Criminal Justice Advocacy

Are We Investing in Change or Funding the Cycle?

There was a time when criminal justice advocacy was a calling—born out of necessity, driven by urgency, and focused on solutions. It was about dismantling harmful systems and building up the people those systems broke. But now, this field has evolved into something much more institutionalized, polished, and often performative.

Today, advocacy is an industry—and like any industry, it has metrics, salaries, conferences, panels, and press releases. The goal was solving problems. But more and more, it looks like the goal has become maintaining payroll.

This movement has money flowing into it. Foundations committed over $300 million to justice reform in 2021 alone (Candid.org). There are advocacy galas bringing in six figures in one night. Conferences where the price of entry is too steep for the very people these spaces claim to represent. But where is all that money really going? Who is benefitting from this boom?

Because according to the Prison Policy Initiative, while 600,000 people return home from prison each year, only 12% receive any housing support, fewer than 30% access employment services, and just 15% receive trauma-informed care or mental health therapy. Those are the numbers that matter—not how many campaigns got funded or how many social media impressions a report generated.

Meanwhile, there are headlines we can’t ignore. Like the 2023 audit of the Philadelphia-based Institute for Community Justice, where leadership was cited for questionable use of funds—including travel and luxury expenses—while program participants went underserved. Or the ongoing scrutiny of major nonprofits paying out executive salaries in the $300K–$500K range, while directly impacted staff are hired as contractors with no benefits or upward mobility.

In the words of author and activist Derecka Purnell:

"The nonprofit industrial complex creates incentives for people to perform social justice, rather than to transform systems."

Storytelling has become a currency in this space—one that often doesn’t circulate back to the people whose experiences carry the weight. Formerly incarcerated individuals are invited to share their truths at conferences or in polished videos, yet rarely positioned beyond their narrative. Too often, the exchange ends with a modest honorarium and a handshake, while organizations leverage those same stories to secure high-dollar grants and media visibility.

This dynamic raises an important question: are directly impacted people being engaged as co-creators in shaping reform strategies, or are they simply being featured to fulfill funding expectations? The difference matters—not only in ethics but in outcomes.

The financial footprint of justice reform is massive. Institutions like the Ford Foundation, MacArthur Foundation, and Arnold Ventures are investing millions annually. These resources could be transformative, yet the return on investment—when measured by housing access, job placement, or reduced recidivism—remains unconvincing.

According to a 2022 Brookings Institution report, fewer than 15% of criminal justice grants from major foundations reach community-based organizations led by formerly incarcerated individuals. And according to the National Committee for Responsive Philanthropy, less than 22% of all justice-related philanthropic dollars are spent on direct services such as housing, employment, or mental health care.

If even half of the over $300 million allocated annually toward criminal justice reform was invested in front-line services—those that directly house, employ, or counsel returning citizens—we would see a fundamental shift in the reentry landscape.

Instead, too many organizations are funded for visibility rather than accountability. And that visibility, more often than not, does little to improve the everyday reality of those coming home.

This disparity points to something deeper than budget strategy—it reflects the underlying assumptions about where change originates and who is qualified to lead it.

Rather than simply interrogate who’s receiving the money, we should be assessing what kind of relationships these investments are building. Are they transactional, or are they building lasting pathways for agency and equity? Reform isn’t about performance. It’s about presence, partnership, and measurable progress for the people most impacted.

To understand what meaningful investment in justice reform should look like, we have to expand the conversation. What would accountability really mean in this field? Not just in moral terms, but in practical ones.

Imagine if organizations receiving millions in funding were evaluated not by how many conferences they hosted, but by how many people they helped into long-term housing. If funders measured outcomes based on healing, employment, and community restoration—not media mentions and grant renewal rates—we’d begin to see a very different picture of success.

Some philanthropic models are beginning to lean in that direction. Participatory grantmaking, for example, gives decision-making power to those closest to the issue, including formerly incarcerated individuals. Institutions like Borealis Philanthropy have piloted these models, allowing directly impacted people to guide where resources go. But efforts like this are still the exception, not the norm.

Edgar Villanueva, author of Decolonizing Wealth, said it plainly: “If philanthropy really wants to redistribute power, then those closest to the pain need to be closest to the money.” That principle should be foundational, not optional. Yet what we often see is a top-down approach that recycles power into the same circles—those who know how to navigate the funding language, who have access to legal and administrative support, and who can afford to wait months for grant cycles to close.

Meanwhile, grassroots organizations—many of which are led by returning citizens—are under-resourced and over-relied upon.

We also have to consider what returning citizens themselves are saying they need. When surveyed in studies by the Vera Institute and the Ella Baker Center, the responses are remarkably consistent: access to stable, safe housing; comprehensive trauma-informed care; long-term employment with advancement opportunity; and a chance to contribute to community healing, not just personal survival. These aren’t complex asks—they’re the foundation of any meaningful reentry strategy.

Yet year after year, funding is funneled into administrative costs, national campaigns, and awareness-building. Those things have their place, but they cannot come at the expense of direct support. Justice reform cannot be driven by optics. It has to be led by impact.

It’s important to remember that money is not inherently the issue. How we allocate and assess that money is. If we are serious about transformation, then we must be equally serious about transparency. That includes publicly sharing impact data, committing to third-party evaluations, and involving returning citizens not as consultants, but as co-leaders in shaping the direction of reform.

When people ask what’s happening behind the scenes, they’re not just being critical. They’re being responsible. They’re holding us all to a standard that this work deserves. If we say justice is the goal, then justice must be present in how we operate, how we hire, how we share credit, and how we structure power.

What this really comes down to is structure. If we want systems to be more equitable, we have to be willing to look at the systems we’re building within reform itself. The impact of this work can’t rest on intention or narrative. It has to be grounded in measurable outcomes and quiet consistency—meeting people where they are and staying the course long enough to make a difference.

Let’s stop funding the image and start investing in the reality of change

— Troy Rienstra