When We Say “Systems,” What Do We Mean?

A reflection born from a real conversation.

I’ve been in a thoughtful exchange recently with someone new — the kind of exchange that reminds me why I still love writing, questioning, and thinking in public.

Not because we agreed.

But because we didn’t rush to disagree.

Instead, we slowed down long enough to realize something important:

we were using the same word — systems — to point to different layers of reality.

And once that became visible, the conversation deepened rather than collapsed.

This reflection is an offering born from that exchange, and I want to honour the connection that made it possible.

Systems Are Not Broken — But They Are Often Misunderstood

Much of my recent writing has circled a simple but unsettling idea:

What if the systems we live and work inside aren’t broken at all? What if they’re functioning exactly as they were designed to function?

That statement tends to provoke strong reactions. Hope for some. Resistance for others.

In this recent exchange, the response I received was thoughtful and precise — a definition drawn from business and systems-thinking contexts:

A system, as he described it, is not a chart or a process map.

It is the behaviour that emerges from relationships — between people, rules, incentives, tools, expectations, and feedback loops.

Systems reveal themselves not in playbooks, but in what actually happens, especially under stress.

And when a system produces consistent results, it isn’t broken — it’s coherent.

I agree with this. Deeply.

Where the exploration became interesting wasn’t in whether systems behave this way — but in what we mean when we say systems change.

The Hidden Tension: Change vs. Transformation

At one point in the exchange, he said something simple and true:

“Systems are living. They change all the time.”

Yes. They do.

Cultures shift. Organizations adapt. Incentives mutate. Norms drift.

Living systems respond continuously to pressure and feedback.

But here’s the distinction that emerged for me — and it feels important to name it clearly:

A system can change endlessly and still remain faithful to its original purpose.

This is where the conversation turned from technical to philosophical.

Because not all change is transformation.

The Frog, the Water, and the Logic That Never Shifts

Someone once offered the metaphor of the frog in warming water.

Change happens so slowly that the frog adapts — until adaptation becomes fatal.

What struck me is that this metaphor doesn’t argue against my concern.

It actually names it.

The frog adapts.

The system changes.

But the water never becomes safe.

The logic doesn’t shift.

And this is the distinction I’ve been trying to articulate — in my writing, in my work, and now more clearly to myself:

Adaptation within a system is not the same as liberation from its logic.

A system can become more efficient, more humane in language, more responsive in appearance — while still quietly producing exhaustion, fragmentation, and harm.

Not because the people inside it are bad.

But because the purpose it serves has boundaries.

Living Systems, Purpose-Bound Systems

Where I now see the difference is this:

• Some people speak about systems as living, adaptive relational fields

• Others speak about systems as historical and civilizational logics, designed to serve particular ends

Both are real.

But they operate at different depths.

At the surface and middle layers, systems absolutely change.

At the deepest layer — the layer of purpose — change has limits.

When those limits are reached, what’s required isn’t reform.

It’s dissolution.

And then, something new.

That’s not pessimism.

It’s discernment.

Why This Matters (Especially Now)

Many of us sense that things are changing — policies, technologies, language, structures.

And yet, many of us also feel that something essential isn’t shifting at all.

The pace is faster.

The tools are newer.

The exhaustion feels the same.

This is why conversations like the one that birthed this reflection matter.

They help us ask better questions, like:

• What level of change are we actually talking about?

• Are we adapting — or transforming?

• At what point does staying become complicity in survival rather than a path to life?

A Word of Gratitude

I want to say this explicitly:

This reflection exists because someone took the time to think carefully, respond generously, and stay in inquiry rather than certainty.

That kind of exchange is rare.

And it’s exactly where new clarity is born.

We don’t need to agree to deepen our understanding.

We just need to be willing to ask:

What do you mean when you say that?

Closing

Systems can change.

They are living.

They adapt constantly.

And sometimes — precisely because of that — we must ask a harder question:

What is this system ultimately designed to preserve?

Because change that never touches purpose

may simply be survival dressed as progress.

And knowing when to stop adapting

may be one of the most honest acts of wisdom we have left.