From Resistance to Renewal: Building a City That Says Yes
From Neighborhood Capture to Systemic Reform: Escaping the Localism Trap
What began as a well-intentioned effort to center community voice in planning has devolved into a system of procedural vetoes, representational gatekeeping, and institutional inertia. Across the country—and acutely in Albuquerque—the original promise of participatory planning has been hijacked by a narrow, self-selecting class of residents. In this series, we’ve explored how NIMBYism manifests in many forms: from environmental delay tactics to affordability smokescreens, from performative leftist outrage to appeals weaponized by neighborhood associations. But beneath all of these lies a deeper structure—a system of localism that incentivizes risk aversion, prioritizes incumbency, and too often treats housing as a zero-sum game.
This trap of localism doesn’t just constrain what gets built—it constrains how we think. It narrows who is seen as qualified to speak, rewards those with time and resources to navigate endless process, and centers proximity over policy outcomes. In theory, localism is supposed to bring democracy closer to the people. In practice, it often empowers the loudest and most connected at the expense of everyone else.
Nowhere is this clearer than in the evolution of Albuquerque’s Neighborhood Coalitions. Initially created to strengthen local representation and communication with councilors, these coalitions have become centralized forces that consolidate power and suppress broader community voice. Composed largely of board members from a narrow subset of neighborhood associations—associations that themselves disproportionately represent older, whiter, wealthier homeowners—coalitions now function less like democratic bodies and more like de facto zoning courts. As Einstein’s research reminds us, they are a “subset of a subset,” often deciding the fate of projects with no input from renters, workers, or the majority of residents who call these neighborhoods home.
What was meant to ensure grassroots input has morphed into something else: a political firewall against growth. When neighborhood associations or coalitions file appeals against new housing, they rarely do so with community consensus. More often, they act out of fear—of traffic, of change, of people they don’t know moving in. And the cost of that fear is staggering: stalled housing, squandered investment, lost neighbors.
Even the public’s perception of these groups is beginning to shift. As Downtown Albuquerque News observed, “Once upon a time, such opposition might have been successfully framed as a noble David-versus-developer-Goliath battle… In the new political climate, however, it brings biting and occasionally gleeful blowback.” On the night O-24-69 passed, it was clear: the moral clarity of neighborhood groups had faded. Their vision had shrunk. Their credibility had cracked.
This moment—this inflection point—isn’t just about one bill. It’s about whether Albuquerque can finally unstick itself from the procedural glue and scarcity mindset that’s held us back since the Great Recession. It’s about whether we can stop saying no out of habit and start saying yes with purpose. And it’s about whether we can move from neighborhood capture to citywide progress—together.
O-24-69 as a Turning Point
The passage of O-24-69 marked more than just a procedural update—it exposed the structural cracks in Albuquerque’s system of neighborhood representation. One of its key reforms, the proximity signature requirement, ensures that appeals against new housing must be backed by actual residents near the proposed site, not just association board members. This shift, supported by groups and their members like Los Volcanes Neighborhood Association, Strong Towns, and GENM, was a direct response to the disconnect between Neighborhood Coalitions and the communities they claim to speak for. It also acknowledged renters as full participants in civic life—thanks in part to an amendment by Councilor Fiebelkorn—signaling a step toward broader inclusion in who gets to shape our city.
Yet this modest reform provoked fierce resistance. Opponents warned of lost neighborhood identity and attacked the measure as undemocratic—missing the point entirely. The real affront to democracy has long been the unaccountable structure of neighborhood coalitions themselves: self-selecting, under-participated, and largely inaccessible to the public they supposedly represent. Their objections to O-24-69 only confirmed what many residents already sensed: these groups are less about representing neighborhoods and more about preserving incumbency and power.
