In most organisations, change is treated as a problem of energy. If something isn’t shifting, the solution is to push harder. We add layers of leadership. Launch new initiatives. Restructure. Rename. The assumption is familiar: if the wall is strong, bring more hammers.

But not all systems work like that. And not all change comes through force.

Take a single molecule of ammonia (chemical formula NH₃). At its centre is a nitrogen atom that sits either above or below a triangle of three hydrogen atoms. Two stable configurations. Mirror images of each other.

Classically, for the nitrogen to flip from one state to the other, it would need to climb over an energy barrier—like rolling a ball over a hill. But in the quantum world, it doesn’t climb. It tunnels. Thirty billion times per second, the nitrogen simply appears on the other side.

No explosion of effort. No momentum. Just a quiet transition through a space it “shouldn’t” be able to enter. No more energy than it already has just the right conditions.

This isn’t metaphorical. It’s measurable. Quantum tunnelling is one of the strangest and most rigorously confirmed features of the subatomic world. And yet, it offers a powerful way to think differently about the systems we work with every day, including organisations.

So, what kind of organisation learns like ammonia?

Organisations, like molecules, can become locked into a particular configuration. Old routines. Entrenched identities. Layers of habit that make change feel uphill. Conventional thinking tells us to overcome these barriers, kick off another reform, realign the structure, or roll out a new “change management” strategy.

But what if the most interesting changes don’t start that way?

What if, instead, they begin with a quiet shift in tone? A wordless nudge in how a team behaves. A person who stops reinforcing an old assumption. A network of individuals who, without asking permission, begin experimenting with a different rhythm of work.

These are tunnelling events. They’re not visible on the balance sheet or the org chart, at least not immediately. But over time, they change everything. They reflect the subtle capacity of complex systems to move through what appears to be a barrier, not by breaking it, but by slipping through the hidden space underneath.

This kind of change isn’t always sanctioned, visible, or strategic. But it’s real. It’s how living systems adapt when they’re not being watched too closely.

And here’s the critical part: if we only value the visible levers of change, that is, new structures, formal announcements, top-down mandates, we may miss where the system is already beginning to reconfigure itself. We miss the quiet flips.

“Sometimes, the most profound changes in organisations don’t come from sweeping reforms. They come from silent transitions; unnoticed until they are suddenly obvious.”

This isn’t about romanticising informality. It’s about recognising that, in complex systems, subtle shifts often precede big ones. That conditions matter more than commands. And that not every barrier needs to be smashed for something new to emerge.

So, what does that mean for leadership?

It might mean the role of the leader is not to design change, but to lower the barrier that makes it improbable. To stop reinforcing the assumptions that keep the system stuck. To create space under the surface, the kind where quiet flips become possible.

It might also mean listening for faint signals of tunnelling already underway: early experiments, strange outliers, teams operating with unexpected clarity.

In physics, tunnelling defies what should be possible. In organisations, it reminds us that the improbable is sometimes already happening, in small, quiet ways, just outside the official story.

And if we’re willing to pay attention there, perhaps the most surprising and necessary changes don’t need force at all. They just need space to pass through.