Stop Talking and Watch What Happens
She looked down at her coffee. Shifted in her chair. Said nothing.
And I was losing my mind.
This was 8 years ago, but I still remember it like it was yesterday. Sweaty hands. Heart beating out of my chest. Throat closing in.
I’d been working with her for months. We’d built a genuine relationship. I knew her story, her passions, why she cared about safe water and kids who didn’t have it. Our conversation had flowed naturally, and when the moment came, I made the ask with confidence.
“Would you consider a gift of $25,000 to help provide safe water to an entire school in Zambia this year?”
What came next was the hardest part.
I stopped talking.
The silence was deafening.
Time slowed down, the seconds felt like hours, and every instinct in my body screamed at me to fill the silence.
Say something! Clarify! Maybe the amount was too high! You should offer a lower option! Tell another story! Speak, you moron, speak!
I felt completely out of control. My mind raced through a dozen ways to rescue the conversation from this unbearable quiet. I could feel my mouth wanting to open, words forming in my throat, ready to spill out and smooth over whatever had gone wrong.
It felt like an eternity.
It was probably seven seconds.
She looked up. “You know, I’ve been thinking about doing something more significant this year. What if we made it $50,000?”
I almost missed a transformational gift because I couldn’t stand a few moments of silence.
Let me be clear about something. This was not some sleazy sales tactic where “the first person who speaks loses.” That framing makes my skin crawl.
So what was actually happening in those moments of silence?
In my head, panic was happening. Pure, irrational panic. My brain was convinced the silence meant something had gone wrong. That I’d asked for too much. That I’d misread the relationship. That she was trying to figure out how to politely decline. Every quiet second felt like evidence of failure.
But in her head? She was just thinking.
I had just invited her to do something significant. To imagine her money providing safe water to an entire school. To picture kids who would be healthy because of her generosity. To weigh this opportunity against everything else competing for her resources.
That’s not a small thing, and it deserves more than a split-second reaction.
When we make an ask, we’re giving someone new information to process. We’re inviting them to imagine a different future. One where their resources intersect with a cause they care about. And that’s a significant mental and emotional shift.
They almost always need a little time and space to process it.
When we rush to fill the silence, we’re not being helpful. We’re actually interrupting their decision-making process. We’re prioritizing our own comfort over their need to think.
And yes, I know … silence is terrifying!
But you can figure it out. I believe in you.
As fundraisers, we’re passionate people. We have stories to tell, impact to share, and a vision to communicate. That passion is essential, and I wouldn’t want to raise money without it.
But that same passion often translates into a tendency to over-talk, especially in crucial moments. And those crucial moments are exactly when we need to stop.
What happens when we pause and quietly wait for a response after inviting someone to give?
- We give them time to process information that might reshape how they think about their giving.
- We demonstrate respect and show that we value their thoughts more than we value filling airtime.
- We create space for deeper engagement. In quiet moments, people often reveal their true thoughts, concerns, or excitement.
- And we prevent ourselves from saying something dumb that might talk them out of a gift.
I’ve never had anyone sit quietly for longer than about seven seconds, either, which seems like a super small price to pay to change the world.
Luckily, that day I learned that my discomfort with silence is my problem, not theirs. And I’ve carried that reminder into every ask since.
Now I prepare myself mentally before an ask. I remind myself that those seven seconds of quiet are productive, not awkward. That the donor is working through something important, and my job is to give them room to do it.
When I ask a question or invite someone to give, I silently count to seven in my head before speaking.
I focus on their body language instead of my racing thoughts. I remind myself that my role is to create space for meaningful connection, and not just present information.
The next time you’re sitting across from a donor, make your ask with confidence. Then do the hardest thing in fundraising.
Be quiet.
You might be surprised by what you hear.