As the year winds down, I’m once again amazed at how fast December whizzes past us. We prep for the holidays, blink, and they’re over. One of the things that makes me genuinely happy during that time is writing personalized cards to clients and shipping little tokens of appreciation in the mail. Real cards. Real handwriting. This year it involved a beautiful red padded envelope for each one. It felt good to do something slow and human at a time of year that often asks us to move fast, close loops, and check boxes.
The next morning, I walked into the post office feeling satisfied with my small act of care. And then I watched a blaze-orange shipping sticker get slapped across each of my lovely packages: big, loud, official, covering the handwriting I had just taken the time to do.
It wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t harmful. It was simply the system doing what systems do. But as I stood there I was reminded how easily systems can overwrite us—our effort, our care, our humanity—without ever meaning to.
What That Has to Do With Airfields
In our world of construction, aviation, badging, security, operations, systems are necessary. They keep people safe. They keep projects moving. They create order in places where disorder can be dangerous. Systems themselves are neutral; what matters is the attention and intention we bring to them—whether we allow them to support people or let them quietly replace judgment, context, and care.
If we aren’t paying attention, these systems can take the lead until people feel secondary to the processes meant to serve them. Individuals start to look like tasks to be completed, roles to be filled, or entries on a form. The work still gets done, but the human experience of doing it becomes easier to overlook. Research across safety-critical industries consistently shows that breakdowns in communication and human factors—not technical failure—are among the leading contributors to incidents and near misses. When people feel unseen, rushed, or reduced to a process, risk quietly increases.
It’s not malicious. It’s not dramatic. It’s simply the quiet way process can take over until effort, care, and context are covered up, like handwriting beneath an orange sticker you didn’t ask for.
What We Choose at Alder
At Alder, we operate inside complex systems every day, but we refuse to let them erase the human layer. Our RPRs take time to explain why, not just what. Our escorts learn names and stories because it changes how people experience the work. We make room for conversations that don’t fit neatly into documentation, slow down when someone looks overwhelmed, and pause when safety requires more than a checklist. This may not always be the fastest, simplest, or most “efficient” approach on paper, but it reflects a deliberate choice: the dignity of the people doing the work matters as much as the work itself.
There is always handwriting beneath the system, and it is our responsibility to make sure it’s seen.
A Thought to Carry Forward
Those orange stickers will deliver the cards to the right place. They are doing their job.
But so was I when I wrote those envelopes with intention.
As we step into a new year—new projects, new schedules, new systems—I hope we carry forward the same balance that guided us this past year: let systems do what they’re built to do, but never let them erase the people they’re meant to serve. By staying attentive, intentional, and human in our work, we ensure that the human layer always remains visible, even amidst the most complex operations.