The Day I Realised It Was Never “Out There”

At one point in my work, I became curious about how systems worked. I wanted to understand why communities struggled to achieve lasting change, why organisations repeated patterns they desperately wanted to escape, and why well-intentioned people often found themselves contributing to the very outcomes they opposed.

The more I learned, the more I found myself looking outward. I analysed structures, institutions, policies and cultures. It was fascinating work and, in many ways, necessary. One day, I overheard a conversation among colleagues about an upcoming election. Someone said, in frustration, “I wish people would just change!” Hearing those words made my heart skip a beat, and a cold, crushing reality sank in.

Though I have heard those words many times before, even thought them, they landed differently that day.

Who were the “people” who were supposed to change?

Who exactly were they imagining? Was it politicians, corporate leaders, neighbours, family, friends, or foes? Or, as a catch-all, was it anyone and everyone who disagreed with a particular way of thinking?

That question was bringing something uncomfortable to light. Whenever I spoke about systems, I often imagined myself standing just outside them, observing how they worked. I could identify the patterns, describe the dynamics, and help others understand them. I somehow came to believe that knowing more about systems protected me from being shaped by them, let alone from participating in them.

That illusion of separateness is surprisingly easy to sustain. We talk about consumerism while consuming; criticise polarisation while growing impatient with those who see the world differently; lament loneliness while postponing conversations with the people we care about; and speak about disconnected communities while forgetting that communities are not abstract ideas. Communities are made up of ordinary people like you and me.

This realisation was not particularly comfortable, but it did not bring guilt; it brought a sense of connection and hope. If I participate in these systems, perhaps I also help to change them with others.

One person cannot transform them alone. Systems are not separate from relationships, as they are a network of relationships. When those relationships are repeated often enough, they become normative, making meaningful change feel slower than we would like.

We look for solutions “out there” while overlooking the quieter places where systems are continually recreated—in conversations, assumptions, habits, workplaces, families, and communities—the foundations for forming and maintaining the core beliefs that uphold the system. Understanding this reality doesn’t undermine structural change; it reminds us that structures and relationships continually shape each other.

The participant who asked me how to stay open without becoming overwhelmed was carrying more than emotional weight. They were also carrying a quiet assumption many of us inherit—that the world’s problems lie beyond us, awaiting someone else to solve them.

That very assumption might be part of what makes us feel so powerless. If change is only possible via something “out there” by “others”, then we can only wait for them to do the work.

If we shift our perspective slightly, we might realise that our role in driving change is often overlooked. If we are already part of the systems we hope to change, our relationships, conversations, choices and communities matter greatly.

From this vantage point, could we see ourselves as participants rather than observers, not as a burden but as an act of agency?

One who can accept that the world will not change overnight. Quietly determined to recognise that we have never truly been separate from one another and that we don’t have to face this alone.

This is the ninth article of a broader exploration into what happens after awareness—how we stay open to complexity, deepen connection, and move toward meaningful collective action.