The System Is Working

Just Not For Us

People say the system is broken.
I don’t think it is.

I think it’s doing exactly what it was built to do.

Because when something is broken, there’s usually a fix, a person to call, or a form that leads to somewhere.

But when a system works against you, there’s no error message.
Just roadblocks. Small and constant ones.

Healthcare.
Education.
Disability services.
Insurance.

They all look impressive from the outside. Mission statements. Acronyms. Friendly fonts.
They all promise support.

And somehow the work always slides back to the same person.

On the caregiver, the parent, or the person who already hasn’t slept enough.

You’re told help exists.
You’re just not accessing it correctly.

You filled out the wrong form. You used the old portal. You missed a deadline you didn’t know existed.

Every system has a process. I never seem to be standing in the right place for it.

Once, I was told I needed to upload a document to a portal in order to receive support.

The portal rejected the document.

I called to ask why.
They told me the file name was incorrect.

I renamed it.
The portal rejected it again.

I called back.

This time, I was told the document was fine, but I needed to upload it through a different portal.

They emailed me a link.
The link took me back to the first portal. This is starting to feel personal.

If you appear organized, you must be coping. If your child is making progress, support can be reduced. If you stay calm, your urgency is questioned. If you ask too many questions, you become the problem.

You learn to walk that line.

Capable, but not too capable.
Honest, but not too honest.

Because systems don’t reward stability.
They reward documented struggle.

I use a mail-order pharmacy for one of my daughter’s medications.

In theory, it’s convenient. And because it’s where my insurance tells me I have to go.

I place the order.
It doesn’t arrive.

I call.
They tell me it’s because of A.

They reorder it.

It doesn’t arrive.

I call again.

This time, it’s because of B.
Apparently A was never the issue.

They reorder it again.

It still doesn’t arrive.

I ask to speak to a supervisor.

She tells me it was because of C.
Something about the way the prescription was entered. Or approved. Or aligned with the moon.

They apologize.
They reorder it.

It does not arrive.

At this point, I’m calling from memory. I don’t need the account number anymore.

Another supervisor explains, confidently, that the real problem was D all along.

No one mentions A, B, or C. The moon is no longer involved.

They reorder it again.

I thank her politely, because I’ve learned which version of myself gets a reorder.

When I hang up, I realize I’ve spent weeks managing a medication my child takes every day, while a system designed to deliver it keeps explaining why it can’t.

Every person I talk to is pleasant. Every call ends with reassurance, but nothing seems to change.

The system isn’t broken.

It’s just designed so the problem becomes mine.

The system doesn’t deny you outright.
It exhausts you.

And when something finally goes wrong, the system is surprised.

“Why didn’t anyone tell us?” “Was there a plan in place?”

There was always a plan.

It just lived in my nervous system instead of their spreadsheet.

Unfortunately, my nervous system does not accept direct deposit.

If this sounds oddly specific, feel free to say so.