Reflection 004 |

The Book I couldn't put down

There are surprisingly few things I still remember from secondary school.

Some teachers.

A few classmates.

The endless feeling that homework somehow always took longer than I thought it would.

And one book.

Not because it was the best book I have ever read. Actually, when our English teacher handed it to us, I wasn't particularly interested. It was another assignment. Another novel. Another deadline.

I started reading because I had to.

The first chapters were enjoyable enough. I met the characters, learned their names, watched the story slowly unfold. As happens with almost every novel, I quietly started making up my mind.

• I liked some people.
• I distrusted others.
• Some decisions frustrated me.
• Others made perfect sense.

Without realising it, I had stopped collecting information. I had started building certainty.

Every new page seemed to confirm what I already believed.

• I knew who the heroes were.
• I knew who had made mistakes.
• I knew where the story was heading.

Or so I thought.

Then I turned another page.

The perspective changed. The next chapter wasn't about new events. It was about the same events.

• The same conversations.
• The same decisions.
• The same moments.

Only this time they were seen through someone else's eyes.

I still remember putting the book down for a minute. Not because I was confused.

Because I suddenly wasn't as sure anymore.

• The character I had quietly judged suddenly became understandable.
• The decision I had considered irrational suddenly seemed inevitable.
• The person I had admired turned out not to know everything either.

Nothing had changed. And yet everything had.

Not in the book. In me.

That may have been the first time I consciously realised that facts and understanding are not the same thing.

I've been reading organisations the same way ever since

I didn't know it then, but that book would quietly follow me into my career.

Years later, I found myself standing in cleanrooms instead of classrooms.

Instead of fictional characters, I was working with operators, engineers, microbiologists, maintenance technicians, production managers, QA professionals and inspectors. The settings had changed. People were wearing gowns instead of school uniforms. The stakes were considerably higher. But something felt strangely familiar.

Someone would explain a deviation.

The explanation sounded perfectly logical.

Then I would walk onto the shop floor.

An operator would casually say something that nobody had mentioned before.

Nothing dramatic.

Just one sentence.

Suddenly the story shifted.

Not because anyone had lied.

Not because someone was trying to hide something.

Because they had simply told the story from where they were standing.

• The engineer genuinely believed the equipment was the issue.
• Production genuinely believed the schedule was the issue.
• Quality genuinely believed documentation was the issue.

Each of them was telling the truth. Each of them was also seeing only part of the picture.

Just like the characters in that novel.

The dangerous comfort of certainty

The longer I work in regulated industries, the more I notice something about myself.

The moment I become convinced I understand a situation...

...is exactly the moment I need to become careful.

Because certainty has an interesting side effect.

It quietly tells your brain to stop looking.

Once we think we know the story, every new piece of information is unconsciously compared against the version we've already created.

Information that fits gets accepted. Information that doesn't fit often gets explained away.

Not because we're dishonest. Because that's simply how people make sense of complexity.

I don't think this is a weakness. I think it's part of being human.

Professional judgement isn't about eliminating that tendency.

It's about recognising when it might be happening.

The question that changed how I work

Early in my career, I often walked into meetings thinking about the answers I wanted to give.

Today, I spend much more time thinking about the questions I want to ask.

Sometimes those questions are technical. Sometimes they are regulatory. Sometimes they are surprisingly simple.

• "Can you show me?"
• "Walk me through what actually happened."
• "What would the night shift tell me?"
• "What would production say if they were sitting here?"

And perhaps my favourite question of all...

What am I missing?

It is such a small sentence.

Yet I have seen it prevent investigations from going down the wrong path.

I've seen it uncover risks that no checklist contained.

I've seen it completely change discussions that had already become polarised.

Not because it produces answers.Because it creates space for another perspective.

Sometimes that's all that's needed.

• Another chapter.
• Another voice.
• Another pair of eyes.

Looking back, I don't even remember how that novel ended.

If you asked me today, I honestly couldn't tell you. But I remember exactly how it made me feel.

It taught me that changing your mind is not a failure.

It taught me that understanding often arrives one perspective later than confidence.

And perhaps most importantly, it taught me something that has quietly shaped almost every project I've worked on since.

When people disagree, I no longer assume someone must be wrong.

I wonder which chapter I haven't read yet.

So before I draw conclusions, before I recommend a solution, before I convince myself that I understand the problem, I try to pause for just a moment and ask the question that has become the title of this series.

What am I missing?

Because sometimes the most valuable insight doesn't come from finding a better answer.

It comes from discovering there was another story being told all along.