When Responsibility Arrives Without Consent

I am the youngest of five brothers. Over the last fifteen years — including one just last week — I have lost four of them.

One was killed by sectarian violence in 2010.
Two died during the Covid pandemic, in 2020 and 2021.
One passed away in his sleep last week.

These events did not occur in isolation, nor did they feel accidental. Over time, they formed a pattern—one that reshaped how I understand responsibility, continuity, and what it means to hold a system together when its assumed anchors disappear.

This is not an account of grief. It is an account of what happens when responsibility arrives uninvited—and stays.

When Assumptions Collapse

Loss has a way of dismantling assumptions that otherwise remain invisible.

The assumption that experience will always be present.
That elders will intervene.
That someone else will take charge when conditions deteriorate.

Repeated loss removes the illusion of default stability. It reveals how much of what we call order is contingent on a few individuals quietly holding things together—and how fragile that order becomes when they are gone.

In families, organisations, and communities alike, disruption is rarely caused by the absence of plans. It is caused by the sudden absence of people those plans silently relied upon.

The Emergence of an Unassigned Role

As the youngest, I was not meant to carry this role. No authority was transferred. No responsibility was formally declared.

Yet with each loss, the environment changed. Conversations paused longer. Decisions lingered. Silence began to wait for someone to speak.

Responsibility does not always arrive as an opportunity. Sometimes it arrives as expectation—unspoken, cumulative, and unavoidable.

What began to surface was that roles often emerge not from ambition or designation, but from necessity. The system looks around, senses a vacuum, and begins orienting itself toward whoever remains steady enough to hold it.

Patterns Appear When Pain Repeats

Experiencing loss across different contexts—violence, pandemic, sudden illness—reveals something uncomfortable: while the triggers differ, the breakdowns often look the same.

Trust erodes.
Communication becomes guarded, then sparse.
Decisions stall—or get made badly.
Support structures turn out to be thinner than anyone assumed.

The question begins to shift from “Why did this happen?” to “What conditions made this likely?”

This shift—from personal explanation to structural awareness—is where responsibility matures. Attention moves away from individual failure and toward the systems, incentives, and behaviours that either absorb shock or amplify it.

What Happens When Things Stay Unsaid

One consistent observation across these experiences was the cost of silence.

Unspoken loss does not disappear. It hardens. It leaks into behaviour—manifesting as control, rigidity, withdrawal, or misplaced certainty. In families, this fractures trust. In organisations, it calcifies culture.

Naming what's actually present—loss, fatigue, fear—isn't indulgence. It's functional. Systems that can't acknowledge reality can't adapt to it.

Clarity, even when uncomfortable, stabilises. Silence rarely does.

Control Breaks. Continuity Doesn't.

Repeated loss recalibrates one’s relationship with control. You stop believing that centralisation creates safety. You start noticing how dependency weakens resilience.

What holds over time is not authority, but continuity: shared ownership instead of heroic intervention—and responsibility distributed widely enough that no single departure breaks the system. Values that live in practice, not in personalities.

Systems that rely too heavily on a few individuals fracture when those individuals are removed. Systems that distribute responsibility bend—and often survive.

This has reshaped how I approach community work, organisational change, and collective action: build in ways that assume absence, not permanence.

Change Starts Where Loss Is Felt

Large-scale change is often discussed abstractly. In practice, it begins close to the ground.

It starts with how a group responds to rupture.
How younger voices are invited—or ignored.
How agency is extended before crisis, not after it.

I could not prevent the losses that occurred. But I could work to reduce the likelihood that others experience the same failures—of dialogue, of preparedness, of care.

That work is incremental, relational, and often invisible. But it compounds.

Carrying Forward

Responsibility, when sustained over time, becomes less about action and more about stance.

Showing up consistently.
Designing for resilience.
Refusing to normalise avoidable harm.

What remains after loss is not certainty, but commitment—to build systems that do not collapse when people are removed, and cultures that can absorb shock without turning on themselves.

That is the work I continue—not out of optimism, but out of obligation.

Why I Wrote This

I wrote this to make sense of responsibility that arrives without invitation—and to share what becomes visible when loss repeats and systems fail quietly. Not to seek sympathy, but to place meaning where randomness tried to win, and to offer something steady to those who find themselves unexpectedly holding the centre.

If this reflects something you’re carrying—in your family, your work, or your community—I’d encourage you to pause, name what is present, and consider how responsibility might be shared rather than shouldered alone. That is where resilience begins.

Thank you for staying with this piece. I’m Kubair Shirazee. I spend my time working with people, teams, and communities who find themselves holding more than they expected—supporting them to build ways of working, deciding, and caring that can endure strain, loss, and change. This is how I choose to carry what I’ve been given.