The public testimony surrounding the bill made this contrast painfully clear. Renters, small business owners, and unaffiliated residents shared stories of exclusion and opportunity denied. They called for a future rooted in equity and transparency. Meanwhile, coalition leaders offered little beyond tired preservationist rhetoric. As Downtown Albuquerque News observed, these once-beloved groups now resemble “unaccountable cabals,” out of step with the city’s needs. O-24-69 was never a silver bullet—but it made visible the need for a new model of engagement: one that moves from obstruction to opportunity.
Rethinking Engagement: From Process to Outcomes
At first glance, community engagement seems like an unequivocal good. But as Katherine Einstein and her co-authors argue in Neighborhood Defenders, the structure of public input in urban planning often undermines the very equity it claims to uphold. Time and again, data show that public hearings are dominated by older, wealthier homeowners—those with the resources to attend and the strongest incentive to resist change. These participants do not reflect the demographics of their communities, and their objections, while couched in neutral terms like traffic or character, often mask deeper fears about growth and inclusion.
Einstein’s research is a reminder that the issue is not just who speaks—it’s what our system rewards. When cities design engagement processes around individual projects, they hand veto power to the loudest voices, while sidelining those most affected by housing scarcity. Even cities that broadly support housing—as in her Massachusetts case studies—struggle to get that support reflected in planning meetings. The result is a disconnect between public will and public policy.
To fix this, we must shift our focus from endless consultation to clear, participatory rulemaking. As Einstein and Strong Towns founder Charles Marohn both advocate, cities should set transparent, citywide goals—on housing, equity, and sustainability—and then let development proceed by-right where those goals are met. Public input should shape the framework, not paralyze every step of its execution.
This scenario exemplifies a classic public choice issue, where small, highly motivated groups wield far more influence than the larger public who may only see minor benefits or harms from the decision. Mancur Olson’s work on concentrated benefits and dispersed costs applies, as these vocal groups—who may be protecting personal neighborhood characteristics or fighting against perceived negative impacts—have the power to sway zoning decisions, even when the greater good may be served by more housing. While protecting small, vocal minorities is important in preventing exploitation, the downside is that this system can lead to cronyism, where local voices stifle development in the name of preserving the status quo, even at the cost of the wider community’s needs.
In addition to the influence of these vocal groups, the approval process itself is often delayed and reshaped by repeated hearings, which can drag on for months or even years. Developers, under the pressure of community opposition and the need for compromise, are frequently forced to scale back their projects to appease local concerns, whether related to parking, aesthetics, or other minor adjustments. This delay process often adds substantial costs to the project and reduces the overall housing supply. As Einstein describes in her research, this delay can push development costs higher, and in many cases, result in projects being downsized in response to the nitpicking of board members or neighbors. It’s not uncommon for projects to go through multiple rounds of review, with seemingly small changes—such as reducing the number of units or increasing parking—leading to a much smaller development than originally planned. This not only raises costs but also reduces the overall impact of new housing projects, making them less effective in addressing the housing crisis.
However, this inflection point also marks the beginning of a difficult and often contentious journey toward change. The city has made the first steps toward a more inclusive and forward-thinking system, but this transition will not be without resistance. Coalition members, deeply invested in the preservation of their power, will not go quietly into the night- nor will they hand the reins to newcomers in the process. While O-24-69 represents an important step toward more inclusive development processes, it is only the beginning. If Albuquerque is to successfully transition to a system that reflects the needs of all residents—especially renters, young families, and those in marginalized communities—city leaders must prioritize reforms that ensure neighborhood associations are truly representative, transparent, and accountable to the broader community. This means embracing new models of community engagement, where diverse voices have an equal seat at the table.
