What Associations and Collectives Really Want From Their Websites
It turns out the answer wasn't “better navigation.” It was honor.
Using technology to help people honor what matters most.
I have a confession to make.
Whenever someone from an association, a booster club, a team, or any other group that gathers people around a shared purpose called me about redesigning their website, I secretly knew how the meeting would begin.
“We need a calendar.”
“Our website is outdated.”
“We'd like online donations”—or registrations, or dues, or sign-ups.
“Our scholarship application process is a mess”—or our volunteer roster, or our season registration.
If I was lucky, someone would also mention that the board—or the coaches, or the parents—wanted “something modern.”
Somewhere around minute twelve, we'd usually start talking about buttons.
Big buttons.
Blue buttons.
“Donate” buttons.
“Register” buttons.
The kind of conversation web developers have been having since someone first invented a blinking GIF.
Then something unexpected happened.
I stopped talking.
And I started listening.
Somewhere Between Grief and Gratitude
Over the past year, I've had the privilege of working alongside retired educators, alumni associations, booster clubs, scholarship committees, youth teams, civic organizations, and families navigating profound loss.
On paper, these looked like completely different projects.
One group wanted to improve scholarship selection.
Another wanted to preserve the memory of someone they loved.
Another wanted to strengthen a retirement association.
A booster club wanted parents to understand where fundraising actually went.
A team wanted alumni to feel connected long after the last whistle.
Different groups.
Different missions.
Different audiences.
Or so I thought.
As the conversations continued, I noticed something that kept appearing around the table.
No one was really talking about websites.
They were talking about people.
Someone would point to a scholarship and quietly say,
“We just want students to understand who this person was.”
A family member would smile through tears and explain,
“He always believed in helping people.”
A retired teacher would tell stories about colleagues who spent decades changing lives without ever expecting recognition.
A coach would describe a player who came back years later to thank a volunteer who kept the program running.
Nobody asked me to make the navigation prettier.
They asked me to make sure people weren't forgotten.
That's a very different assignment.
The Volunteer Committee That Changed My Thinking
One afternoon, while talking with volunteers responsible for reviewing scholarship applications, someone laughed and said,
“You know, reading fifty applications isn't actually the hard part.”
Everyone nodded.
“The hard part is deciding between fifty remarkable young people.”
I'd heard the same tone from booster treasurers reconciling a season of fundraisers and from board members choosing which community project to support first.
That's when it clicked.
The challenge wasn't administrative.
It was emotional.
Every application represented someone's hopes.
Every scholarship represented someone's legacy.
Every roster, every season, every volunteer shift carried the same weight: real people trusting the group to get it right.
Every decision carried responsibility.
Suddenly, “management software” felt like the wrong phrase.
What they needed wasn't management.
They needed confidence.
They needed clarity.
Most of all, they needed a way to honor both the people who built the group and the people who would carry its story forward.
That's When NextJawn Began to Change
Originally, I thought NextJawn was about helping students discover scholarships.
It still is.
But somewhere along the journey, I realized something bigger.
It's really about helping generosity find its next chapter.
Every scholarship began because someone believed education mattered.
Every booster campaign began because someone believed kids deserved a fair shot.
Someone cared deeply enough to leave something behind—or show up week after week—for people they might never meet.
That's extraordinary.
Those stories deserve more than a spreadsheet.
They deserve to be remembered.
They deserve to inspire.
They deserve to connect generations.
That realization changed how we approached everything.
Websites Shouldn't Just Inform
They should honor.
Imagine visiting a scholarship page and learning not only what the award is worth, but why it exists.
Imagine discovering the teacher whose quiet encouragement changed hundreds of lives.
Imagine reading about the veteran whose family created a scholarship so future students could pursue dreams that once seemed impossible.
Imagine a team page that remembers the coach who kept a program alive, or an association archive that shows new members where they fit in a longer story.
Imagine understanding that generosity—and belonging—have stories behind them.
That's the experience we want to build.
Because when people understand the story behind an opportunity, they don't just apply for funding or sign up for a season.
They become part of a legacy.
A Funny Thing Happened Along the Way
The more I listened to associations, collectives, clubs, and teams, the less anyone cared about whether the website had rounded corners.
Not once did someone lean across the table and whisper,
“You know what would really preserve Grandma's legacy?
A bigger hero banner.”
No one ever said,
“If only our footer had better typography.”
Those conversations still make me smile.
Because underneath every request for a better website was something much more human.
“We don't want people to forget.”
That's a sentence no content management system has ever generated.
It only appears when someone trusts you enough to tell you why the work matters.
What These Groups Really Want
After dozens of conversations, I don't think associations, organizations, collectives, booster clubs, or teams are asking for websites.
I think they're asking for places where stories continue.
Places where generosity becomes visible.
Places where young people—and new members—understand that opportunities don't appear by accident.
Someone cared enough to create them.
Someone believed enough to invest in them.
Someone hoped enough to imagine a future they might never see.
Someone volunteered enough to keep the lights on for one more season.
That's worth honoring.
Pull Up a Chair
One of the unexpected gifts of the Plates & Updates lunches is that they continue reminding me to listen beneath the request.
Behind every “Can you redesign our website?” is usually a much better question.
“Can you help us preserve what matters?”
That's the conversation I hope we never stop having.
Because the best projects we've ever built didn't begin with technology.
They began with trust.
They began with stories.
They began with people willing to share why something mattered.
And somewhere between laughter, coffee, and one more sandwich, I discovered something I'll carry into every project from now on.
Honor isn't another feature.
It's a design principle.
If we can build technology that helps people feel remembered, appreciated, and connected to something larger than themselves, we've built more than a website.
We've built a place where generosity—and community—continues to grow.
And to everyone who has trusted me with your stories—whether they began with grief, gratitude, hope, a scholarship application, or a signup form for spring season—thank you.
You've reminded me that the most meaningful thing we can build isn't software.
It's a future where people are remembered not only for what they accomplished, but for what they made possible in others.
That's something worth designing for.