The Power of Local: Courage, Care, and Clarity in Community Planning

Recently, on a warm night in July, I walked into a small-town library, where the folding chairs had been set up, and a large fan hummed in the back corner. Outside, the light was still gold and warm, the kind of summer evening that calls people to patios and beaches, not public meetings.

Still, they came.

There wasn’t anything flashy or particularly controversial they were coming out for. There was just a conversation about how the town might use a modest pool of Affordable Housing Trust funds. A little money, a big need, and a lot of questions.

They filled the room anyway. Neighbors who had lived there for generations along with newer members of the community and even a couple of people who didn’t live their (yet) but had deep ties to the community. Some came in person, some joined on Zoom. But they all came because something about this topic, the need for more homes, touched something deeper.

That night, something shifted. As they discussed possibilities and hopes and considered some specific ideas for new housing, a neighbor who’d started out resistant softened after hearing a different perspective. A quiet attendee spoke for the first time. Someone asked a question, and instead of defensiveness, there was curiosity.

No one solved the housing crisis that night. But something powerful happened just the same.

And it stayed with me.

Because right now, amid all the noise of national politics and the very real fear creeping into our local conversations, these are the moments that remind me why this work matters.

When the Ground Shifts Under Our Feet

This summer, like many planners, I’ve felt the pressure mount.

I scroll through the headlines in the morning: rising national debt, federal budget cuts and layoffs, political deadlock. I read about the potential gutting of housing programs and I think about the local leaders I work with every day, trying to stretch already-tight budgets into something meaningful.

I was on Zoom recently with a town administrator reviewing housing strategies that had been shaped by months of thoughtful community input. She paused, looked at the list, and said quietly, “I’m worried about the fiscal realities. I don’t know how we’ll build the capacity to take this all on.”

That pause, that moment of truth, is becoming more common.

And the questions that follow are just as pressing:

• How do we make progress when the resources we rely on might disappear?

• How do we lead when our own capacity is strained?

• How do we talk about solutions when the language itself feels loaded?

We Wanted to Help

If you're reading this, you’re probably one of us.

One of the people who got into this field not for the paycheck, not for the glamour, and certainly not for the fast track to early retirement on a private island. :-)

You’re here because you wanted to make things better. More inclusive. More livable. More just.

You wanted to be part of the solution. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t realize that “solution” would involve quite so many evening meetings, parking space ratio debates, and explaining the difference between by-right and special permit (again).

But here you are.

Lately, it’s easy to feel like you’re carrying the weight of the world with fewer resources, more complexity, and louder voices at every turn.

The national discourse is divided. People are anxious. Communities are tired. And in public meetings, that fatigue sometimes shows up as frustration, resistance, or distrust.

It’s not personal, but let’s be honest, it sure can feel that way.

Because planning is personal.

This is a profession that requires us to blend heart and logic, compassion and code. To sit with tension. To hold space for fear, while making room for possibility.

It is not, and has never been, neutral work.

Planning Is Emotional Labor

Let’s name it: this work is emotionally demanding.

You’re not just interpreting zoning regulations. You’re interpreting fear. Anxiety. Hopes. You’re the buffer between polarized viewpoints and the practical mechanics of change.

And the truth is, burnout is real. I’ve seen it in my colleagues. I’ve felt it in myself.

So how do we keep going?

Sometimes the answer is in the small rituals - a walk before a meeting, music while editing maps, a story shared over lunch, going to play guitar at music camp (shout out to WUMB’s Summer Acoustic Music Week, where I’m spending part of my July!).

Sometimes it’s in checking in with each other. Taking a breath. Naming the weight so we’re not carrying it alone.

Other times, it’s in the moments that surprise us, like a resident showing up on a summer night and changing the whole tenor of a conversation.

Those moments don’t make the work easy. But they do remind us why it matters.

 

We Keep Showing Up—Even When It’s Hard

Planning right now isn’t just challenging, it’s draining.

You're not imagining it. The national conversation is tense. Trust in institutions is low. Communities are fractured. And here we are, planners and local officials, still trying to build bridges while the ground keeps shifting under our feet.

There are days when it would be easier to say: “Not today. Not this meeting. Not this fight.”

