There’s a dangerous comfort in waiting. As humans, we wait for a lot of things. We wait for the latest cellphone update, our coffee order, the latest season to our television show, we patiently wait for the traffic light to turn green, and we even wait for the eventual “reply all” message. In the workplace, specifically in education, we wait for the right superintendent, the perfect policy, the legislative session that finally gets it right, and the perfect number. Whether that is the perfect number of students in your classroom, the optimal salary, or the desired workload. We also wait, for Superman—cape billowing, solutions gleaming—to descend and fix what we’ve been unwilling to confront ourselves because we are tired of waiting for someone to “fix it.”. But Superman is on leave. He’s been on leave. And the students can’t wait.
The Seduction of the Quick Fix
We tell ourselves stories about transformation being within our grasp or “around the corner.” This belief often stems from stories of grandeur or overcoming personal hardships. Then, there is a strong conviction that if a particular variable were added, miracles would abound. For example, a new literacy program will close the gap. A bond issue will solve our facility and staffing crisis. A charismatic leader will unite the fractured community. These variables can quite possibly be the catalyst, the reality is—they’re partial truths wrapped in impatience masquerading as answers to complex issues.
The writer of Ecclesiastes knew something about our condition: “there is no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity” when we seek external salvation (Superman) without internal evolution. We mistake motion for progress, substitution for transformation. As a ship sinks, we would rather rearrange the deck chairs than acknowledge we’re taking on water. To continue this analogy, we would rather navigate a ship with reckless abandon because it feels good, knowing danger lies ahead.
But here’s what the quick surface-level fix really costs us: the preservation of old, tired systems held together by crewmates absent curiosity and the emotional bandwidth to support necessary growth. And yet, we sail on. As we sail, the crew sleeps well at night because we “did something,” even as the fundamental conditions remain unchanged.
The Structure That Superman Can’t Save Us From
The hardest truth is that the structure isn’t a villain waiting to be vanquished—it’s a house we built, brick by brick, policy by policy, tradition by tradition. Superman can’t tear it down for us because we are still living inside it, eating dinner in its kitchen, teaching lessons in its classrooms, holding meetings in its boardrooms. To destroy it outright would leave us homeless, but to ignore its cracks is to risk collapse.
We keep patching the drywall, repainting the trim, and pretending the foundation isn’t sinking. We call these efforts “initiatives,” “strategic plans,” “new frameworks.” But they are superficial repairs on a structure whose beams are warped with inequity. The danger isn’t that the roof caves in tomorrow—it’s that we grow accustomed to the slow sagging, the imperceptible tilt, until one day the house no longer shelters but suffocates.
Our task is more painstaking: to crawl into the crawlspaces, to examine the joists, to admit where the rot and mold has spread. It is the work of carpenters and gardeners, not caped crusaders—patient, messy, unglamorous. It requires us to hold a hammer in one hand and a blueprint in the other, to dismantle while we construct, to prune while we plant.
And here lies the paradox: the structure resists us because the structure is comfortable. It rewards those who benefit from its design and lulls the rest of us into believing that survival is enough. To challenge it is to risk being labeled “disruptive,” “naïve,” or “unrealistic.” Yet disruption is the only faithful act when the walls themselves are complicit.
Superman can’t save us from the scaffolding we cling to. Only we can decide to climb it, dismantle it, and rebuild something sturdier, more just, more humane. The cape will not carry us across this threshold.
Courage will.
Who Will Go For Us?
“Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me.”
The voice is calling.
Whom shall we send?
Not Superman. Not the next superintendent with the right pedigree and the impressive slideshow. Not the consultant with the proven framework. Not the legislation that promises reform if we just tighten the screws one more turn.
Us. We are whom we must send.
This is the adaptive challenge laid bare: the work requires our transformation, not just our effort. It demands we identify the real problem holding us back—not the surface issue, not the convenient scapegoat, but the actual structural and cultural impediments we’ve learned not to see.
The writer of Ecclesiastes asked, “What profit hath he that worketh in that wherein he laboureth?” The answer lies in the work itself—in rejoicing and doing good, in finding meaning in the labor rather than just the outcome. This is the sustainable fuel for adaptive change: not the promise of arrival, but the commitment to the journey.
The Question That Remains
Superman is on leave, and honestly, we should be grateful. In this moment, the system is crumbling causing the imaginary “plate” to be filled to the rim with initiatives, projects, duties, roles, the care of others, and the mounting service needs of the community. The plate is now slipping over the side due to misaligned systems, philosophies, practices, and values. With the man of steel absent, we must look in the mirror and see the person who has the ability to ignite change, regardless of our lack of agency. Here I ask the question:
Who will go for us?
The time is not for waiting. The season is not for hoping someone else will shoulder the burden. The moment requires something we’ve been reluctant to offer: ourselves. Our willingness to change first. Our courage to name what we see. Our commitment to dismantle what we helped build.
Here am I.
Can you say it? Can we say it together and mean it—not as a slogan but as a sacred commitment to those who can’t wait for Superman?
Here am I.
Send me.
Send us.
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