It’s 4.36pm and I’m sat in the car park outside a small complex of flats that were built a few decades ago. The surface of the roads and pavements show its age in a way nothing else does: cracks and broken slabs dominate; dandelions and daisies opportunistically sprout through the gaps regardless. I look out of the car window, considering how unfortunate it is that the walkways are so damaged given every resident of these flats is an older person, living here because they need additional help to live independently. I feel disappointed that the very thing designed to help people live safely could contribute to their injury; I lament a little at how hard it is to build and maintain things that truly facilitate flourishing.

I’m not here to survey the road though. I’m here to visit Gerald. In fact it’s the last time I’m going to see Gerald and I’m already feeling a little sad about it.

At precisely 4.44pm, I make my way out of the car to his front door and check my watch. I wait until 4.45pm to press the bell; he likes me to be on time. The bell makes a dramatic sound but it’s one I haven’t heard before. Gerald’s house is full of sounds, but they all seem to change constantly. His door bell plays a different sound on rotation (hence my unfamiliarity this time), his clock plays a different bird song on the hour every hour, and his mobile phone sounds like a warning siren, because it’s set to max volume on account of the fact that he never knows where it is because it’s under piles and piles of what Gerald calls his ‘stuff’.

I can hear Gerald shuffling to the door and he’s already talking to me, even though I can barely hear him over the sound of the door bell, which still seems to be ringing. Gerald pulls the door open and beams at me, instructing me to come in and sit down, moving piles of paper from the sofa cushions, which are adorned in newspapers and advertising brochures — the kind that sell novelty door bells and clocks that make bird noises.

I spend over an hour with Gerald, talking about his health, his life, his family and his past. He’s just started telling me another story — I’ve already heard it, but even if I hadn’t, it’s time for me to go. He knows it too… that’s why he started telling it. I interrupt as kindly as I can and ready myself to say “goodbye” — I’m emotional at the best of times, but I know this goodbye is going to be especially hard.

Gerald looks down at his hands. They’re balled into fists as if they’re trying not to lose something precious. In barely a whisper, Gerald says, “Is that it then? Do you have to stop coming now?”. “Yes”, I say. “This was the last session”.

I remind him that I’ll be in touch again to let him see the write up of the research study he’s taken part in and I thank him again for being so generous with his time as a study participant. Gerald looks up, loosening his grip a little and I see that he’s been holding onto a handkerchief. Tears start streaming down his face and I realise that he’d prepared himself for this goodbye too — readied his handkerchief to wipe tears that he knew were going to come. “You don’t need to thank me,” he mumbles. “I need to thank you. I never thought I’d ever get to tell my stories to anyone again. I didn’t think anyone would want to listen to me.” He pats me on the shoulder and I know it’s his equivalent of a hug. “Thank you for making an old man very happy.”

I smile, swallow what feels like an enormous lump in my throat and fight back tears — I’m trying to stay professional. But I’m such softy, it’s taking every ounce of effort; I do one of those strange inhales where you feel you like you’re being breathed rather than breathing. “You’re most welcome,” I say, and it comes out as more of a squeak. I tell Gerald to take care of himself and then I take a long, deep exhale as I let myself out like I have done every other time I’ve visited. The birds have just started tweeting from the clock and it’s definitely time for me to go home.

And as I close the door I realise that as bittersweet as it is, I feel so privileged to have been able to hear Gerald’s stories, to hear anyone’s stories — to be given the opportunity to find the wisdom in a situation, an experience, a life. That as a researcher I get to translate those stories into something which can be used to design change: change that creates better processes, more effective systems and services, improved experiences. I recall the times I’ve wondered if I’m doing enough; worried about whether qualitative research can ever make the difference that it needs to in such complex and challenged systems as the ones we live and work in.

But as I walk back to the car, over cracked and broken pavement slabs, which I know no story will ever be able to mend directly, I realise that the power is not just in what participants do in their contributions to our studies, it’s never only in the findings that I produce from them, or the recommendations for change that come from them. The power is also in the potency of the process. In the carefully crafted questions and the intentional inquiry; in the deep and analytical listening to capture every spoken and unspoken thing; and in the witnessing of someone’s experience, without judgement or verdict. So research may not be able to mend paving slabs, but:

- the stories people tell because they are invited to,

- the experiences someone shares because someone asked,

- the tender spot that was cared for because someone listened, and

- the change that can happen because someone gathered them carefully

They are like the daisies that I step over carefully as I make my way back to my car. They exist despite the challenged and broken systems, they’re evidence of hope breaking through the cracks. Like the flowers, stories are the evidence of life flourishing anyway.