Part of the Held together, loosely mini series.
Some systems are built not to move. They’re cemented by hierarchy, hardened by habit, and buffered by the comfort of routine. When you encounter these systems, it can feel like running at a wall – again and again – with nothing to show but bruises and fatigue.
And if you’re someone drawn to this work by a desire to help, to fix, to untangle – that stuckness can feel like a personal failure.
This reflection began with frustration. I’d been showing up differently: relationally, reflexively, thoughtfully. I was asking better questions, listening more deeply, resisting the urge to take control. And yet – the space wasn’t shifting. People stayed guarded. Power held tight. Change remained surface-deep, if that. I walked away wondering: what was the point?
It’s tempting, in that moment, to retreat into two familiar stories.
One is the saviour narrative: that I should’ve been able to change things. That if only I’d been more persuasive, more persistent, more strategic – I could’ve unlocked the system. It’s an intoxicating lie. It centres me, offers a clear arc (challenge → action → transformation), and gives me a neat role to play. But it collapses the complexity of real change into the simplicity of a fable.
The other is the coping reflex: to tell myself that the real change was internal. That I’ve learned, I’ve grown, I’ve developed deeper capability – and that’s enough. There’s some truth here. Reflexivity matters. But it can also slide into self-soothing. Meanwhile, the people in the system – those still hurting – haven’t seen relief. They don’t need my insight. They need movement.
So where does that leave us?
I’ve started thinking of these moments as companion stories rather than hero journeys. My role isn’t to deliver transformation. It’s to show up, stay present, and be alongside others in the stuckness. Sometimes, that presence is more powerful than I realise.
Not because it shifts everything – but because it does something.
It holds a thread. It offers a reference point. It changes the relational field.
Sometimes it’s enough to be the one who doesn’t flinch, who doesn’t deflect, who doesn’t vanish when things get uncomfortable. That’s not neutrality – it’s participatory witness. It’s what creates enough trust for others to speak honestly, or even to just breathe.
And sometimes, beneath the surface of that unmoving system, things are changing. You just can’t see them yet. Like mulch rotting under the soil, creating the conditions for future growth, even if the ground above looks barren.
A colleague once said to me: “You’re planting seeds in soil you may never walk on”. I love that. Not because it absolves me from responsibility, but because it reminds me of scale, and time, and hopefully a bit of humility.
So maybe the space isn’t changing in visible ways. Maybe nothing dramatic happens. But maybe:
- Someone felt heard for the first time.
- A quiet connection formed across a fault line.
- A story got retold with more care.
- A narrative of blame softened into one of complexity.
Maybe I became someone better able to sit in that discomfort without trying to fix it. And maybe that matters – not because it makes me special, but because it means I’m more prepared to walk into the next room and do it again.
This work is slow. Sometimes glacial. But slowness isn’t the same as failure. It’s just a different rhythm – one that refuses the drama of the saviour arc and embraces the quiet power of presence.
So if the space isn’t changing, maybe the invitation isn’t to push harder – but to stay. To keep showing up with care, to remain tethered to purpose even when the outcomes are unclear. And to remember: you’re not the hero. But you might just be the compost.
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