However, there is hope on the horizon. Happily, in Albuquerque and across the country, a growing movement of activists is rising to challenge these entrenched interests and work toward meaningful change. These activists are pushing for a more equitable and balanced system—exactly the kind of balance that was envisioned when these processes were first established in the aftermath of urban renewal. In Albuquerque, over just a few years, a new wave of voices—many young and diverse—has found its way into City Council discussions like never before. Groups like GENM, Strong Towns, and others are not only influencing the conversation but also drawing support from a wide spectrum of political ideologies. Some are even beginning to challenge the neighborhood associations from within, calling for real transformation. National movements have found fertile ground in Albuquerque, adapting to our unique culture and politics, embracing New Mexico’s multicultural identity, and rejecting the complacency that has often held us back. As these groups continue to grow in momentum, harnessing the deep energy and desire for change that exists here, we should take heart that change is not just possible but already underway.
Toward a Democratic, Inclusive Planning Future
O-24-69 revealed more than a rift between generations or ideologies—it exposed a fundamental mismatch between the structures of public input and the city we are trying to build. If Albuquerque is to move beyond the era of neighborhood capture, we must rewire our planning system not just to include more voices, but to reward shared goals and clear outcomes.
Calls for a “slow, smart process” may sound reasonable, but in practice they have become a smokescreen for inaction. Neighborhood groups and legacy voices often invoke deliberation as a virtue—but rarely to refine or improve a proposal. Instead, “process” becomes the product: a way to stall, splinter, and silence. The result is a planning culture mired in delay and defined by the avoidance of risk—one that punishes change, even when the status quo is failing.
As Jerusalem Demsas and Yoni Appelbaum have both argued, this is the paradox of participation: in our effort to democratize decisions, we’ve created systems that are accessible only to those with time, wealth, and institutional know-how. And we’ve elevated “listening” over action—treating every voice as equally representative, even when the data tells us otherwise. True democratic planning doesn’t just ask who shows up—it asks who benefits.
To fix this, we need to shift from project-by-project permission to rules-based permission. As Katherine Einstein and Charles Marohn suggest, cities should define clear housing and development goals, set transparent development rules, and then get out of the way. Public engagement should focus on writing those rules—not re-litigating every proposal that meets them.
That means asking better questions up front. Not: “Who dislikes this?” but “What does our city need—and who’s missing?” Not: “How can we delay this?” but “How can we design systems where doing the right thing is the path of least resistance?”
Reforms like O-24-69 are a start, and the creation of the Integrated Development Ordinance before that, but they must be paired with a broader transformation of how neighborhood associations and public input processes operate. These groups were never intended to act as miniature zoning boards, and yet they have accrued disproportionate power without the accountability or transparency public bodies require. Reimagining their role—away from gatekeeping and toward information-sharing, cultural stewardship, and neighborhood visioning—is essential.
As Jerusalem Demsas points out, public input—when defined only by who shows up—excludes most of the public. It leaves out those working long hours, those caring for children, those with disabilities, and those who haven’t moved in yet but desperately want to. Democracy shouldn’t hinge on who can attend a Tuesday night meeting. It should live at the ballot box, in representative government, and in rulemaking that reflects everyone’s right to be part of a city—even those not yet there. Good planning must account for the unseen, the unheard, and the unrepresented—not just the loudest voice in the room.
This shift also requires rethinking not just neighborhood associations, but the very structure of planning authority itself. As we explored in Part 6, true equity in housing and land use may depend on lifting some decisions above the neighborhood scale. Cities can—and should—continue to engage residents, but within clear, democratically established rules and frameworks. When every block has a veto, nothing gets built. When councilors, elected by the public, are empowered to set and enforce housing targets, the system becomes more accountable—not less. We must stop confusing proximity with legitimacy, and start trusting our democratic institutions to make decisions that reflect citywide needs.
The city’s planning process can only be fair if the tools of public influence are matched by public standards. Yet as Yoni Appelbaum has argued, even reforms like O-24-69—which bring greater procedural balance—may not be enough. When critical public goods like housing, mobility, and affordability are held hostage to hyper-local politics, it raises the question of whether some decisions need to be made at higher levels of government. Zoning, in particular, may be too foundational to leave vulnerable to neighborhood-level obstruction. If we want a city that reflects democratic will, we may need to place more faith in our democratic institutions—like city councils and state legislatures—not just in whoever can make it to the next neighborhood meeting.
