Running a business is a bit like being the ringmaster of a circus, a role you never really thought you would have to organise when you started up your business. You are keeping the performers in line, making sure the tent stays upright, feeding the animals, and pretending you understand the accountant’s latest spreadsheet. Stress is already a full-time job. So when you apply for a grant, you imagine, quite naively, that the process will be smooth, contained, and finite. One form, all the questions in one place, answered once, and then either a yes or a no.
The reality is closer to a slow-motion game of Question Tennis. You serve your carefully prepared application, thinking the ball is now in their court. They hit it back with “just a few more questions” which you answer, certain this is the last hurdle. Then back it comes again, this time asking for something you could never have predicted, such as a letter from your bank manager dated in the last fortnight confirming the average age of your direct debits.
The first form is already daunting. It asks for more detail than you share with your doctor. They want your turnover, profit margins, cash flow forecasts for the next five years, evidence of community benefit, proof that you can read a balance sheet without weeping, and your personal vision for making the world a better place. They also want the legal structure of your business, the date of your last staff away day, and what percentage of your customers prefer gluten free muffins. You provide it all, hit send, and allow yourself the luxury of mentally ticking “apply for grant” off your to-do list.
Then the follow-ups begin. They request copies of your last three years’ accounts, but signed by a chartered accountant in blue ink on paper that has been blessed by a notary public. They want your articles of association, your safeguarding policy, your equal opportunities statement, and an explanation for why the decimal points on page 14 of your spreadsheet are fractionally to the left.
You send that off and another email appears. This one requests photographs of your premises, including one showing you standing in front of the building holding a newspaper from today to prove it still exists. They might ask for your insurance policy, not the one you sent last time but the updated version that covers acts of God, unexpected trampoline accidents, and small locust infestations.
Psychologically, this is a masterclass in draining human energy. The brain craves closure. Every time you finish a task, it rewards you with a small burst of dopamine, telling you the job is done. Grant funders seem determined to interrupt that process. Just when you believe you have finished, another email lands. You are forced to reopen a mental file you had closed, dig for documents, and re-immerse yourself in a task you were trying to forget. This is called context switching, and it is costly. It is the cognitive equivalent of stepping off a bicycle, changing into formal evening wear, then being told to get back on the bicycle only to discover it is now on fire.
The timing of these requests is almost an art form. They appear in your spam folder while you are on holiday. They arrive at 4.59pm on a Friday when your mind has already left the office. They pop up when your phone battery is at two percent and you are standing in the rain waiting for the bus. Each round chips away at your patience until you start wondering if the grant is worth the effort.
The mental load builds gradually. You begin to dread seeing their name in your inbox. You develop a twitch at the sound of the email notification. Your to-do list contains vague and sinister reminders like “Grant stuff???” because you cannot bring yourself to type out the full request. You would not be surprised if the next message asked for a DNA sample or a ten minute interpretive dance to convey your business vision.
Some say this is deliberate. The theory is that the drip feed method weeds out the faint hearted. If you can survive months of back and forth without throwing your laptop across the room, you have the grit they want in a grant recipient. Psychology even has a term for it, successive hurdles. It began as a recruitment technique, where applicants are given increasingly tedious or challenging tasks to see who still turns up at the end. In grant funding, it becomes an endurance sport in disguise.
Others say it is simply the by-product of bureaucracy. One department handles the first form, another checks it and has their own ideas, and a third steps in with a different list altogether. It becomes a relay race where each new runner changes the route entirely.
Whatever the reason, the outcome is the same. Business owners burn time and energy chasing paperwork instead of doing the work the grant is supposed to support. You may start believing the real test is whether your business plan is strong. By the end, you realise the test is whether you can keep answering emails without losing your will to live.
If there is a moral, it is this. Applying for a grant is like starting a long distance relationship with an eccentric pen pal. You think it will be intense for a short while and then settle into something predictable. In reality, it remains unpredictable from start to finish, and the only way to win is to accept the game and pace yourself. Also, it would not hurt to keep a fresh set of blue ink pens within reach.
