Abundance, Scarcity… and the Systems We Forget to Update 046

Availability Isn’t the Problem. Design Based on Due Process Is.

Ok, you stay with grandma… I’ll try and run to the door.

“I found a chair,” I heard Mafer say.

Ok, let’s do this.

Ok, drag, deactivate airplane mode…done! Connect, come on… 3G signal came up. Flights are on time. We’ve got 2 hours and 30 minutes…we can do this.

“Grandma, grab your coat. Let’s wait until everyone’s out of the plane. The wheelchair person is coming.”

One of the flight attendants approached us.

“The wheelchairs are delayed. Can she walk?”

“We’ll try,” I said.

She nodded. “We just called a cart for you. It’ll take you as far as customs.”

We hopped on, hoping for the best. The cart dropped us off at the “pick-up center.”

It was a cold, gloomy sight. Around 30, maybe 40 people were waiting for a wheelchair to become available so an assistant could take them through customs.

I asked the lady in charge, “How long would it take?”

She looked at me and said, “Well… I don’t know. We only have four wheelchairs in total. You could try the regular line downstairs, but I’m not sure if that’s better…”

I looked at my cell.

Ok. Two hours and five minutes.

We could still make it.

Let me check how the line downstairs looks.

I went down to take a peek, just to assess our situation. It was just as gloomy, maybe worse. There must have been thousands of people in line, trying to get through border control. I had never seen a line that long to enter a country. And I’ve traveled through Newark on Thanksgiving.

But this was December 21st, 2019. Peak holiday travel. And the TSA personnel were on strike.

George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston was running on one-third of its normal staff.

It was complete chaos.

I went back up to deliver the bad omens to my family; and overheard one of the staff calling out names, trying to manage the wheelchair queue.

“We’re down to three,” she said. “She had to take a break…”

We’d have to manage.

The Gamble

So I told my family we had two options.

“I can go queue downstairs for an hour… or we can wait and hope the chairs magically appear.”

Let’s gamble.

“You stay here. I’ll queue. Keep your phones close, whoever gets through first calls the others.”

I talked to one of the guys managing the line…one of those staff who try to get you sorted before you even know where to go. He looked exhausted, like he’d been funneling crowds for hours.

“My grandma is up there,” I told him, explaining the situation and our backup plan. “If I make it to the control booth in time, can she pass with me?”

He looked at me, nodded, and said, “Of course. No problem.”

Ok. At least that part was covered.

That was the plan. We still had about two hours to make our connection.

The bet was placed.

I walked down to border control and started queueing.

Queue Theory & Chaos

If you ever see me queuing, just know…I try to make the most of it.

I learned that while living in England.

You see, English people don’t just tolerate queues… they thrive in them. It’s part of the culture. In their blood. The British way.

So, when I lived in Manchester, I had to rewire my brain. My aversion to queues? Pointless. They were unavoidable. Required, even. So I found a way to cope. A little trick I still use, and honestly, kind of enjoy now.

Joel’s way to spend time in queues…

While others are chatting, scrolling, or zoning out, I run my own little mental simulation.

I use queue theory to estimate how long it’ll take me to get from where I am (Point A) to where I need to be (Point X).

Why X? Because sometimes there are more steps than you realize between A and the final destination.

I’ve developed my own little model. And I adapt it to each situation.

First, I assess: how many stops? How many booths? What’s the process?

Then I take a sample—watch how long it takes one person to move ahead. I try to break it down: not everyone is in line for the same reason. Not all booths operate at the same speed. And the timing depends a lot on how each stop in the process starts or stalls.

While writing this, I figured it’s finally time to give this little system of mine a name. Let’s call it J.A.Q.E.

Joel’s Adaptive Queue Estimator.

The basic formula goes like this:

ETC = (P / B) * T + R

Where:

• P = number of people ahead of you

• B = number of active booths or service points

• T = average processing time per person

• R = randomness: shift changes, family groups, someone “just asking a quick question,” or full-blown meltdowns

It’s not just for travel. I use it everywhere: supermarkets, government offices, concerts. Anytime there’s a line, J.A.Q.E. kicks in.

It’s a live model. I update it on the fly. Add variables. Keep it fun.

So there I was, counting, timing, estimating…

Ok—looks like between 1 hour and 1 hour 15. It’s a bit tight, but it would leave us with 45 minutes to 1 hour to reach our gate.

I was just finishing that thought when a wave of passengers came down the stairs. More flights had arrived. More people in line. And suddenly, the whole layout changed.

Lines shifted. Booths closed. New ones opened.

I don’t know if it was part of their strategy or just a shift change… but my math went straight down the drain.

I started all over: ETC = (P / B) * T + R

The Merge

Meanwhile, my grandma and mom were still waiting for the wheelchair.

Still nothing.

Me? I was back at it. Counting. Timing. Estimating.

“Ok… one more hour—no, no, no… that can’t be. Recheck. Maybe 45 minutes?”

