Failsafe Failure — Yes, I’ve Been Locked Out… More Than Once
A story about control, chaos, and what happens when your best systems fail anyway.
Sometimes the system isn’t the hero — the pause is.
Sunday Setup
I’m a guy who lives by his lists and loves a good backup system.
Early evening on a Sunday—prime time for convincing myself I’m finally going to get ahead.
Two solid hours, I promised myself. This was it: set up Substack, maybe actually feel organized for once.
Of course, if you know ADHD, you know “getting ready to start” somehow means deep-cleaning the apartment. I had to make the environment just right before I could focus.
So I grabbed the trash for a quick run to the chute before sitting down to work.
Trash dropped. Mission complete.
Click.
That tiny sound hit a half second before realization.
I froze, hand still on the handle that wouldn’t turn.
My brain: Did this really just happen? Is this real? FML.
I stood there, keys inside, disbelief outside, already reviewing my “failsafe” setups.
Failsafes, False Confidence, and the Golden Lock
This wasn’t my first lockout rodeo. The last time it happened, I called a locksmith—$500 and a mangled door later, I ended up with a new lock. Naturally, the only finish he had was gold, so now I have the lone golden lock on a floor of silver—possibly the only one in the building.
When I took my new key to the front desk, they asked, “Why didn’t you call the emergency number? Maintenance could have let you in.” Good question. But it was late, I’d just come from dinner, and all I wanted was to get inside. Logic and planning were casualties.
Was the locksmith a cute guy? Yes. Did I flirt despite being locked out in sweats? Also yes. I mean, gay emergencies deserve a little drama.
So this time, first stop was the concierge. Success: they could call maintenance to let me back in—in about an hour.
An hour.
No phone, no laptop, no internet. Just… me.
Brainstorming the Great Escape
You’d think that’d be the end of it. Wait patiently, reflect, right?
Nope. This is where the ADHD brain spins up its own action movie.
As I rode the elevator to the lobby, I ran through every possible rescue scenario, rapid-fire:
Spare in the car? Locked in the trunk, and my car’s parked two floors underground. Maybe I could have my best friend use my car app to unlock it remotely. But would he be home, would he answer, would the app even work from that far underground?
Spare at the office? What if my friend ordered me an Uber to the office? But then: Is security even there on a Sunday? How do I convince them I work there with no badge, no phone, no ID? And once I get in, can I even get back into my suite? By then, the Uber driver is probably gone.
Key kiosk? Where even is the nearest KeyMe machine, and how do I get there without my keys, wallet, or phone?
Each idea got more elaborate and less realistic. My brain ran through every wild, improbable plan, desperate to avoid just sitting still. But each path meant more logistics, more people to involve, and probably more time than simply waiting.
Eventually, I realized: an hour of waiting was the best possible outcome.
I sighed, sat down, and finally admitted defeat to the simplest answer.
Stillness and the Dog
Here’s where it actually got… kind of nice.
Once I accepted that there was literally nothing I could do, a strange peace settled in.
No notifications. No “quick wins.” No tabs to close. Just stillness.
It reminded me why I secretly love the dentist—not the drill, but that weird serenity where you have full permission to just be there.
For once, I wasn’t behind. I wasn’t multitasking. I was just… waiting.
And as I sat in the hallway, I noticed the hum of the vents, the faint buzz of the overhead light, and I could hear my neighbor’s dog on the other side of the door, probably judging me for getting locked out. Again.
That hour of forced waiting became a meditative retreat I never would have scheduled for myself.
The Shift (And the Aftermath)
When maintenance finally arrived, the door opened like nothing happened.
Systems intact. Dignity: slightly dented.
Naturally, as soon as I was back inside, my brain flipped to, “How do I make sure this never happens again?”
I even consulted ChatGPT, which enthusiastically suggested I try getting in through a window or balcony. I almost laughed out loud—I live on the tenth floor, and even if I could Spider-Man my way up, the balcony door would probably be locked. (Although, there was that one time I came back from a trip to find my balcony door wide open. Another story…)
The truth is, my failsafes weren’t bad—they were designed for my best-case self. But every backup relied on the same basic assumption: that the person using them wouldn’t be tired, distracted, or in a rush.
Turns out, that’s never a safe bet.
Maybe not every system needs upgrading.
Maybe the real failsafe is learning to pause, laugh, and let a little chaos in.
Notes for My Future Self
Build for your distracted self, not your ideal self.
Redundancy isn’t invincibility—especially if all your backups live in the same world.
Stillness can be progress.
Humor is the ultimate failsafe.
That forced pause didn’t ruin my night. It rewired it.
Sometimes, chaos isn’t the enemy—it’s the invitation.
What about you? Ever had a failsafe fail? What did you learn?
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