by Dr. Cecilia Cardesa, Global CEO, ConTextos
I have been thinking a lot lately about who gets included when we talk about strengthening democracy. In philanthropic conversations, civic engagement often seems to lead us almost immediately to voting, elections, advocacy, and political participation. These are essential, particularly at a time when democratic institutions face significant challenges. Yet I find myself increasingly concerned about the work that remains outside these conversations, even when it contributes to the very conditions that make democratic participation possible.
What about the work that happens long before someone decides to vote, attend a community meeting, or speak up about an issue that matters to them? What about the experiences that help someone find their voice in the first place? These questions have become increasingly important to me, both through my work at ConTextos and through conversations about the future of civic engagement and democracy.
At ConTextos, we don’t organize voter registration drives or run electoral campaigns. Our work centers on literacy, storytelling, reflection, and relationships, often with people whose experiences have left them disconnected from institutions, communities, or even their own sense of possibility. Yet the longer I engage in this work, the more convinced I become that it has an important place in conversations about democracy. Not because everything needs to be labeled civic engagement to be valuable, but because democratic participation depends on more than the opportunity to participate. It also depends on people having the confidence, relationships, and sense of agency to do so.
In my previous reflection, Social and Emotional Learning as a Foundation for Civic Engagement, I explored how the capacities we associate with social-emotional learning—self-awareness, empathy, relationship-building, responsible decision-making, and the ability to navigate differences—extend beyond individual development. They shape how people participate in the communities and institutions they inhabit. I argued that civic engagement begins with the capacity to remain in relationship: to listen, to contribute, to navigate disagreement, and to recognize oneself as part of a shared environment. That reflection left me with a question I haven’t been able to put aside: If these relational capacities are foundational to civic engagement, why do they remain so peripheral to many of our conversations and investments in democracy?
This is not a question about diminishing the importance of voting. Free and fair elections, voter participation, and accountable institutions are indispensable to democracy, and the organizations working to protect and strengthen them deserve sustained support. But elections are moments in democratic life, not the entirety of it. Democracy also depends on what happens between elections, across generations, and in the everyday spaces where people learn to exercise their voices, recognize the dignity of others, navigate conflict, and participate in collective life. If we want a stronger democracy, we must invest in the human and relational capacities that allow it to function.
Democracy Is Both a System and a Lived Practice
We often speak about democracy as a set of institutions, rights, and procedures. These are essential because they provide the structures through which political participation and public accountability become possible. But democratic institutions do not operate independently of the people who inhabit them. There can be considerable distance between having a formal right to participate and actually feeling that one’s participation matters. That distance is not always about access alone. It can also reflect whether someone has ever been invited to speak, whether their experiences have been taken seriously, or whether they have had reason to believe their voice could make a difference.
People may possess the right to speak but lack spaces where they feel heard. They may have opportunities to participate but little experience navigating disagreement, building collective trust, or exercising agency. The existence of democratic structures does not automatically create the conditions for meaningful participation. Those conditions must be cultivated in classrooms where young people learn to express their perspectives and listen to others, in community spaces where individuals with different experiences discover shared concerns, and in organizations where leadership is practiced through dialogue rather than authority alone. They also develop in healing-centered environments where people whose voices have been diminished or silenced begin to reconnect with their sense of agency.
I think we sometimes underestimate the significance of these experiences. Being listened to, perhaps for the first time, can change how someone understands their place in a community. Learning to disagree without withdrawing or attacking can change how people relate to one another. These shifts may seem small when compared with institutional reforms or policy changes, but they can influence whether people see themselves as capable of participating in collective life. They are not substitutes for formal civic or political participation. Rather, they are part of the foundation that can make such participation more accessible, meaningful, and sustainable. Democracy, in this sense, is not only something we exercise through institutions; it is also something we learn to practice in relationship with one another.
The Missing Infrastructure of Democratic Life
Much of the philanthropic conversation about democracy understandably focuses on visible and measurable forms of participation, including voter registration, turnout, election protection, advocacy, policy change, and institutional accountability. These are critical investments. But I wonder whether our funding frameworks sometimes lead us to overlook the work that helps people develop the capacity and confidence to participate in the first place.
There is another layer of democratic infrastructure that is often less visible within traditional funding categories: the infrastructure of belonging, voice, trust, reflection, dialogue, and collective agency. It includes organizations working in social-emotional learning, literacy, youth development, restorative practices, community storytelling, trauma-informed education, leadership development, and healing-centered engagement. These organizations may not register voters or organize electoral campaigns, and their work may not fit neatly into established democracy portfolios. Yet their contributions deserve greater attention because they can help strengthen capacities that democratic life depends upon.