Still too tight.

Time kept passing. My math was holding up, but that wasn’t exactly comforting.

I called Mafer and my mom.

“You can start walking with grandma now. Leave all the bags with me—I’ll carry them. Just focus on getting her here.”

And off we went, running a human relay through chaos.

I made it to the front of the line just as they caught up. We were sweaty, out of breath, and probably looking a bit desperate—but we were together.

We got to the booth, answered the questions, handed over the passports, and went through.

The Final Stretch (and the Brisket)

Ok…we crossed.

We had 20 minutes.

Will we make it?

Still no wheelchair in sight for grandma.

I turned to her and asked, “Are you up to it?”

And if there’s one thing about my grandma—it’s that she’s a warrior.

If her goal is to see her family, nothing stands in her way.

You see, we weren’t just traveling for Christmas. This was the event.

The first time in over 15 years that all of her kids would be together under one roof for the holidays. Add to that the grandkids, great-grandkids, in-laws, everyone. It was a full reunion. A family milestone.

So she stood up, looked me in the eye, and said, “No worries. I’ll endure.”

We started moving.

Fifteen minutes to the gate. Time was running down.

We picked up the bags, dropped them off at the transfer desk, and kept walking—pushing, pulling, guiding, navigating through what felt like thousands of travelers all trying to beat the same ticking clock.

And then… ten minutes to go.

We reached the final choke point: TSA.

One long, slow line.

One officer.

One checkpoint.

People were begging to skip ahead.

“Please, my flight’s about to leave.”

But we were all in the same boat. No one wanted to give up their spot.

We did what we could.

Mafer, somehow, spotted a misplaced wheelchair. She grabbed it. Grandma hopped on.

And I ran—sprinting toward the gate like I was in an airport-themed action movie.

In my head, I thought: If I get there first, maybe I can convince them to hold the flight.

Five minutes. That’s all we needed.

But no.

I got there. The gate was closed.

No staff in sight. No one to plead with. No extension. No miracle.

We lost the flight.

Stranded in Houston. Along with thousands of other travelers in that gloomy, chaotic scene.

I looked at the United Airlines customer service booth. The line was as bad as the one at border control. People were on their phones, trying to get through to anyone—automated systems, apps, hotlines, family. You name it.

I turned back to grandma. Got her seated in one of those airport chairs.

And then, just off to the side, I saw a lady—an agent who had just closed her station after a flight. She was mid-conversation with someone else. Something told me to go.

I approached her, told her the whole story in 90 seconds.

“Can you help me?”

She looked tired.

“I just finished my shift…”

But then she paused.

“…ok, let me see what I can do.”

A couple of clicks later: we had hotel vouchers, new tickets on the first flight out to Phoenix the next day, and food coupons.

There we were—defeated, yes. But not broken.

We laugh about it now.

The time grandma stole a wheelchair, we joke.

The night we had to sleep in Houston.

And how, that same night, I had been sitting near Q—the barbecue joint in the terminal—all night… and somehow didn’t even notice.

Me, overlooking barbecue? That’s rare. Almost suspicious.

So the next morning, while waiting for our connection, I made it right.

I bought two pounds of brisket to take on the plane—because… why not?

Same Airport, New Flow

That experience marked what I think about traveling with my family through Houston.

And this week, I had the chance to go through that same airport again.

Different date, sure—but close to the 4th of July. Same airline. Same destination. And the scene? Completely different.

We went from the airplane to the gate in 27 minutes.

There were chairs available.

We got driven on a cart again.

We passed through border control as a family—together.

Picked up our bags, dropped them back off for the connection, passed through TSA… and still had time to walk around, go to the bathroom, Mafer went shopping, we got food…

We even had time to grow tired of waiting. Ha.

Six years had gone by—and the experience was night and day.

Same airport. Same airline. Even stricter migration rules.

What changed?

From what I can tell, they took notes.

The airport’s been improved. Sure, there’s more tech now, more infrastructure—but the biggest difference?

Availability.

More booths open at border control. More chairs. More staff helping elderly passengers and people with mobility issues. More paths for people to move through the system.

And sometimes, the simplest explanations hide the deepest truths.

Just like in queue theory:

When there are more available pathways, more booths, more support, even with controls and checkpoints, the flow improves.

Housing: A Matter of Due Process

That same logic applies to something I read in the book Abundance.

A brand new book—just released in March 2025—by authors Steven Kotler and Peter H. Diamandis.

It’s been making noise.

Some call it “techno-optimism with a blueprint.” Others say it’s “a reminder that many of our scarcities are self-imposed.”

One reviewer joked it was like “getting slapped by facts while being hugged by a TED Talk.”

Whatever the take, the message is clear:

The world has enough for everyone—if we design systems that actually allow it.

And in one of the chapters, they touch on something that stuck with me:

homelessness in the U.S. is a housing problem.

