Sometimes having a diagnosis for an ailment makes the symptoms much more palatable. I felt this way when I finally came across a name for what I had been experiencing while working in small charities for the better part of a decade: founder’s syndrome. It’s endemic and often goes hand-in-hand with the founder – the innovative spark behind an organisation – still being at the helm.
Having been managed by a founder in three out of my four major jobs, and working closely with one in the fourth, I have lived out all the symptoms: ad-hoc practices with no systems and processes, unilateral decisions at the whim of the founder, a resistance to professionalising and losing the personal touch, and a way of working that revolves entirely around one person because the assumption is that this immortal personality will be around forever.
All of the charities I have worked for have admirable principles underpinning their work – youth voice, democratic decision-making, dialogue, agency, reflection. It seems tragic, then, that so little of these principles transfer over to the container in which the work is done.
While my sample size is small, the trends have been glaring. Take, for instance, the time when I was yelled at, in front of the volunteers, because I was using the wrong colour pen. No, not the wrong colour ink. The wrong colour pen. I was (evidently) interfering with the aesthetic the founder had so carefully crafted. Or the time when my teammates and I were accused of being disrespectful because we suggested changes to the editorial process that produced educational material on controversial topics that went out to thousands of recipients. Or the time when, due to the founder’s resistance to digitising the administration, I spent much of my time in a managerial role creating paper files for each of our participants because that’s the way we’ve always done things.
The symptoms are well-documented, and are by no means limited to just founders or just to small charities – nor are they inevitable. But for me, the very things that give small charities their allure – greater autonomy, freedom from bureaucracies, salience of the founding vision – can also be their greatest limitations.
When the founder is so inextricably linked with the organisation’s identity, there is no way to change, improve or advance things without fundamentally attacking who they are. The charity’s success is their success. And by extension, room for improvement is a personal failing.
It’s not that I haven’t tried to change things. But, the power differential and the ring-fencing of any dissenting voice makes constructive criticism impossible. Also, it is often the case that trustees or senior leadership are in said positions because they have personal relationships with the founder. Your wings are a little clipped when the only person to take your concerns to is the source of the problem itself.
Admittedly, though, I have pledged allegiance to the loyalty cult more often than not, and I find myself not even wanting to be critical in case I hurt the founder’s feelings or fall out of favour. I’ve agonised over leaving jobs and anticipated the inevitable guilt trips because disloyalty is the most unforgiveable of crimes.
In my dream charity sector, more founders would have the humility to step back from operational roles, perhaps into advisory positions. Charities should outlive their people. I’m sure there are great founders out there, keeping their ego on a short lease and using their vision, social capital, deep expertise and institutional memory to take things forward, rather than hold them back. I just haven’t met any of them yet.
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