Consider what it takes for a person to participate meaningfully in a community decision. They must be able to recognize that their perspective matters and have opportunities to articulate their experiences while understanding those of others. They may need to navigate disagreement, uncertainty, or distrust, and they must have some sense that participation can lead to action and that they have a legitimate place in the conversation. These are not exclusively political skills; they are human and relational capacities that social-emotional learning, particularly when grounded in trauma-informed and healing-centered practice, can help strengthen.
This distinction matters to me because I don’t want to suggest that empathy or dialogue alone can address structural inequities. They cannot. Developing these capacities does not automatically produce democratic participation. Structural barriers, institutional responsiveness, access to resources, and opportunities to exercise power remain fundamental. But institutional reform alone cannot create the relationships, confidence, and sense of agency that meaningful participation also requires. A more complete understanding of democratic infrastructure must take both dimensions seriously.
From Isolated Strategies to a Democratic Ecosystem
One of the limitations of philanthropic funding is that interconnected work is often organized into separate categories. Education is funded as education. Social-emotional learning is funded as student development or well-being. Community storytelling may be funded as arts or healing. Youth leadership may fall under workforce development or opportunity, while civic engagement is frequently associated with advocacy, organizing, or elections.
I understand why these categories exist. Funders need strategies, priorities, and ways to assess their investments. But communities don’t experience their lives in separate philanthropic portfolios, and human development does not follow the boundaries we create to organize funding. A young person developing the confidence to speak in a classroom may also be developing the capacity to contribute to a community conversation. An adult participating in a facilitated storytelling process may begin to see their experiences as sources of knowledge and agency. A community learning to navigate differences without rupture may be strengthening the relationships necessary for collective problem-solving. Each of these experiences has value in its own right, and each may also contribute to the broader conditions of civic life.
Rather than asking whether an organization fits a narrow definition of democracy work, philanthropy might ask a more generative question: What are all the conditions that allow people to participate meaningfully in democratic life, and who is already helping create those conditions, even if they don’t describe their work as democracy-building?
This question opens the possibility of understanding democracy as an ecosystem rather than a single field of intervention. Within that ecosystem, different organizations play complementary roles. Some protect voting rights and electoral access, while others strengthen public institutions and accountability. Some organize communities around shared priorities, while others develop youth leadership, support social-emotional learning, create spaces for dialogue, or help individuals reclaim voice and agency through storytelling. No single organization needs to do all of this, nor should organizations have to change their missions or adopt electoral language to demonstrate their relevance. The strength of the ecosystem lies in recognizing how these contributions relate to one another.
What We Have Learned Through ConTextos
At ConTextos, our work is rooted in literacy, storytelling, reflection, and dialogue. Across educational, community, and institutional settings, we create opportunities for individuals to engage with their own experiences, encounter the perspectives of others, and develop new ways of understanding themselves and their relationships. Our work is not organized around electoral participation. It is organized around human development, connection, and the belief that people must have opportunities to author and share their own stories. Over time, I’ve come to see this work as deeply connected to civic life, even when it doesn’t look like what we traditionally call civic engagement.
When individuals develop the capacity to reflect on their experiences, they can begin to recognize their perspectives as meaningful. When they encounter the stories of others, they have opportunities to expand their understanding beyond their own experiences. And when dialogue becomes possible across differences, new forms of relationship and participation can emerge. These processes do not guarantee agreement, nor should agreement be their objective. A healthy democratic society requires the ability to recognize differences without denying one another’s humanity, to engage without demanding uniformity, and to participate without erasing complexity.
Some of the most important moments in our work happen when someone begins to see their own story differently, or when another person listens to an experience they might otherwise have dismissed. These moments don’t always translate into an immediate, measurable civic outcome, but they can change how people understand themselves, one another, and their ability to participate in the world around them. In our work, storytelling is not simply a means of expression. It is a relational practice through which people can explore identity, meaning, responsibility, and connection. This is one way social-emotional learning becomes a lived experience, and it is also one way the foundations of civic engagement can be strengthened.
I don’t believe ConTextos needs to become an electoral organization to belong in conversations about democracy, and I don’t believe organizations doing similar work should have to justify their existence through electoral outcomes. Instead, we can recognize that the same practices that strengthen individual and collective well-being may also contribute to the conditions necessary for democratic participation. The argument is not that all social-emotional learning is democracy programming. It is that democratic life depends, in part, on capacities that social-emotional learning and related relational practices can help develop.
