What Growing Up Free Taught a Generation About Patience, Process, and Why Nobody Reads a Will in a Courtroom

The Settlement of Souls: What Growing Up Free Taught a Generation About Patience, Process, and Why Nobody Reads a Will in a Courtroom

Here's something that might ruffle a few feathers, and this comes with forty-plus years in financial services backing it up: the way people handle estate settlements today would make our grandparents spin in their graves. And that's meant literally, since we're talking about their estates.

This pattern has been unfolding since the 1960s. Picture a living room where parents navigated the aftermath of losing their own folks. Families who'd shared Thanksgiving dinners for decades suddenly became strangers over a ceramic lamp nobody actually wanted. Siblings who'd defended each other on playgrounds turned into courtroom adversaries over bank accounts that wouldn't cover a decent used car. The damage was real. Irreversible, in many cases. Relationships thoroughly condemned to the ash heap of family history.

What those observations revealed still holds true today, maybe more so. Estate settlement isn't about money. It's about patience, process, and the presumption of competence—or the stunning lack thereof.

Here's the thing that keeps fiduciary advisors up at night, professionally speaking: estates are now being settled with beneficiaries who grew up in a world that taught them everything should happen immediately. Click a button, get an answer. Swipe right, find a match. Order something at midnight, it arrives before lunch. These folks walk into advisory offices with the unabashed goal of wrapping up Mom's estate by next Tuesday, and when someone explains that the probate court operates on something called a calendar—a scheduling system that doesn't care about their convenience—they react like Swahili just entered the conversation.

And don't get anyone started on the reading of the will. Sweet mercy, the number of people who think there's some dramatic courtroom scene where a lawyer in a three-piece suit gathers the family around and announces who gets the grandfather clock. That's absolutely hilarious. Pure Hollywood fiction. No such thing exists. The will gets filed with the court, becomes public record, and the personal representative—that's the executor for those still using the old terminology—sends copies to interested parties. No spotlight. No spectators gasping in shock. No long-lost nephew appearing at the last moment with a secret codicil.

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The Troubling State of Professional Services

But estate settlement doesn't exist in a vacuum. It intersects with the world of finance and investment advisory services, and what's happening there should concern everyone. Even licensed professionals—people who absolutely should know better—increasingly fail to understand that meaningful work takes time. The artificial intelligence revolution dominating every conversation hasn't actually improved much of anything when it comes to human service and careful attention to detail.

Companies across the financial services industry have gutted their customer service operations. Tenured professionals who understood the nuances, who could navigate complex situations with institutional knowledge accumulated over decades, have been replaced by rotating cast members reading from scripts. It's a round robin of unfamiliarity. Clients never know who they're talking with from one call to the next. The person who helped last Tuesday has no memory of the conversation because it wasn't the same person. There's no continuity, no relationship, no accumulated understanding of a client's particular situation.

This phenomenon has infected medicine, banking, insurance, legal services—everywhere people once expected to build relationships with professionals who knew their history. Now everyone starts from zero every single time. The lack of appreciation for how things actually work has become epidemic.

And here's where it gets genuinely frustrating for everyone involved in estate settlement: the security protocols. In a world swimming in fraud, identity verification has become a gauntlet that would make a medieval torture chamber look welcoming. Checks and re-checks at every turn. Every box must be perfect, and heaven help the person who went through a name change, or whose birthdate shows a one-day discrepancy between documents, or whose Social Security card and driver's license don't match precisely because of a recent move.

Any of these minor variations throws up red flags. Suddenly, the grieving beneficiary trying to access their deceased parent's account gets coded as a suspect. A potential terrorist. An unknown entity requiring enhanced scrutiny. Everything stops. Everything slows. The eighteen-month timeline just became twenty-four months because a middle initial appeared on one document and not another.

The professionals working in fiduciary advisory services see this constantly. Clients arrive frustrated, sometimes furious, because they've spent three hours on hold with a custodian only to be told they need to resubmit documentation that was already submitted twice. They've been transferred to seven different departments, explained their situation seven different times, and still haven't reached anyone with the authority or knowledge to actually help.

This is the environment in which modern estate settlement occurs. It's not just the probate court operating on its own timeline. It's every institution involved in the process operating with reduced staff, increased security requirements, and technology that promises efficiency while delivering frustration.

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What the 1970s Built Into a Generation

But here's where perspective gets personal, and why it matters so much.

Those who grew up in the 1970s had their brains develop during what researchers now call a rare evolutionary window. Total freedom combined with genuine responsibility. We were, as some folks say, feral—and it was glorious. Now, clarity demands acknowledgment: not everybody had this experience. Plenty of kids grew up in urban environments where going outside unsupervised wasn't just discouraged, it was dangerous. They were restricted by circumstances far outside their control. That privilege deserves recognition.

