A reflection on history, humanity, and the quiet moments where everything begins to change
Richard Kirtley.
I used to walk past Grey’s Monument most days growing up in Newcastle, usually on my way somewhere else, rarely stopping, rarely looking up. It was simply part of the landscape, a place you arranged to meet, a landmark that anchored the city without asking much of you in return. Only later does it begin to register that the figure standing at the top represents a moment when the country itself had to confront a quiet but undeniable truth, that the way it was organised no longer reflected the way people actually lived their lives.
The Reform Act of 1832 did not arrive because those in power suddenly felt generous or enlightened. It came because the reality on the ground had shifted so far beyond the structures of representation that something had to give. Industrial cities had grown rapidly, whole populations were contributing to the economy without having any meaningful voice in how the country was governed, and the gap between lived experience and political recognition had become too wide to ignore. Reform, in that sense, was less a gift and more a reluctant acknowledgement that the system had drifted out of alignment with the people it was supposed to serve.
A century later, the same underlying tension appeared again, although it wore different clothes. By the early 1920s, millions of working people had not only become central to the functioning of the economy but had also gained the right to vote. It was no longer sustainable for their interests to be mediated through structures that had not been built with them in mind. The rise of the Labour Party was not simply a political development but a human one, rooted in the desire for dignity, recognition, and the ability to shape the conditions of one’s own life. Once again, the system had been forced to adjust, not because it wanted to, but because it no longer made sense as it was.
It is tempting to look at these moments and draw a neat line through history, to suggest that every hundred years or so something shifts, that there is a rhythm to it all. The reality is less tidy but more revealing. What we see, if we look closely, is not a clock but a pattern of drift and correction. Systems are built for a particular time, a particular understanding of how life works, and for a while they function well enough. People adapt themselves to those systems, often more than they should have to, smoothing over the edges, finding ways to make things work even when they are not designed with them in mind. Over time, though, the world changes. Economies evolve, social realities shift, lives become more complex or more precarious or simply different from what came before. The system, unless it is actively reimagined, remains largely the same.
At Purple Shoots, this misalignment is not an abstract concept or a historical observation. It appears in the stories we hear every day, in the quiet details that rarely feature in policy discussions but define how people actually live. We meet individuals who have navigated caring responsibilities, health challenges, unstable employment, or the simple unpredictability that comes with trying to build something from scratch. Their lives do not follow straight lines. Income does not arrive neatly each month. Progress is not always linear. There are setbacks, pauses, moments of doubt, and moments of resilience that cannot be easily captured on a form.
When those lives meet systems that are built around predictability and standardisation, the outcome is often painfully familiar. The answer is no. Not because there is no potential, not because there is no idea worth backing, but because the person in front of the system does not fit the template it has been designed to process. A credit score cannot hold the fullness of a person’s circumstances. A rigid affordability model cannot account for determination, adaptability, or the capacity to grow. The system, in trying to reduce complexity, ends up excluding the very people who need it most.
Yet, when those same individuals are given space to explain, when their story is heard in full, something else becomes visible. There is often a clarity of purpose that has been overlooked, a practical understanding of how they can make something work, a willingness to put in the effort required to build a livelihood on their own terms. What appears risky from a distance begins to look entirely different up close. It becomes human. It becomes real.
This is where the connection to those larger historical moments begins to sharpen. The Reform Act was, in its own way, an attempt to recognise a reality that had already taken shape. The rise of Labour reflected a similar process, where a group that had long been present but underrepresented began to assert its place within the system. In both cases, the change did not create the underlying reality, it responded to it, albeit imperfectly and often reluctantly.
We are living through a period now where a similar sense of misalignment is becoming harder to ignore, even if it manifests in more fragmented and sometimes more uncomfortable ways. There is a growing feeling that the structures which shape economic and political life are not fully connected to the experiences of those moving through them. That they are based on assumptions about stability, progression, and opportunity that do not hold true for large parts of the population. The language used to describe success or risk or value can feel increasingly detached from the reality people encounter day to day.
What history suggests is not that change will happen on a fixed schedule, but that it becomes inevitable when the gap between system and reality becomes too wide. The form that change takes is never guaranteed to be neat or universally welcomed. It can emerge through reform, through new movements, or through more abrupt and disruptive shifts. What remains constant is the underlying driver, which is the human need to be seen, to be understood, and to participate meaningfully in the systems that shape one’s life.
The work we do at Purple Shoots sits quietly within that broader story. It does not seek to overturn entire systems overnight, nor does it present itself as a grand solution to deeply rooted challenges. Instead, it operates in the space where misalignment is most keenly felt, at the point where an individual encounters a system and is told, implicitly or explicitly, that they do not belong within it. By choosing to respond differently, by taking the time to understand rather than to categorise, by working with the person rather than filtering them out, we are making a small but meaningful adjustment.
For the individual, that adjustment can be transformative. A business idea that might have remained dormant begins to take shape. A sense of possibility replaces a pattern of rejection. Income is generated, confidence grows, and the ripple effects extend beyond the person themselves into their family and their community. These are not abstract outcomes. They are tangible, grounded, and deeply human.
If there is a lesson to be drawn from those earlier moments in history, it is that meaningful change rarely begins at the level of the system itself. It begins with people whose lives no longer fit the structures around them, and with those willing to respond to that reality in a way that is rooted in understanding rather than convenience. Over time, those responses accumulate. They challenge assumptions, reshape expectations, and create the conditions in which larger shifts can occur.
We may be in one of those periods now, where the misalignment is becoming more visible but the response is still taking shape. It is not yet clear what form that response will ultimately take, or how it will be expressed in the political or economic structures of the future. What is clear is that the starting point will not be found in abstract models or distant debates, but in the lived experiences of people whose realities are asking, quietly but persistently, to be recognised.
In that sense, the path forward is both simpler and more demanding than it might first appear. It requires paying attention. It requires listening. It requires a willingness to engage with complexity rather than to simplify it away. Above all, it requires remembering that systems exist to serve people, and not the other way around.