Written by Alba Velasquez
Two years ago, if you would have told me I’d be running a nonprofit during one of the most politically hostile times for our work, I probably would’ve laughed – or cried – or more likely, said a loud, “Hell NO.”
But here I am.
I’ve spent nearly 20 years in public service. From helping young people access education and jobs, to increasing healthy food access in low-income neighborhoods, to fighting for policy that makes life more just. I’ve been at this for a long time.
This feels different, and nothing prepared me for this moment.
The usual nonprofit stress is real: grant deadlines, meetings about meetings, burnout, and trying to stretch limited budgets to meet urgent needs with no emergency funds in place.
But what we’re dealing with now peels back so many more layers of progress.
In the past year alone, we’ve seen federal contracts frozen, government agencies tearing families apart, and policies that feel like a direct attack on organizations rooted in equity. For those of us who come from the communities we serve, the impact is personal. It’s not just our programs being threatened; it's our people, our neighborhoods, our identities.
Some days I feel like I’m holding it all together with duct tape and heart.
What hurts most is seeing us slide back into a top down model of leadership – the old model where outsiders designed programs for communities they don’t understand. Instead, we were finally seeing change led by the people who actually live these experiences. As a latchkey kid who grew up heating up TV dinners night after night because my parents worked around the clock, I understand that programs need to take an intersectional lens to really make a difference.
But now, I see the signs: A return to safe, feel-good programs. Pressure to avoid anything “too political.” A shift back toward charity, not justice. I didn’t get into this work to make people comfortable. I’m here to make things better.
When I was first asked to take on the Executive Director role, I didn’t jump at the opportunity. I had already stepped up during the pandemic while six months pregnant. It was one of the hardest periods of my life. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to do that again. And honestly, if you laid out all the challenges ahead – political pressure, attacks on food systems, fear growing in immigrant communities, unstable funding – I might have said no a second time.
But I didn’t because I have been with this organization for over 8 years. This work is personal to me. I have seen what real, community-led work can do. I have seen families like mine, feel seen, youth step into power, and policies shift when we stay rooted in the truth of our communities.
That is what keeps me going.
A few weeks ago, I sat with a longtime funder and admitted how heavy this moment feels. I told her I was tired. She reminded me of something I had forgotten. “When I met you five years ago,” she said, “I had never met someone as passionate about this work as you.”
That stayed with me. Not because passion solves everything. But because it reminded me of my why.
I am still here because I believe in this work, and I have lived the reasons it matters. I see the potential of this organization to lead bold policy and systems change that is driven by community, not designed outside of it.
That has always been the purpose of the Los Angeles Food Policy Council. And even now, when things feel uncertain, I know exactly why I show up.
To funders: We need trust, flexibility, and resources that reflect the realities on the ground. We need you to support our leadership, not just our programs. Ask how we’re doing, not just what we’ve done.
To fellow leaders: You’re not alone. This work is hard((especially now!)), but it matters. We need to be honest with each other, check in, and stay rooted in what’s real.
This role isn’t easy. Some days I still want to walk away, but I won’t. Because our communities are still here. Still fighting. Still deserving of every ounce of effort we can give.
So I show up, even when I’m tired. Even when I don’t have all the answers. Because this work is personal, and it’s worth it.
"I'm a pessimist because of intelligence but an optimist because of will" - Antonio Gramsci
Alba Velasquez leads the Los Angeles Food Policy Council (LAFPC) as its executive director. She joined LAFPC in 2017 and has worked to expand the impact of its Healthy Markets LA program. Prior to her work at the Council, Velasquez managed initiatives at the National Health Foundation and contributed to urban agriculture research at UCLA. She holds a master’s degree in urban regional planning from UCLA, and her expertise is grounded in her personal experiences as a Salvadoran refugee and community advocate.
We reside, work, and cultivate food
on unceded Indigenous homelands.
We acknowledge and honor the descendants of the Tongva, Kizh, and Gabrieleño peoples as the traditional land caretakers of Tovaangar (the Los Angeles Basin and the Southern Channel Islands). We pay our respects to the Honuukvetam (Ancestors), ‘Ahiihirom (Elders) and ‘Eyoohiinkem (our relatives/relations) past, present and emerging.
As part of a greater foodshed, we would also like to pay respect to and honor the Chumash, Tataviam, Serrano, Kitanemuk, ʔíviĨuqaletem, Acjachemen, Payómkawichum, and any other tribal group possibly not mentioned. As a Food Policy Council for Los Angeles we recognize this land acknowledgment is limited and engagement is an ongoing process of learning and accountability. To learn more about these First Nations, visit here.