California’s community work isn’t a Band-Aid in times of crisis. It’s a resource deserving long-term funding

During the COVID-19 pandemic, California’s community organizations held their neighborhoods together in ways a decade of grant cycles and state planning never anticipated. 

According to the California Association of Food Banks, food distribution by its members increased 74% between 2019 and 2020, and direct distribution more than doubled, as pantries shifted overnight to drive-thru and walk-up models. 

When official public health campaigns failed to reach immigrant and Indigenous neighborhoods because of language and trust barriers, local organizers stepped in as a lifeline. In Ventura County, the Mixteco Indígena Community Organizing Project used Radio Indígena, a station trusted by farmworkers, to translate COVID-related safety information into Indigenous languages. In Fresno, organizations like Centro Binacional translated clinical vaccine information into plain language residents could understand.

In South Los Angeles, the Black Barbershop Health Outreach Program, which had spent more than a decade building trust in Black-owned barbershops to screen men for chronic disease, pivoted within days of the shutdown to distribute masks and sanitizer to seniors.

No funder wrote a five-year plan for any of this. It happened because people showed up for their neighbors, the way they always do when it matters.

For generations, government and philanthropy have funded short-term services rather than investing in the organizations themselves. Grants are restricted, project-based and rarely cover the true cost of delivery.  

The cost of such underinvestment is now becoming clear. Nationally, 95% of nonprofit leaders say they’re concerned about staff burnout, and nearly a quarter report losing more staff than usual this past year. In California, a National Council of Nonprofits survey found 4 out of 5 organizations reporting job vacancies, with budget constraints as the top barrier. 

That’s what happens when community work is treated as a short-term Band-Aid, called on during a crisis, rather than infrastructure to invest in before calamity hits. Real change comes from durable capital and decision-making power inside the communities doing the work, not another emergency fund or a 12-month grant cycle.

The same organizations that ran vaccine clinics and food banks during COVID also run after-school programs and senior care year-round. But they’re treated as temporary partners instead of permanent infrastructure. 

The pandemic can feel like a distant memory but new pressures are mounting, and the disparities are becoming more visible closer to home. 

For instance, when the Eaton Fire tore through Altadena in January 2025, evacuation warnings for the historically Black community of West Altadena went out hours after warnings reached the rest of the area. The California Department of Justice is investigating whether race, age or disability discrimination shaped that response. 

Compounding the pattern are federal funding cuts and the rollback of giving focused on Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. The reductions are straining organizations that serve Black, Indigenous, immigrant and other communities suffering from under-investment.

As we head into a gubernatorial election, the vision that could shape such investments is missing from the conversation. Candidates are debating affordability and public safety, but few are asking if the state will fund community organizations as infrastructure rather than as vendors providing services to the state. 

Government and philanthropy should provide sustained, flexible funding, so organizations can build capacity ahead of need, with communities given a real say in how those resources are used.

The next governor should decide whether the state is finally ready to invest in community care as the foundation of public health, or whether it will keep waiting for service providers to save it — and call that resilience.