A Broader Invitation to Philanthropy
This brings me back to philanthropy and to a question I hope more funders will consider: Are our current definitions of democracy-building broad enough to reflect what democracy actually requires? Taking an ecosystem perspective seriously would mean reconsidering not only what we fund, but also how we understand the relationships among different fields of practice.
First, it would require expanding the definition of democratic infrastructure. Alongside investments in electoral participation, advocacy, and institutional accountability, funders could recognize the contributions of organizations cultivating belonging, voice, relational trust, dialogue, and civic agency. Second, it would require building connections across philanthropic portfolios. Democracy funders have much to learn from education, youth development, community healing, and social-emotional learning, just as organizations working in these fields may benefit from deeper relationships with civic engagement and democracy practitioners. The objective should not be to collapse these fields into one another, but to identify where their contributions intersect and reinforce one another.
It would also require supporting the intermediaries and collaborative spaces that make those connections possible. An ecosystem does not become stronger simply because its participants are identified. Relationships must be built, knowledge must be exchanged, and opportunities for collaboration must be sustained. Learning communities, cross-sector partnerships, shared research, and field-building initiatives can help organizations recognize their complementary contributions without requiring them to abandon their distinct purposes.
Philanthropy would also need to consider how it measures progress. Electoral participation offers important indicators, but these cannot capture every dimension of civic development. A broader approach might examine whether people experience greater belonging and agency, whether they have meaningful opportunities to contribute to shared decisions, whether communities can navigate differences constructively, and whether institutions create conditions for participation. These outcomes require thoughtful measurement and should not be treated as automatic proxies for democratic impact.
Finally, this approach calls for sustained, flexible investment. The capacities that support democratic life develop through repeated experiences, trusted relationships, and consistent opportunities for practice. They rarely emerge through short-term interventions or electoral timelines. I recognize that this kind of work can be harder to measure and may not produce the immediate outcomes funders are accustomed to seeing. But difficulty measuring something should not be confused with a lack of importance. If philanthropy wants durable democratic participation, it must be willing to support the slower, less visible work through which people and communities build the capacity to participate.
Every Funder Has a Role
An ecosystem perspective also creates a more inclusive invitation to philanthropy. Not every foundation needs a democracy portfolio to contribute to democratic life. A funder supporting social-emotional learning may be strengthening capacities for dialogue and collaboration. A funder investing in youth development may be expanding opportunities for leadership and agency. A funder supporting literacy and storytelling may be creating pathways for voice, reflection, and mutual understanding. A foundation focused on community well-being may be helping build the relationships and conditions that allow people to participate more fully in shared environments.
These contributions should not be overstated or assumed. Their relationship to civic outcomes should be explored, documented, and strengthened through practice. But I worry that when we define democracy work too narrowly, we risk overlooking organizations that are helping build the very capacities on which democratic participation depends. Every funder has a potential role in strengthening the conditions of democratic life, and every organization contributing to those conditions deserves the opportunity to be part of the conversation.
This does not mean that every philanthropic investment should be labeled a democracy investment. It means recognizing the intersections among fields and creating space for more intentional collaboration. Perhaps the question isn’t whether organizations like ConTextos belong in democracy philanthropy. Perhaps it’s whether our current philanthropic frameworks are fully accounting for the work democracy needs.
Toward a More Complete Vision of Democracy
In my earlier reflection, I suggested that social-emotional learning invites us to consider how people learn to participate in the worlds they inhabit. I want to extend that invitation to the philanthropic community. If participation is something we learn, practice, and develop through relationships, then investing in democracy cannot begin and end with the ballot. It must also attend to the spaces where people learn to speak and listen, to make meaning of their experiences, to navigate differences, to build relationships, and to imagine themselves as contributors to a shared future.
We need strong democratic institutions, accessible elections, organized communities, accountable leadership, and meaningful avenues for civic and political action. We also need the human and relational foundations that allow people to engage with all of these. These are not competing priorities; they are interconnected dimensions of democratic life.
I would love to see a philanthropic ecosystem where organizations working in education, social-emotional learning, storytelling, community healing, youth development, and civic participation are more intentionally connected—not because they are doing the same work, but because they are contributing to something larger together. For organizations like ConTextos, the invitation is not to become something we are not. It is to recognize and articulate the civic significance of what we already do, while remaining grounded in our distinct purpose and practice. For philanthropy, the opportunity is to create a broader table, one that recognizes the many ways people and organizations contribute to democratic life.
Democracy is not only about the moment people cast a vote. It is also about the conditions that allow them to find their voice, recognize one another, and participate in shaping the worlds they share. If we want a democracy in which more people can participate meaningfully, we need to pay attention to what makes that participation possible—and invest accordingly.
