Pull Up a Chair

A decade ago, I accepted the position of Executive Director of the Food Bank Council of Michigan—and it led me down a path of change, growth, and discomfort. Truthfully, that path isn’t new to me. In fact, I think it’s the only one I’ve ever traveled.

I was invited to present to the board of directors, along with another candidate. I knew very little about food banking, while the other candidate had extensive experience in the field. I was nervous as a cat—anxious, excited, hopeful, but honestly scared. I know fear. I’ve been scared.

Living in East Africa for 9.5 years, I had a few adventures. I know what it is to hunt for our meat—and occasionally be hunted by our “meat.” As I walked into that boardroom, the feeling was eerily familiar, like walking back into the bush. I didn’t know if I was predator or prey. I’ve faced black mambas in the riverbeds, green mambas in the trees, spitting cobras in my yard, puff adders with attitudes striking at my Land Rover, hippos chasing my boat, and crocodiles sunbathing on the docks we built. I’ve had malaria, survived Ebola outbreaks, caught bilharzia five times (which took 60% of my hearing), witnessed mob hangings in Kampala, endured political riots in Nairobi, and been arrested, tried, and acquitted in Tanzania. I know fear, anxiety, and that unmistakable “Uh-oh. Oh, sh*t.” moment that arrives with drama and intensity.

But walking into that boardroom—I was scared. And I’ve thought a lot about why. It took some time, but eventually, I understood: this job mattered to me on a deeper level than I first realized.

During one of the Ebola outbreaks, I worked with doctors and medical teams to help curb the disease. On our journey to remote villages experiencing outbreaks, we were asked to make a detour to a refugee camp. We arrived at a large tent filled with cots and a dirt floor. I knew the folks running the camp and delivered one of the doctors to them. As I waited, a nurse handed me a baby girl and asked me to hold her until she returned.

After what felt like an eternity—but was probably only a few minutes—she came back. In that brief time, I felt bonded to that child. I asked, “How old is she?”
The nurse replied, “How old do you think she is?”
I guessed, “Eight weeks.”
She shook her head and said, “No, Mzee, she is eight months.”

She was so tiny, I could’ve held her in just one hand. I couldn’t believe it—still can’t.

That image is seared into my memory. I felt bonded to that little girl, and that feeling has never left me. I don’t think it’s supposed to.

So, back in that boardroom, I shared my presentation—but to this day, I can’t remember a word of it. At the end of the session, during Q&A, Gerry Brisson—the CEO of Gleaners Community Food Bank in Detroit, Michigan’s oldest food bank—asked me to share my growth strategy. I sensed a bit of gamesmanship in his tone, so I answered as candidly as I could:
“I don’t have one,” I said. “But I do know that healthy things grow. If we get healthy in our relationships—internally at FBCM, with one another, and with our external partners—growth will occur.”

That, I believe, was the moment the conversation began to change for our network. But for me, the conversation had already started to change years earlier in that refugee camp, with a baby girl who couldn’t speak—but who taught me what I didn’t know I needed to learn.

I’m happy to report: I was hired. And over the past ten years, we’ve gotten healthier. Our seven food banks—each with its own service territory, board, and history—are now working more closely together and with the Council than at any point in our 60+ year history.

The days of senseless arguments, threatened lawsuits, intense competition, and hostility rooted in jealousy are behind us. We’ve evolved to a place where we genuinely want each other to win—to be effective and to meet the need across the state.

FBCM has grown, too. A decade ago, we had four employees. Today, we have twenty-two. Our budget was $25 million (food and funds combined); in fiscal year 2024, it exceeded $175 million. That growth has allowed us to reach more families, more often, with more food—and to innovate new ways of tackling the stubborn, multilayered problem called food insecurity.

In the midst of this growth, and health, and greater impact, I still see that little baby girl. A picture in my mind’s eye that remains crystal clear.

And Gerry Brisson? He quickly became the board chair for FBCM. Together, we created and now co-host Food First Michigan—our radio show and podcast dedicated to reshaping the conversation around hunger across Michigan and beyond. We’ve co-authored this book, and soon we’ll launch a new venture to expand our impact across the nation.

“Changing the Conversation” starts with the words we use, the tone we set, the thoughts we share, and how well we listen. But it begins much deeper than language—it begins with a sense of urgency deep inside us that some things must change—like hunger in America, or anywhere else for that matter. But especially here.

I am convinced: if you are in leadership—whether in a for-profit, nonprofit, social enterprise, direct service, small business, or corporate setting—changing the conversation isn’t optional. It is the work.

I hope this book adds value to your life. I hope it inspires you to change the conversation wherever you are—at home, at work, or within your broader circle of influence.

Let’s talk about it…
Phil