My Reflection on Three Years of Grant Writing
Last week marked my third anniversary as a grant writer at Avera. That’s three years of writing narratives that are equal parts heartfelt and legally binding, navigating deadlines with the urgency of a game show contestant, and whispering sweet nothings to federal portals that crash at 4:59 PM.
People often ask me what I do as a grant writer. It’s one of those jobs that sounds vaguely fake, like it involves calligraphy or ceremonial scrolls. After my initial phone interview with the recruiter, I recall calling my dad to ask what a grant was and searching for a crash-course video to help me understand the process. Since then, I’ve learned that grant writing is a mix of storytelling, strategic planning, financial acrobatics, and light-to-moderate begging for federal funding…professionally, of course.
I spend most days collaborating with healthcare teams, translating their big ideas into compelling, compliant narratives that make funders say, “Yes, this!” or, at the very least, “We’ll consider it.” I write about a wide range of topics, from maternal health to behavioral health to workplace safety, which has led me to become somewhat of a high-level expert in both trauma-informed care and duress alarm systems. It’s niche, but powerful.
Beyond the proposals and deadlines, this job has shaped me in ways I didn’t expect. I started this role fresh out of grad school, unsure of what exactly I was getting into. I thought I was writing, but it turns out that grant writing is as much about relationships as it is about research. It’s learning how to ask better questions. It’s holding space for other people’s stories while figuring out how to tell your own. It’s believing in the quiet, invisible impact of your words, even when no one outside the review panel reads them.
I’ve also learned a lot about myself. About how I process stress (spoiler: badly, until snacks and 16 oz of black coffee are involved). About how I thrive when I feel part of something bigger than myself. About how sometimes, I’ll stare at one sentence for 40 minutes, not because it’s hard, but because I want it to mean something. That’s the beauty and the burden of this job—every word might unlock something for someone else.
Grant writing isn’t just writing. It’s:
Reading 80-page Requests for Proposals and pretending it’s normal
Rewriting the same sentence fourteen different ways until it sounds simultaneously confident, humble, and urgent
Coordinating budgets that somehow cost exactly $100,000.00
Answering emails with phrases like “let me circle back” and “we’re triple-checking the character count”
Deciding that a weekend away is probably worth a line item under “staff wellness”
It’s not glamorous. But it is deeply satisfying. Behind every grant is a team trying to do good work and a community that deserves access, equity, and care. I get to be part of that—and I get to use words to make it happen.
So, here’s to three years of doing work that’s occasionally chaotic, occasionally life-affirming, and always filled with acronyms. Here’s to the proposals that hit submit at the last possible second. To the teams who dream big and trust me to help put that dream into words. To the personal growth that happens when you realize you can’t Google your way through everything, and to the quiet power of writing for something that matters.