But we don’t.
We show up.
We take the calls.
We listen.
We try again.

My team at JM Goldson feels this, too. We're in the Zoom meetings where people disagree. We're in the workshops where budgets hang over the conversation like a fog. We’re in the in-between spaces, the emotional spaces, trying to help communities move forward even when the path feels uncertain.

And still, we believe in this work. Not blindly. Not naively. But with the quiet, practiced resolve of people who’ve seen what can happen when neighbors listen to each other, when small funds get put to powerful use, when a town reclaims its vision.

And that’s why I need to talk, for a moment, about a word that stirs up a lot of feelings.

We Need to Talk About the “D” Word

That word, of course, is “density.”

I brought it up during a committee meeting the other week - “gentle density,” to be exact. The idea landed well. The phrase? Not so much.

“Can we call it something else?” someone asked.

That kind of comment is common these days. Folks aren’t objecting to the housing or the design, they’re reacting to the language. Because density has been framed as a threat. As something to fear. As something that signals change they didn’t ask for.

But here’s the thing: we can’t plan communities rooted in fear.

We can empathize with it, sure. We can acknowledge it. But we can’t let it drive the bus.

Because density, planned well, isn’t a threat. It’s a lifeline.

It’s what puts homes near transit. People near Main Street. Customers near local businesses. It’s what makes walkability possible and affordability plausible. It’s what lets older residents downsize in the community they love and young families move in without being priced out.

We revere older neighborhoods that were built before zoning rules. They were vibrant, diverse, and yes, typically, dense.

So, let’s stop pretending the word is the problem. The problem is disconnection. And the solution, in part, is proximity.

Let’s say the word. Let’s explain it. Let’s plan it well.

Because when we’re brave in the room, we make space for others to be brave in the community.

The Choice to Lead with Integrity

Of course, words aren’t the only things under scrutiny right now, values are too.

Not long ago, I was sitting in a planning commission meeting where the group was reviewing their final draft of a comprehensive plan. The conversation had been moving along steadily, until it caught, stuck on a single word in the vision statement:

Equity.

Some were worried it would be controversial. Others feared it would distract from the plan’s practical, nonpartisan goals. I sat quietly at first, just listening. To be honest, I didn’t know what the best course of action was.

Until the past few months, it had never even occurred to me that “equity” could be perceived as a bad thing.

That was humbling.

I wasn’t leading the conversation; I was learning from it. Listening to different perspectives. Watching the group wrestle not just with language, but with responsibility.

And then someone said, “But this word is why we started this work in the first place.”

That shifted everything. The conversation deepened. It moved away from fear and toward truth. It became less about managing reactions and more about standing in integrity.

In the end, they kept the word in.

Not because it was easy. But because it was honest.

That’s the kind of moment that keeps me grounded in this work. Because let’s face it—planning isn’t about popularity. It’s about stewardship. About making sure that people—all people—have a fair shot at stability, opportunity, and belonging.

Planning is political, whether we admit it or not. The real question is: will we let fear scrub the values out of our vision?

Or will we keep showing up with clarity, humility, and heart?

Summer Reminds Us What We're Fighting For

Summer in New England is beautiful, but it’s not exactly a break for planners.

While the rest of the world is posting beach photos and enjoying long evenings, we’re facilitating walking tours, attending farmers markets, and trying to schedule around vacation calendars.

Why? Because people are out. They’re relaxed. They’re connected to their place in a different way. And when people are connected, they’re more open to sharing what matters to them and what they wish could change.

Some of our most meaningful conversations happen not in hearings, but in line for lemonade or during a casual stroll through a neighborhood.

These aren't distractions from the work. They are the work.

Because no matter how emotionally heavy planning becomes, it’s still a profoundly human profession. And that humanity? It’s a renewable resource. It’s what refuels us.

So, take the walk. Stay for the music. Let your community recharge you.

And if you need a reminder to hold on to your softness, especially when the world feels sharp, here’s one of mine: “Stay Gentle” by Brandi Carlile. It’s a quiet song with a loud message: don’t lose your tenderness. It’s part of what makes you a good planner and a whole person.

Smile and enjoy your summer!