Stuck
Recently, I took a long-haul trip, moving through a handful of international airports.
Airports are strangely uniform: lines, signs, conveyor belts of shoes and laptops. But if you look closely, each one carries small, telling differences – discreet reflections of its country or culture. Nothing too dramatic, lest it unsettle travellers who crave consistency and predictability. But enough to subtly say: this system has its own rules.
At one particular airport, the process didn’t unfold as expected. The issue wasn’t especially noteworthy; it was just a long line. But what stood out was that the line wasn’t moving. At all.
Within minutes, it stretched past the terminal entrance. Taxi drivers popped their heads in to see why the passengers they had just dropped off were now loitering outside.
People began to grumble. A few tried to identify other lines to join, others marched over to the help desk. The usual restlessness set in – not just because of the delay, but because no one knew why we were stuck.
I wasn’t travelling alone, so I left my companions in the queue and peered around the corner to find the source of the holdup. I’m hardwired to seek root causes, and in this case, it didn’t take long.
The bottleneck wasn’t faulty machinery or an unexpected shutdown. It was one individual. He was on the far side of the security scanner, calmly reassembling himself – shoes and coat on, belt buckled, liquids repacked. All standard post-screening behaviour, except he was doing it on the screening table itself. To watch him, you would think he had all the time in the world.
The protocol in this airport was very specific: only one person could pass through screening at a time, and no one else could begin until the table was cleared.
It might not have been the best-designed system. But it was the system. And this one person, unknowingly, had brought the entire queue to a standstill.
There were no signs or reminders. No one stepped forward to explain or redirect. The man himself seemed completely unaware of the backlog he was causing. And no one around him – not staff, not fellow passengers – intervened.
The solution was simple: a gentle word, a helping hand, a polite gesture towards the nearby bench designed for exactly this purpose. But the system didn’t adapt. It just sat, rigid and silent, as frustration grew and time ticked on.
As I stood there watching from a distance, I found myself reflecting on the support systems we ask families to navigate when a child has additional needs.
In those early days following my son Max’s diagnosis of autism, I had assumed the existence of a well-signposted path. I expected step-by-step processes, coordinated and evidenced care, and predictable timelines. Instead, I found fragmented, inconsistent services and cryptic eligibility criteria. Most of all, I found an information vacuum at a time when I really needed explicit guidance.
I now know that silence well. It’s the absence of clear process, or the presence of one so hidden or obscure that no one can follow it.
It’s the space where parents get stuck.
Unknowingly, and through no fault of their own, everything slows down. Progress gets delayed. This happens because no one told them the basics of what to expect, what to ask for, or what to do next.
Unlike that airport passenger, parents are not holding others back. Instead, they’re the ones unable to move forward.
They’re doing their absolute best with the limited information they have. And too often, the system responds not with direction or support, but with passive observation – letting the backlog grow before its eyes.
The parallels are everywhere.
We create processes that only work when families already know how the system operates – when they understand its unwritten rules, its quirks, its unofficial back doors. But no one tells them the rules. And in uncharted territory, if you don’t know what to look for, you probably won’t see it at all.
We assume people will instinctively move through the correct steps. But systems that rely on assumption, especially in moments of stress or unfamiliarity, are not systems built for equity.
We design procedures that can’t flex in real time. When the system doesn’t recognise that someone is stuck – or can’t accommodate it when they are – everyone suffers.
A good process needs to anticipate detours. It needs ways to identify when someone has missed a step or becomes lost. It must be strong enough to hold people, and soft enough to guide them when they don't know which way to turn.
This story tells us that good process matters. A clear and communicable process makes life easier for everyone. It keeps things moving and reduces overwhelm. It ensures that families get timely access to what they need, and that they can help others to do the same.
Beyond that, it also tells us that process isn’t a static thing. It’s not a laminated flowchart that resides on a wall. It must be responsive, evolving in real time to the people it’s meant to serve. It must include contingency, and an understanding that just because something exists doesn’t mean people will see it – or understand it – without help.
Families like mine don’t need grand gestures. We shouldn't need fast-tracks or loopholes. We just need the system to work as intended, and to understand how to work within it. That means processes that are known, visible, flexible, and grounded in human behaviour.
Because when people don’t have any insight into how a system works, they can’t use it properly. And when systems can’t adapt to support the people they were built for, they end up working against them.
At a first pass, it sounds so small – one individual slowly repacking his things on the wrong table. One parent left in the dark about where to go or what to ask. But the consequence is the same: things stop moving forward. People get frustrated. Some leave altogether.
In both cases, the problem isn’t confined to people. It’s also the process.
And that’s something we can fix.