The Nicola Valley Food Bank has launched its 2026 membership drive, a modest ask with outsized importance for an organization navigating tighter funding and rising demand.
For five dollars a year, residents can become members. That small sum doesn’t just help operationally. It becomes proof of community backing when the food bank applies for grants. And right now, that proof matters more than ever.
Derlanda Hewton, the food bank’s general manager, says donations have fallen even as usage holds steady. The organization depends on community fundraising, monetary gifts, and food contributions. But grants have grown fiercely competitive, and the amounts they receive have dropped sharply.
“We’re dependent on donations, on fundraising events that people put on in the community for us,” Hewton told local reporters. “Grants too, yes, but the grants are becoming so much more competitive and the amount of grant money we have received has declined substantially.”
When funders ask how many members support the food bank, they’re looking for a metric of local trust. Membership numbers signal whether a community stands behind the work being done. In an age of spreadsheet-driven grant decisions, that number can tip the scale.
This isn’t just a Nicola Valley story. Food Banks BC reports a 79 per cent surge in visits across the province since 2019. Nearly 1.3 million British Columbians now face food insecurity. Of those, 31 per cent are children.
The numbers reflect a broader squeeze. Wages haven’t kept pace with housing and grocery costs. Provincial supports exist, but accessing them requires navigation skills many don’t have. Food banks have become safety nets for families who never imagined needing one.
Hewton sees the food bank’s role extending beyond handing out hampers. Her team guides people toward employment resources like WorkBC. They connect individuals to income supports they might qualify for but don’t know exist.
She recalls a recent visitor, a man who hadn’t needed the food bank in years. He recognized her. Years earlier, living on a minimal CPP disability payment, he’d come in struggling. Hewton suggested he speak with the Persons with Disabilities program. That single referral changed his trajectory. He told her it kept him out of the food bank for years.
That kind of intervention doesn’t show up in most grant applications. But it’s the invisible scaffolding holding communities together. Food banks operate at the intersection of crisis response and community development, often without credit for the latter.
The membership drive also reveals something about how social services funding works in Canada. Federal and provincial programs exist, but local non-profits fill gaps with volunteer labour and uncertain revenue. They compete for shrinking grant pools while demand climbs.
British Columbia’s cost of living crisis is well documented. Rents in smaller communities have spiked as people flee urban centres. Grocery inflation hit hard, especially in rural areas with fewer competing retailers. Fixed incomes buy less each month.
Food banks absorb the fallout. They don’t set policy or control economic levers. They show up when systems fail individuals. And they rely on community goodwill to keep operating.
Hewton’s comment about proving community support points to a tension in how we fund social infrastructure. Membership numbers become proxies for legitimacy. But the people who most need food banks are often least able to pay membership fees, however small.
Still, the five-dollar membership serves a purpose beyond revenue. It builds a constituency. It creates a formal relationship between an organization and the people it serves or who believe in its mission. That matters when advocates push for policy changes or defend programs from cuts.
The Nicola Valley Food Bank operates Tuesdays through Thursdays, 9:30 a.m. to 1 p.m., at 2026 Quilchena Avenue. Membership forms are available online at nicolavalleyfoodbank.com or in person during those hours.
For residents, joining costs less than a coffee. For the food bank, each membership strengthens the case that this work reflects community values, not just charity. In grant applications, that distinction can mean the difference between funded and overlooked.
The broader policy question hovers in the background. Why do we fund essential services through competitive grants and donation drives? Why does proving community support fall to organizations already stretched thin?
Those questions won’t be answered by a membership drive. But they’re worth asking as food bank usage climbs and funding grows more precarious. The Nicola Valley Food Bank’s request is small and specific. The need behind it is neither.
Hewton and her team will keep connecting people to resources, filling gaps, and doing the quiet work that keeps neighbours from falling through cracks. Whether grants come through depends partly on numbers they can show. Whether the community steps up will determine if those numbers are strong enough.
Five dollars. One year. A small act that signals whether we see food security as a shared responsibility or someone else’s problem.
