Names on Buildings

I'll be honest with you. I walked into Chicago’s Prentice Women's Hospital this morning nervous. 

All is okay now.

But one of those "we'd like you to come in for some additional tests" moments that anyone who has received that call knows can send your mind to places you'd rather it not go. Getting older is a gift. It's also occasionally terrifying. 

I’ve been to Prentice plenty of times. But this morning, when I was nervous, it felt different. As I walked through the building, I saw names sprinkled throughout the building and something occurred to me.  

Pritzker. Lurie. Lynn Sage. Names of friends. Names of clients. Names of families who have poured themselves into this city for generations. And a smile came to my face. The nervousness didn't disappear, but something settled. I felt supported. I felt grateful. I felt, genuinely, less alone. 

This is Chicago. But it's not only Chicago. Think about the Bob Crane Community Center in Columbus, or the Virginia G. Piper Cancer Center in Arizona. Cities across the country are held together, in part, by families who said: this community matters to us. We're here.

This was top of mind for me because JH Philanthropy’s book club just finished Generation Impact by Sharna Goldseker and Michael Moody, and my colleague Erin wrote a beautiful reflection on the rising generation of donors.  

The next generation of philanthropists is doing things differently, and it’s inspiring. They're often focused on systems change, on proximity to communities, on impact over legacy. Many of them will tell you directly: we don't want our names on buildings. 

I understand that. I respect it. In a lot of ways, I share it. 

But this morning: someone's name on a wall made me feel safe. 

Not because of prestige. Not because of status. Because that name was a signal. It said: someone who didn't have to, chose to. Someone invested in the infrastructure of care, for strangers, for people they'd never meet, for moments exactly like this one.

There's a version of named philanthropy that is absolutely about ego. We've all seen it. The transactional give-to-get, the name placed more prominently than the mission it supports.  

But there's another version. The version I witnessed today. Families who said, quietly and permanently: this city matters to us. Your health matters to us. We're here.

That's not ego. That's citizenship. That's love made into infrastructure. 

I think about the donors and families we work with, and the conversations we have about legacy. What does it mean to leave a mark? Is it a building? A fund? A movement? A value passed quietly to the next generation? The answer is probably all of those things, and the best philanthropy holds room for more than one approach. 

The next gen is right that systems matter more than symbols. AND the symbols sometimes carry people through the hardest mornings of their lives. 

Both things are true. There is room for both kinds of giving. 

I left my appointment fine. Grateful, actually, in more ways than one. Grateful for good doctors, for a hospital (particularly a women’s hospital!) built by people who believed in this community, and for the quiet reminder that generosity, even when it has a name on it, has a way of showing up exactly when you need it.  

To the families whose names lined those walls today: thank you. You held me this morning and you didn't even know it.