The authors argue that homelessness in the U.S. isn’t just a psychological or substance abuse issue—it’s a housing availability issue. That’s the root. That’s the bottleneck. Just like not having enough carts, chairs, or agents in an airport, if you don’t have enough homes… someone gets left behind.

According to 2024 numbers, over 650,000 people in the U.S. are experiencing homelessness. And the highest rates are in the same places where it’s hardest to build—California, New York, Washington. The supply simply doesn’t meet the demand.

They go deeper, though. They explain that progressive states, like California—despite preaching inclusion and innovation—have some of the most exclusive housing policies. Overregulation. Zoning that blocks development. Environmental reviews that take years. Communities that say “yes” to equality but “no” to a four-story building next door.

Meanwhile, conservative states, like Texas, have more inclusive policies—at least when it comes to building. You can get a home in Houston for a fraction of what it costs in LA. And Texas builds more: more permits, faster approvals, fewer bottlenecks. In sheer volume, they’re building their way out of scarcity.

Now, building alone isn’t everything. But it matters. A lot. And in California’s case, their own data says they need 2.5 million new homes to stabilize the market. They’re not even halfway there.

One of Abundance’s most provocative ideas is that scarcity is often designed. Not maliciously, but structurally. Policies are written by policymakers. Policymakers are mostly lawyers. And lawyers are trained to follow processes—not redesign them.

So what do they do? They add steps. They create forms. They make new requirements.

And when governments change—new party, new vision, new leader—the system just stacks another layer of control on top. Until no one really remembers why a step exists. It made sense once… maybe. But no one wants to remove it, just in case.

As someone who works in continuous improvement, I’ve seen this pattern everywhere.

Ask why a process works a certain way, and nine times out of ten, the answer is:

“It’s just how we do it.”

And the people who thrive in these kinds of systems aren’t necessarily the most creative or the best builders. They’re the ones who know how to navigate the maze. They’ve mastered the paperwork, the timing, the codes. Not because they’re adding value—but because they’re good at getting through the layers.

Same thing with housing.

The people who know how to navigate the permits, policies, unions, financing conditions, auctions, seal requirements, and last-minute rule changes—those are the ones who can actually build.

But every one of those steps adds cost. Adds time.

So the more “expert” you are at the system… the more expensive the house becomes for everyone else.

And Panama?

Same problem.

But to illustrate it better,

Let’s rewind to the 1950s

Back then, my grandpa Rodrigo—who worked in construction—landed a contract with the U.S. military bases in Panama. It paid well. So well that with those earnings, he walked out and bought a house. Full payment. Done.

He used to tell me about it all the time. He’d say, “I got paid, and I left with no money—but I had a home.” That house was in a zone that later became an up-and-coming neighborhood. Big park, fancy houses. I was born in that house.

Today, that same lot has a 20-story apartment building on it. A single apartment there could cost 20 times what he paid.

And this week, as I was traveling with my grandma, I had the chance to confirm the story.

She told me the house cost $15,000.

And yes—he bought it outright.

No loans. Just savings… and a bit of timing.

Now try doing that in today’s Panama.

With a medium salary, there’s no way to buy a home without credit. A 30-year mortgage, in which you end up paying 1.5x the original price, minimum. And that’s if you don’t default or need to refinance.

The game has changed. It’s not just about earning—it’s about qualifying. About fitting the profile. About pleasing the bank. And getting through the paperwork jungle without losing your mind.

You’re not buying a house. You’re buying debt—and hoping it gives you a roof.

I’m not saying we should go back to 1950. But the idea that a person should be able to earn, save, and afford their own home without needing 30 years of financing?

That used to be possible.

Should it really be so out of reach now?

Final Boarding Call

I keep thinking about that line at immigration, how one small shift, one extra flight, one booth closing, changed the whole system. My little estimator, J.A.Q.E., had to adapt… not to a math problem, but to people.

Because in the end, that’s what every queue is: a bunch of humans trying to move forward. That’s true at the airport, at the bank, in the housing market. We’re all somewhere between Point A and Point X.

We build systems, some smart, some stupid, to help us get there. But if we don’t update those systems, if we don’t design with people in mind, they eventually break. Or worse, they break us.

And this is where my bias kicks in. I’ve been drawn to human-centered design since the first time I heard about it. It just made sense to me. Now that I’ve trained properly, learned the frameworks, practiced the tools, I see how possible it is. How reachable that better version of a system really is. So… why are we still designing for compliance instead of care? Why do we obsess over the process instead of the result? Why can’t we just design for humans, naturally and intentionally, instead of by accident or afterthought?

I’m grateful we arrived well this time. We’re now in family mode… hanging out, cooking, talking… discussing deep stuff, and not-deep-at-all stuff. Eating ridiculously amazing desserts. Having a blast.

But I keep thinking, what would it take to make travel feel this relaxed, this comfortable, on purpose? What would it take to make housing not just available, but affordable?

And what’s stopping us?

Not technology. Not money. It’s the process. And how far it’s drifted from the people it was meant to serve.

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