And just as importantly, we must create citywide systems to track progress. Set unit targets. Measure outcomes. Incentivize delivery. Let neighborhoods help shape how growth happens—but not whether it happens. Every part of Albuquerque must say yes to something.
The encouraging news is that this transition is already underway. A new generation of residents, advocates, and elected leaders are rejecting the inertia of the past and stepping up with bold ideas and open minds. Groups like Strong Towns ABQ, GENM, and a host of neighborhood-based reformers are proof that the problem isn’t engagement—it’s what our institutions do with it. We don’t need to silence anyone. We need to elevate better questions, more equitable voices, and a planning culture that values momentum over maintenance.
A more democratic, inclusive planning future isn’t just possible—it’s already taking root. The challenge now is to nurture it, protect it, and build systems that let it grow.
Conclusion: From Resistance to Renewal
To overcome the entrenched forces of NIMBYism, we must multiply our voices and grow the movement for a more inclusive, forward-thinking city. Rachel Carson taught us to look beyond isolated actions and consider how they ripple across entire ecosystems. The same is true in urban life: when we resist change out of fear or nostalgia, we disrupt the delicate balance our cities need to thrive. Like the unchecked use of DDT, reflexive opposition to growth may feel protective in the moment—but over time, it weakens the entire system. For those willing to look inward and reconsider their positions, we invite them to see that preserving what’s best about Albuquerque requires openness to evolution. By embracing change and expanding the circle of belonging, we can build a more balanced, resilient city—one that reflects both our heritage and our hopes.
Just as Rachel Carson challenged us to rethink how short-term fixes can cause long-term harm to the ecosystems we depend on, today we must reexamine the outdated urban policies that limit our cities’ ability to grow and adapt. Many of the ideas we’ve inherited about growth, zoning, and development were shaped in a different era—one less concerned with equity, affordability, or climate resilience. But the data is clear: rigid, exclusionary planning harms the vitality of our cities just as surely as DDT harmed natural ecosystems. What our communities need now is the equivalent of ecological restoration: organic, incremental growth that’s flexible, inclusive, and rooted in long-term health. That means planning systems that reflect our values, adapt to our needs, and embrace change—not resist it.
But to unlock that evolution, we also have to learn how to say yes. Albuquerque doesn’t suffer from a lack of plans or passion—it suffers from a scarcity mindset, where the default posture toward new ideas, new housing, and new people is too often suspicion or delay. Since the Great Recession, we have struggled to regain momentum—not just economically, but imaginatively. While peer cities leaned into housing abundance, walkability, and infill development, Albuquerque got stuck in procedural loops and culture-war skirmishes. Saying yes—to reinvestment, to more neighbors, to better land use—isn’t just about zoning reform. It’s about shifting our civic posture from cautious gatekeeping to hopeful stewardship.
That’s what the reforms we’ve discussed—like O-24-69 and the future overhaul of the Neighborhood Recognition Ordinance—can help deliver. When we set clear expectations, make engagement accessible, and align incentives with outcomes, we can begin to rebuild trust. We can reduce frivolous appeals, increase transparency, and create space for more voices to shape the city—not just those with time, money, or legacy power.
We must also put pressure on our elected officials to finish the job: legalize incremental density across the city, rewrite the appeals process to be accountable and data-driven, and modernize our comprehensive plan to focus not just on what each neighborhood wants to avoid—but on what we want to build together.
Other cities have already begun to show what this shift looks like. In Minneapolis, the elimination of single-family zoning and investment in abundant housing has helped stabilize rents and grow opportunity. In Austin, widespread upzoning near transit and in core neighborhoods has opened the door to thousands of new homes. And in Atlanta, new land use reforms are starting to untangle decades of exclusionary policy. These cities didn’t wait for consensus to arrive—they acted. They said yes. And the rewards are starting to show: more housing, more neighbors, and a more resilient urban fabric. These cities didn’t just say yes to one kind of change—they embraced both the incremental and the ambitious.
