Writing Without Credentials

By Josh Singleton | Founder, The Neighborhood Garden Project

“Who are you to write about the nonprofit world? You’ve only been in it for three years.”

That question has come up before—but to be honest, it’s mostly in my own head. I’ve asked it more than anyone else. It usually shows up when things get quiet, when I start thinking about how this space works. There’s a lot of pressure in the non-profit world. Pressure to sound like you know what you’re doing. Pressure to have a long résumé. Pressure to prove that your voice belongs.

But here’s what I’ve come to believe: that voice doesn’t come from God. It’s the same voice that tries to keep people quiet. That says your story doesn’t count. That if you haven’t done it a certain way, then you’re not allowed to speak. But that’s a lie. And if I’ve learned anything from walking with God, it’s that lies lose their power when you start speaking the truth.

When someone finally says what’s real, something breaks open. It gives permission to others. Not to perform, but to breathe. To believe that maybe they’re not too late either. Maybe their years in the background weren’t wasted. That’s why I speak up—not to get noticed, but to let others know they’re not alone. When we tell the truth about where we’ve been—especially the slow parts, the hidden parts—we open space for someone else to step forward too.

For a long time, I carried shame about not “doing it right.” I didn’t chase titles or degrees. I didn’t have a big plan. I wasn’t building a platform. I just kept showing up, working the soil, learning to listen. I questioned if I missed something. If maybe I should’ve gone after the things that get celebrated. But now I know—God wasn’t hiding me to punish me. He was forming something in me. He wasn’t trying to build a brand. He was forming a voice.

And the truth is, none of that stuff—titles, degrees, recognition—can take the place of Presence. Without Him, even the best résumé feels empty. But when He’s in it, even the quietest act of obedience carries power. The soil taught me that. You don’t get fruit without surrender. And you don’t always get to see what’s happening underground—but that doesn’t mean nothing’s happening.

Before The Neighborhood Garden Project had a name, or a mission, or a dollar of funding, I had already spent 20 years with my hands in the dirt. Two decades of working with plants, watching seasons, learning what lasts. I didn’t know it then, but God was training me. Teaching me how growth really works. And more than that, He was teaching me how to see.

So when He said, “Stop growing food and start growing people,” it wasn’t some big shift. It was just the next step.

I didn’t feel ready. I didn’t have the answers. But I said yes. Because I’ve learned that obedience doesn’t wait until you feel confident. It starts right where you are. And some of the most important things I’ve ever done started while I still had questions.

I’m not writing because I figured it all out. I’m writing because I’ve seen something real. And when something real starts growing, you can’t help but tell people about it.

These days, there’s a lot of talk. A lot of noise. A lot of polished language. But the world doesn’t need more words. It needs proof. And you can’t fake fruit. You can’t fake rootedness. Either it grew, or it didn’t. And soil doesn’t lie. It tells the truth.

For us, these past three years haven’t been about building a brand or climbing a ladder. They’ve been about staying faithful. Letting God prune us. Letting Him shape how we see. Every breakthrough came through surrender. Every bit of clarity came from laying things down. Every bit of fruit came from just sticking with it.

So no—I’m not writing as an expert. I’m writing as someone who’s walked slowly and watched what God can do when you stay available. I’ve seen Him move in ways no strategy could plan for. I’ve seen lives shift. I’ve seen provision show up at just the right time. I’ve seen soil turn into something sacred.

David didn’t need a résumé to face Goliath. He just needed trust. And that trust came from years in the field, not years in a palace. Moses didn’t have perfect speech. But God called him anyway. Jesus didn’t start with a stage—He started with twelve people willing to walk. That still works today.

You don’t need a platform. You don’t need a team. You don’t need to feel qualified. You just need to be faithful. Maybe the thing you’re carrying doesn’t need permission. Maybe it just needs a step.

I’ve had to remind myself of that often. That God doesn’t wait for perfect. He moves through the willing. And when I start wondering if I should’ve done more or waited longer, grace reminds me—I didn’t miss it. This is it. This is the moment. And He’s still writing the story.

So if you’re wondering, “Who are you to write this?”—I get it. I’ve asked the same thing.

But maybe the better question is, “What has God shown you in the quiet years that someone else needs to hear?”

This is part of my answer. Just one story from the soil. One seed that took time to break open. But it’s growing now.

And I’m writing anyway.

Because God planted it. And the soil remembers.