When the Systems Failed Me

Trust in systems and institutions is low for many reasons. But we can build a new future together.

I recently asked my social media followers to tell me why they chose to vaccinate or not. Most of my followers have shared hundreds of beautiful reasons why they have gotten vaccinated. I will share those in another post coming soon. Today, I wanted to start with something I saw from the harder stories, the ones from people who haven’t chosen to vaccinate or who get some vaccines, but not all.

As I read through these replies a common theme emerged: lack of trust. It may have been lack of trust due to prior bad experiences, systemic failure, or due to lies being spread.

That loss of trust due to failures and experiences didn’t surprise me. I personally know what it feels like when a system you rely on suddenly cracks beneath you. Not everyone sees those cracks. Others are lucky enough to walk safely across them. Yet, others are the ones who fall through. And once you’ve been someone who has fallen through a crack, you don’t forget how it feels. For many, when systems and people fail them, they turn to whatever and whoever offers answers and hope.

Please try to ignore the instinct to think that your experience defines everyone’s. A system may have failed you, and you didn’t turn to supplements or false promises, but others have and do.

Parts of my own story illustrate these broken systems, and what can happen with the right people are there to offer you hope and help instead.

The night it was too much

I grew up in church. We went every Sunday morning, Sunday night, Tuesday afternoon, Wednesday night, and Friday night. Yes, yes, it was a lot! I taught Sunday school and ran the church nursery until I was a junior in college. We were poor (more on this here) and struggled with basic necessities. The church food pantry filled in some of the gaps, but not all. Church was my whole world.

One night, when I was a senior in college, things got really bad at home. I was at a breaking point and felt unsafe. I left the house with shaking hands, tears blurring the dashboard lights. The road ahead glistened from rain, though I could barely see it. I dialed one of the only people I trusted, the pastor’s wife, whispering that I couldn’t go back. She paused, then said softly, “Go home, Liz. You’re almost out. You can manage a little longer.”

The call ended with a quiet click. The car filled with the low hum of the engine. I sat there, phone still in my hand, the world suddenly smaller. The headlights stretched into the dark, but they didn’t lead anywhere.

The morning someone else stepped in

By dawn I was driving toward campus, the sky breaking with early light. The car felt strange, but I kept going. I had no other choice. When I parked, I saw one of the tires was flat, rim nearly scraping the parking garage cement. At that time, it felt appropriate, like what I deserved. After all, everything else in my life was a mess too.

While walking inside, I kept my head down. I was hoping to make it into the building and then into the lab before anyone noticed the tears streaming down my face. My professor was outside and she stepped into view. “Hey, Liz,” she said, her voice was impossible to ignore, so were my tears. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Words spilled out before I could stop them. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep up with school, work and family. I need to quit.”

She didn’t tell me to push through. She took my arm, steered me toward the department office, and started making calls. Before I knew it, four professors were outside, their sleeves rolled up, prying at rusted on tire bolts. Someone started humming “Kumbaya, my tire, Kumbaya,” while banging the bolts with a tire iron. I laughed through my tears.

That first professor offered me a place to stay. I said yes. Her home became my lifeline. A quiet space to breathe, heal, and rebuild. With all of their help, I finished college, got vaccinated for the first time, and found the courage to move hours away to earn my PhD.

The systems that failed, but the people that didn’t

This wasn’t conventional or expected, though. The normal systems that were supposed to help me failed me: my family, the church, the government. Instead, it was a group of professors who had no obligation to help. Yet, they saw someone in need and moved heaven and earth to respond. When systems failed, people were there to help lead me to the future I now stand in.

People are angry at institutions and systems and deeply hurt. They may have been abused by people in power, ignored and dismissed by clinicians who were supposed to hear them, or lost their jobs due to the economic fallout in early 2020 and not given support. The possibilities are endless. When people are hurt, they turn to anything that offers hope, help, and answers—even if it’s false ones.

I was lucky. My “anything” turned out to be a few professors with a tire iron and even more with open hearts. Not everyone gets that kind of luck. So to Kathy, Jim, Mike, Marty, Barry and Chris – if any of you are reading this. Thank you! My life would look very different if it weren’t for these people who stepped in when systems failed me.

So why am I sharing this very long story? Because it is an example of how systems are broken. Luck and hard work helped me, but not everyone is lucky, and hard work is never enough on its own. Not when the cards are stacked against you.

What we can do

1. Listen. As the comments came in related to why people didn’t vaccinate, it was hard for me not to say “but this” or “but that.” But we learn by listening. And by learning we can understand and find new ways forward.

2. Admit that part of the reason we are here is that systems and institutions have failed the people they were meant to serve. Yes, bad actors spreading lies have made things worse, but these failures have set up a situation where people could easily turn to whoever is offering an alternative.

3. Stop doing what we’ve always done. I’ve been on a lot of calls from a lot of groups over the last year. I have been frustrated by many who are doing things and talking about things in the same way they always have. Now is the moment to leave these old ways behind. This is the moment to reinvent, to reimagine, to work together to find new ways of being and doing. It is the moment for us to care for each other, to work together. No system is going to be perfect, but people can change things outside of systems and through community work.

I still think about that night often. The engine humming in the dark, the sound of laughter around a rusted car, the warmth of acquaintances who became my refuge. That was the first time I saw what real community care could look like, and how things could be different if people work together.

So today, I challenge you to try something new, small, and human.

1. Share science from a trusted voice.

2. Start a conversation and then listen to what the other person is saying (suggestions here).

3. Read a book or do a science activity in your child or grandchild’s classroom.

4. Join Grandparents for Vaccines to help advocate.

5. Start a community storytelling event like the one I mentioned here.

Just choose something that’s new but doable for you and see what happens.

Together, we can be the people who others turn to when the systems currently in place fail them. And together we can find new ways forward. I believe it!

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My TedX talk was 1.5 weeks ago and went well. It’s not loaded onto the Ted site yet, but the raw version from the livestream is available here. I start around 1 hour and 42 minutes in. If you have watched it let me know your thoughts! In it I give more suggestions that can help us reimagine things in this moment.

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I’m doing a lot of work these days, and I’m committed to keeping my science content freely available to everyone—but if you find value in what I share and have the means, I’d be so grateful if you considered upgrading to a paid subscription. If that’s not possible right now, no worries at all—I’m just glad you’re here. ❤️.

Photo by Diana .u on Unsplash