They said yes to backyard cottages and fourplexes and to downtown stadiums, light rail extensions, rail trails, and civic arenas. They recognized that housing abundance, mobility, economic vitality, and cultural investment all reinforce one another. And in doing so, they opened the door to new opportunities, greater affordability, stronger communities, and a renewed sense of civic pride. This balanced, optimistic approach—bold but grounded—is what Albuquerque must now emulate.
In principle, everyone states a desire for the same goal: a vibrant Albuquerque. Acknowledging that our current systems are failing is difficult, and accepting the need for change can feel uncomfortable. For those entrenched in NIMBYist organizations and associations—sometimes for decades—acknowledging the need for change is even more difficult. These individuals have long identified with the preservationist mentality and view their work as safeguarding the integrity of their neighborhoods. To ask them to rethink this perspective is to challenge their identity and the very work they have devoted themselves to. Yet, this is exactly what is needed. It is essential for these longtime advocates to recognize that the city they wish to protect is changing, and their current efforts may be inadvertently harming the future they hope to safeguard.
And yet, it is precisely through challenging ourselves and the status quo that we can achieve an Albuquerque without homelessness, with abundant affordable housing, thriving transit corridors, and walkable neighborhoods. True progress requires us to confront these hard truths and move forward together. Only then can we build the thriving, inclusive city we all envision.
Many of those now active in neighborhood leadership once helped reshape society for the better. They challenged injustice, pushed for environmental protection, demanded transparency in government, and fought to preserve the character and health of their communities. That legacy matters—and it’s one Albuquerque still needs.
Today, our city faces new challenges: rising rents, population stagnation, and a shortage of housing and opportunity. Meeting those challenges requires the same spirit of courage, curiosity, and care that shaped earlier waves of change. It means being willing to revisit old assumptions, to consider that some of the tools we’ve long relied on—like restrictive zoning or endless appeals—may no longer serve the greater good.
Progress doesn’t mean rejecting the past. It means building on its best ideals with honesty and humility. Those who once led the charge for clean air and open space can lead again—this time, for abundant housing, inclusive neighborhoods, and a more resilient future.
The question we all face is not about age or background, but about imagination and resolve. Can we work together to adapt our systems to meet today’s needs, and make space for tomorrow’s neighbors? The invitation is open. The path to progress can be a shared journey—but it begins with the courage to say yes.
The challenge we face is not one of division, but of finding a way to bring those who have held on to outdated conventions into the fold of a more inclusive and dynamic Albuquerque. The door is open for those willing to join us—but for those who choose to remain entrenched, the city will continue to move forward, regardless of resistance. We ask, with empathy and respect: will you join us in shaping the future, or will you hold us back? The path to progress can be a shared journey, but it requires a willingness to grow—and to say yes. The Albuquerque we build next can be more than just a place—it can be a promise: that this city belongs to all of us, and has room to grow.
Note:
This series was originally drafted in January, shortly after the passage of O-24-69. While it began in a moment of frustration, it has since been revised to improve clarity, structure, and tone. We’ve added citations to help readers explore the issues more deeply, and organized the arguments to better reflect how land use debates often unfold in Albuquerque. Most importantly, we’ve worked to reframe the tone toward vision—toward what it would mean for our city to embrace change with care and purpose.
To that end, the work doesn’t stop here. A number of new proposals are coming before City Council that invite us to practice saying yes. One of them, R-25-127, would allow voters to decide on investing in a Downtown Performing Arts Center, a catalytic project with potential to spark vitality and community in our city’s core.
Let’s make sure we say yes: to housing, to transit, to culture, and to a more connected Albuquerque. Write your councilor. Vote in November. Help Albuquerque believe in its future again. Read about that proposal, here.
Reimagining Albuquerque 
Leave a comment