But for those who did experience that kind of childhood? It built something that translates directly to handling complex, frustrating, time-consuming processes like estate administration.

Start with this: boredom is not an emergency. Every kid from that era remembers hearing some version of "go find something to do, or I'll find something for you to do." The meaning was crystal clear. Express boredom at your own peril, because suddenly the afternoon involves folding laundry or weeding the garden. So figuring it out yourself became the only option. Inventing entire days from nothing. Devouring books. Exploring on bikes for hours. Building forts in the woods with materials scavenged from who-knows-where.

Those brains learned to generate purpose from emptiness. That skill doesn't disappear at sixty-five.

When advisors explain to clients that their father's estate might take eighteen months to settle because there's real property in three states and a business interest requiring appraisal, the ones who grew up with that kind of freedom? They lean back, nod, and ask what they can do to help move things along efficiently. The ones who grew up with instant everything? They act like the advisor personally created the probate code to inconvenience them.

Then there's delayed gratification, and its importance cannot be overstated. That generation waited for everything. Favorite television shows came on once a week—miss one, and the wait might stretch six months to catch a rerun. Take a photograph, and days would pass, sometimes a week, before knowing if it even turned out. Want to talk to a friend? Memorize their phone number, dial it on a rotary phone, and hope somebody was home. No voicemail. No texting. Just the phone ringing into empty space, far away and out of reach.

That training in patience didn't evaporate with adulthood. It's why those clients can hear that the court date is four months away and absorb that information without spontaneously combusting. They understand, bone-deep, that some things simply cannot be rushed.

The going rate for patience in estate work is measured in months and years, not days and weeks. People who never learned to wait find this justified timeline absolutely intolerable. They call the office repeatedly. They demand meetings that accomplish nothing. They're skeptical when someone explains that the judge has a hundred other cases and doesn't care about their preference to list the house before spring. The court will not budge because one beneficiary has a timeline in their head.

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The Collision of Generations and Systems

Here's where the generational divide creates real problems in estate settlement: the systems themselves have become harder to navigate at the exact moment that beneficiaries have become less patient.

Consider what happens when a personal representative needs to transfer assets from a deceased parent's brokerage account. Twenty years ago, a call to a customer service representative who knew the account, knew the family, knew the particular quirks of the situation, could resolve most issues in a single conversation. That representative had tenure in the seat. They'd handled hundreds of estate transfers. They knew which forms were actually required versus which forms the system said were required. They could exercise judgment.

Today? Good luck finding that person. The customer service department has been decimated by cost-cutting measures justified by artificial intelligence promises that haven't materialized into actual improvement. The representative on the phone is reading from a script, has been in the position for three months, and has no authority to deviate from the flowchart on their screen. They're helpful within the narrow confines of what the system allows, but the system wasn't designed by people who understand estate settlement. It was designed by people who understand efficiency metrics.

Meanwhile, the security protocols have multiplied. Every institution now requires notarized death certificates, letters testamentary, identity verification, beneficial ownership certification, anti-money laundering documentation, and forms upon forms upon forms. Miss one? Start over. Have a discrepancy in how a name appears across documents? Enhanced review required. Recently moved and the address on file doesn't match the current address? Suspicious activity flag.

The professionals in fiduciary advisory services spend enormous amounts of time navigating these systems on behalf of clients. Hours on hold. Faxes that disappear into institutional black holes. Emails that generate auto-replies promising response within five to seven business days. It's maddening even for people who do this work professionally. For beneficiaries trying to handle it themselves while grieving and working and managing their own lives? It's overwhelming.

And this is precisely where the generational divide becomes most pronounced. Those who grew up with unsupervised autonomy developed what matters enormously in estate work: the presumption of competence. When kids left the house at eight years old and their parents' only instruction was "be back before the streetlights come on," they were being trusted to assess situations, make judgment calls, and handle consequences. Parents weren't friends hovering over every decision. They were the authority, and they presumed their children were capable.

That presumption of competence cuts both ways in estate settlement. The beneficiaries who carry it assume the professionals involved—the attorneys, the accountants, the financial advisors—know what they're doing. They ask questions, certainly, but they're reluctant at first to second-guess every decision. They benefit from generosity of spirit toward the process.

The ones who never developed that internal compass? They want to micromanage every filing. They question whether the attorney actually went to law school. They seem genuinely shocked to discover that estate settlement involves actual expertise and can't be mastered by watching a few TikTok videos.

