first to market with groundbreaking discoveries – work I loved. At this public hospital in Melbourne’s north-east, perched on top of a hill, clinicians were far more practical. They needed more beds, dialysis chairs, blanket warmers, respite rooms for patients and staff. Blue-sky thinking wasn’t a luxury they could afford; immediate patient needs came first.

I remember thinking: How do I make my mark here?

Those meetings continued for weeks, and my funding register grew longer and longer. Then, in a moment of serendipity, Steven Wells visited the fundraising office. He shared his vision with Debbie to restore the rooftop garden adjacent to the spinal ward and she asked me to explore it further.

I’ll admit, my initial thought was: Great – another garden project. Little did I know it would become one of the most meaningful projects of my career.

I went up to the spinal ward to understand Steven’s vision and met with nurses and patients along the way. I learned that most patients arrive there through no fault of their own – car accidents, workplace incidents, unprovoked assaults. In an instant, they are not only fighting for their lives but also confronting an entirely new reality. One where their bodies no longer feel familiar. One where they must relearn how to exist without the use of their legs – and for some, their arms.

Patients with spinal cord injuries can spend up to six months on that ward before being transferred to rehabilitation. Day after day, they lie there staring at a white ceiling. And public hospitals are not places that naturally invite joy or hope.

Steven showed me his plan to restore the outdoor podium: to introduce colour, greenery and open space; to create somewhere patients could share a meal with family, feel fresh air on their skin and reconnect with life. A place to support the long journey ahead. A place to feel excitement again.

This wasn’t just a garden project. It was hope.Hope that life could improve.Hope that the new normal was still worth living.

After completing my discovery work, I met with Debbie. I expected we would prioritise projects and discuss next steps. Instead, she asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks:

“Now that you know what the hospital needs – what legacy will you leave?”

She wasn’t asking how much I would raise or which donors I would approach. She genuinely wanted me to come to work with purpose. That single question shifted everything. I wasn’t just a fundraiser. Like the researchers I had once admired, I too had the opportunity to leave a legacy – something that could change lives, beyond personal achievement or career satisfaction.

I knew immediately that the spinal podium project was what I would make a reality.

It wasn’t a first-of-its-kind breakthrough or a multi-million-dollar build, but it was undeniably life-changing for those who needed it. It took three years to fund, including support of a community appeal. It wasn’t easy. But I knew it was a legacy I could be proud of.

The turning point came through an unsolicited phone call. A daughter had lost her father and wanted to make a gift in his memory. He had spent several months in the spinal unit and, tragically, his injuries ultimately claimed his life. What she wanted was to express gratitude for the care he had received.

While the podium project required far more funding than she had initially intended, I shared the vision – the legacy her father could leave. A named podium for future patients. A place of healing, hope and reflection. After several conversations with her and her family, they agreed this was the right way to honour him. Together, they funded the project.

So if you see yourself as a fundraiser whose role is simply to drive an organisation’s mission, I hope you meet a Debbie – someone who looks beyond KPIs and shows you that legacy doesn’t have to be a new medical research centre or a seven-figure gift (although those can feel pretty good).

Sometimes, it’s a modest garden – so long as it changes lives and leaves its mark on yours.

When you return to work tomorrow and look at your priority list, pause and ask yourself: What legacy can I leave?

And when you’re struggling to gain leadership support for philanthropy, try asking this question instead:

When your time here comes to an end, what do you want to be remembered for?

Because philanthropy, at its best, truly changes lives.