Parking, Padlocks, and the Loss of Compassion

How Small Acts of Kindness Can Be Overshadowed by Bureaucracy and Favouritism - A Story of Fairness, Kindness, and Resilience

Jan 27, 2025

The Gate That Once Opened

I live in a small flat with no dedicated parking, which means finding a spot for my car is a daily headache. Most days, I end up parking at least ten minutes away from where I live, walking back in the cold or the rain with my kids, juggling bags and exhaustion. On top of that, my car was broken into last year, which made my anxiety around parking and safety skyrocket.

On Saturday, I wrote a note about how I was having such a tough day. It felt like everything was piling up—small frustrations becoming big ones, the kind of day that makes you want to crawl under the covers and shut out the world. I hesitated to share it, but

Judi Bailey, M.Ed

left a comment that stuck with me. She suggested that it might be helpful if I knew the cause to find the courage to share it.

So here I am, trying to put this into words. Because maybe, just maybe, someone else needs to hear it too.

This isn’t about one bad day—it’s about the way small struggles can weigh so heavily when you’re already juggling so much. And for me, one of those struggles has been parking.

The Never-Ending Parking Struggle

Near my building block, there’s an empty lot, gated on both sides. For the longest time, I noticed cars parked there but didn’t think much of it. Then, just after the new year, I bumped into my neighbour unlocking the gate. I asked her about it, and she explained that some residents use it for parking.

I must have looked defeated because she did something so kind: she shared the padlock combination with me.

For the first time, parking didn’t feel like a daily battle. That small gesture—her willingness to share the code—was a quiet act of humanity. It wasn’t much for her, but for me, it meant everything.

The Day the Locks Changed

But last week, as I returned home, I noticed something different. The padlocks on the gates had been replaced, and a bold new sign hung next to them: “No parking allowed here.”

I came inside and burst into tears. I can’t explain exactly why—it wasn’t just about the parking. It was the way that sign made me feel so small and disheartened.

In that moment, I decided to message my neighbour, the one who had originally shared the code with me. I thought she might have the new combination and would be willing to share it. Instead, she blocked me.

Later, I saw her car parked inside the lot. That was the part that stung the most—realising that someone I thought cared had chosen to shut me out.

When Rules Don’t Exist but Fairness Still Fails

What surprised me most about this whole experience is that there are no enforced rules prohibiting residents from parking in that lot. I’ve since learned that a few people who live here know the individuals who manage it and were simply given access.

There’s no fairness or consistency—just an unspoken arrangement that benefits some while excluding others.

If a flat number from my building can park there, why can’t I? Either everyone should have access, or no one should. This isn’t about entitlement—it’s about fairness. Rules, if they exist, should be applied equally.

Instead, what this situation highlights is how the world often isn’t fair. And while I refuse to let this small hurdle knock me down, I can’t pretend it didn’t hurt. It felt like the cherry on top of everything else I’ve been juggling.

When Rules Prioritise Order Over People

The answer, I suspect, lies in bureaucracy and favoritism. Somewhere, someone decided that this space could be used selectively, but not by everyone. Maybe it was an effort to control the space, or maybe it was simply a matter of convenience for those who already have access.

But decisions like these—made without regard for the broader impact—feel dismissive. They prioritise systems, order, and personal connections over fairness and humanity.

And this isn’t unique to parking lots. Bureaucracy often prioritises rigid systems over the messy reality of people’s lives. But here’s the thing: systems are supposed to serve people, not the other way around.

The Cost of Losing Compassion

What struck me most about this experience wasn’t just the inconvenience—it was the lack of care it represented. It made me wonder: when did we become so focused on what’s easiest for a few that we forgot about what’s fair for everyone?

Small gestures, like my neighbor originally sharing the code, remind us of the power of compassion. But when bureaucracy or favouritism steps in, those gestures get erased.

This isn’t just about parking. It’s about how we approach life. Do we default to protecting what’s “ours,” or do we ask, What do the people around me need?

Finding Strength Amid Unfairness

I won’t pretend this experience didn’t leave a mark. It made me feel invisible, like my struggles didn’t matter. But I also know that this is just a small piece of a larger journey. I’ve faced unfairness before, and I’ve learned that it doesn’t define me.

This situation has reminded me of something important: even when the world feels cold or unjust, I can still choose to show up with kindness and resilience. I can still choose to see the humanity in others, even when it’s not returned.

What I Hope We Can Remember

When I think about that neighbour who initially shared the code with me, I’m reminded of how small acts of care can make a big difference. She didn’t have to share it, but she did, and for a little while, it made my life easier.

The new padlocks and the block? They feel like the opposite—a reminder that decisions made without empathy can feel cold and isolating.

So, here’s what I hope we can remember:

Fairness isn’t always guaranteed, but compassion is always a choice. Systems and rules are important, but they mean nothing if they don’t serve the people they’re meant to protect.

Compassion doesn’t have to cost anything, but it can change everything.

After a very good cry, I had a shower, helped my younger child with their bath, and made us all dinner. Then, my six-year-old and I cuddled on my bed while my fourteen-year-old sat next to us, and we watched The Lion King together.

And as I sat there, I was struck by gratitude. Yes, parking is a headache, and life often feels like an uphill climb, but I have a car that helps me navigate this chaotic world, a roof over my head, a warm place to call home, and the comfort of being with my children. We ended the night with a little peace, a little love, and the comfort of just being close—reminders that even in the chaos, there is still room for moments of light.

With love,

Salwa