Looking for a kitchen in a hospital
“What the hell kind of house do you live in? No kitchen? I have never sold a house with no kitchen."
THE RUB
That was my dad’s response to my brother. It was 2 am and my dad wanted to raid the kitchen. Only they weren’t in a house they were in a hospital. My dad has dementia and thought he was at my brother’s house. That morning, my brother updated us via text about his long night with dad. We had a good laugh having each experienced similar moments with dad.
As I replayed the story, I kept thinking about the lenses we use to interpret the situations we’re in. The wrong lens can dramatically distort the view. If we see ourselves at someone’s house, we assume there’s a kitchen. But if we’re actually in a hospital, the vending machine might be the closest thing. Here’s the uncomfortable insight: we’re all walking around with lenses we don’t know we’re wearing.
THE FRAMEWORK
My father’s confusion isn’t fundamentally different from what we all experience, just more visible. We’re constantly operating from lenses we’ve constructed: “I’m at a house” becomes “this meeting is about budget concerns” or “my teenager is being difficult” or “this project is falling apart.”
Lenses steer what we notice. We don’t take in everything. We take in what our expectations tell us is important, and we gloss the rest. That’s how we can miss something obvious when our attention is locked onto a task. The famous “gorilla” study demonstrated this: viewers watching a video and counting basketball passes often miss a person in a gorilla suit walking through the frame.
Once we have a lens in place, confirmation bias kicks in. We notice, interpret, and remember evidence that supports our view more than evidence that challenges it. That’s not a character flaw. It’s how human cognition works. We don’t respond to reality. We respond to our mind’s edited version of it.
The danger isn’t having lenses. The danger is believing we don’t have them.
THE PRACTICE
Three questions I’m asking myself this week as a lens check:
- What story am I telling myself? Not what happened, but what narrative have I constructed about what happened? Example: “My team member is disengaged” vs “My team member has been quiet in meetings lately.”
- What would someone with a different lens see? If I think I’m in a house, I look for a kitchen. If someone else thinks we’re in a hospital, they look for nurses. What are they seeing that I’m missing?
- What am I filtering out? Our lenses work by selective attention. What data am I unconsciously dismissing because it doesn’t fit my current interpretation?
My dad can’t check his lenses anymore. Dementia steals the ability to question your own perception along with the memories it takes. When he’s looking for a kitchen in a hospital, there’s no lens check that will help him see clearly. But I can. That awareness feels like both a responsibility and a gift.