There are moments in philanthropy when the lines blur between giving and living, when you realize that generosity isn’t just something you support from a distance but something you can step right into. That’s exactly how I felt on a river in Clearwater, BC, with CRIS Adaptive. It wasn’t a boardroom presentation or a fundraising gala—it was white water, spray in our faces, and the sound of laughter echoing across the current.

CRIS Adaptive exists to make the outdoors accessible to everyone, regardless of ability. They take people rafting, hiking, climbing, and cycling—adventures that many assume are out of reach for those living with disabilities. But on that day in Clearwater, the only thing that mattered was the river and the people in the raft with me. Everyone belonged. Everyone was part of the team.

We started with the usual jitters. Life jackets strapped, helmets adjusted, paddles in hand. Some of the participants were visibly nervous, and to be honest, so was I. Rapids don’t care about your background or your comfort zone. But that’s the beauty of it. Nature has a way of leveling us. When you’re sitting on the edge of a raft with cold water rushing beneath you, titles, roles, and labels disappear. All that’s left is the experience.

The first set of rapids hit us hard, a wave crashing over the bow, soaking everyone instantly. And then something amazing happened. The nervous faces turned into wide grins. A shout of fear turned into a whoop of joy. One participant, who had been gripping their paddle with white knuckles at the start, threw their head back and laughed as water splashed over them again. That moment summed up the entire trip: fear giving way to freedom.

As the day went on, I saw more of these transformations. People who weren’t sure they could do it, doing it. Volunteers who had given their time cheering just as loudly as the participants themselves. Bonds forming in real time between strangers who became teammates the moment the raft pushed off from shore.

I’ve always believed that philanthropy is most powerful when it’s experienced, and this day on the river proved it again. You can read statistics about inclusion or see photos of adaptive gear, but nothing compares to sitting in a raft with someone who’s just discovered they’re capable of more than they ever imagined. Nothing compares to the look on their face when they climb out of the boat at the end of the run, dripping wet and absolutely beaming.

For me personally, it was a reminder that generosity doesn’t just change the lives of those we think we’re helping—it changes us. I didn’t leave that river the same person who climbed into the raft. I left with a renewed sense of why I do this work, and why organizations like CRIS Adaptive matter so much. They don’t just create opportunities for adventure. They create opportunities for dignity, confidence, and joy.

Driving away from Clearwater that evening, the sun dipping behind the mountains, I thought about how philanthropy at its best looks a lot like that river. It carries us forward, sometimes gently, sometimes with intensity, but always toward something bigger. And if we’re willing to get in the boat together—to share the ride—we discover that we’re all capable of more than we imagined. That’s what CRIS Adaptive teaches, and it’s a lesson I’ll carry with me for a long time.