The Fraud Factor

Here's another piece that deserves attention: the fraud environment has made everything harder, and the people most frustrated by verification requirements are often the same people who would be most victimized without them.

Elder financial exploitation has become epidemic. Scammers target grieving families with sophisticated schemes. Identity theft during estate settlement has skyrocketed because criminals know that accounts are vulnerable during transitions. The security protocols that slow everything down exist because real people lost real money to real criminals who exploited gaps in the system.

But try explaining that to someone who's been on hold for two hours, transferred four times, and just learned they need to provide yet another notarized document. The security that protects them feels like persecution. The verification that ensures they're actually entitled to the assets feels like accusation. They've been coded as a potential threat, and no amount of explanation makes that feel less insulting.

This is the world we've built. More security requirements administered by fewer qualified people, navigated by beneficiaries with less patience, during one of the most emotionally difficult periods of their lives. It's a perfect storm of frustration.

What Actually Helps

So what does help? What separates estate settlements that go relatively smoothly from those that become multi-year nightmares of family division and institutional warfare?

Patience, obviously. But more than that: realistic expectations established early.

The families that handle estate settlement well—really well—share certain characteristics. They communicate openly. They trust the process. They understand that their parents' legacy isn't diminished by waiting a few extra months for the final distribution. They recognize that being in the limelight of grief is temporary, but the decisions made about the estate will echo for generations.

They also understand something crucial: the systems they're navigating weren't designed for their convenience. Courts operate on judicial calendars. Financial institutions operate on compliance requirements. Government agencies operate on bureaucratic timelines. None of these entities reorganize themselves because one family wants faster resolution.

The families that handle it poorly? They let impatience curdle into suspicion. They assume everyone involved is trying to cheat them. They can't comprehend why the system doesn't reorganize itself around their preferences. They hilliard their way through the process, savaging relationships and burning bridges with professionals who were genuinely trying to help.

The Impressive Exception

Every so often, though, someone walks into a fiduciary advisory office who gets it. They've watched family members navigate estate settlement before, maybe decades earlier, and they learned from observation. They arrive with realistic timelines in their heads. They bring organized documentation. They ask thoughtful questions and actually listen to the answers.

These clients are impressive not because they know everything, but because they understand they don't know everything. They extend the presumption of competence to the professionals helping them while also doing their own homework. They're appropriately skeptical without being paranoid. They push back when something seems wrong but accept explanation when it's offered.

These are often the 1970s kids, now in their fifties and sixties, settling their parents' estates. They remember what it was like to figure things out without Google. They remember waiting. They remember uncertainty that couldn't be resolved with a quick search. They remember that not everything has an immediate answer, and that's okay.

They remember that boredom is not an emergency.

The Broader Lesson

What does all this mean for the financial services industry, for estate planning, for families preparing for inevitable transitions?

First, it means preparation matters more than ever. The systems are harder to navigate, the people staffing them are less experienced, and the security requirements are more demanding. Families who organize documentation early, who establish relationships with qualified professionals before crisis hits, who communicate openly about expectations—those families suffer less.

Second, it means patience must be cultivated intentionally. For those who didn't grow up waiting for television reruns and hoping someone was home when they called, the muscle of patience may need deliberate exercise. Understanding that the timeline isn't personal, that the delays aren't targeted, that the system operates the same way for everyone—this understanding must be developed consciously.

Third, it means relationship still matters. Despite the round-robin customer service reality, finding and cultivating relationships with individual professionals who know a family's situation remains valuable. A fiduciary advisor who understands the history, an attorney who's handled previous family matters, an accountant who knows the quirks of the financial situation—these relationships provide continuity that institutional systems no longer offer.

Finally, it means the lessons of an earlier era deserve resurrection. Not the specific experiences—those can't be recreated—but the underlying principles. Self-directed problem-solving. Adaptive risk calibration. Comfortable solitude capacity. Analog patience. Unsupervised autonomy wiring.

These aren't nostalgia. They're survival skills for navigating a world that promises instant everything while delivering frustration at every turn.

The families that understand this—the ones who approach estate settlement with realistic expectations, patience, and the presumption of competence toward both the professionals helping them and the systems they're navigating—those families emerge with relationships intact, inheritances distributed fairly, and their parents' legacies honored.

The ones that don't? They learn the hard way that the universe, like the probate court, is unmoved by impatience.

Some things take time because they're supposed to take time. Estate settlement taught that lesson to families watching in the 1960s. It's still teaching that lesson today, to anyone willing to learn.

Tippecanoe and Tyler Too, I'm out of here.