Written By Phil Deacon, IPTF 7 Stories Lead
After more than 30 years in protection claims, I’ve long recognised that this role goes far beyond ticking boxes and processing tasks. It involves navigating complexity, supporting people through emotionally charged moments, and making decisions that genuinely make a difference. At its heart are the individuals we serve and their personal journeys, the emotions they carry, and the experiences that shape who they are. As a claims assessor and later a claims manager, I’ve seen the industry evolve in countless ways over the years, but the emotional core of the role has remained constant.
Over the years, the protection claims landscape has evolved, from paper-based processes to digital platforms, the rise of automation, and the introduction of technologies that support health and well-being. These changes have certainly modernised how we work, but progress hasn’t always been far-reaching enough. Many would argue that transparency remains a work in progress, and the pace of change hasn’t always matched customer needs. Regulatory scrutiny has also intensified, most recently through the FCA’s market review, which continues to examine how the sector does business and supports people at their most vulnerable.
For me personally, one of the most meaningful shifts was the introduction of the ABI’s Treating Customers Fairly (TCF) code on misrepresentation in 2009. It brought clearer guidance and a fairer approach to assessing claims, especially in those grey areas where disclosure isn’t straightforward and context matters. While it’s not perfect, its impact at the point of claim has been one of the most positive changes for customers in my time, though no policy or process can ever fully prepare you for the emotional weight of the job, or the conversations that stay with you long after the call ends.
I still vividly remember my first Critical Illness claim. A woman had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and I was calling to tell her the claim had been accepted. I expected relief, maybe even gratitude. I felt good about being able to deliver some positive news in the midst of a horrible situation. But when I told her, there was silence. Five seconds. Ten seconds. I wondered if she’d heard me. Then I heard a noise which was quiet at first, then louder. She was crying. Sobbing. We exchanged a few words through the tears, and the call ended. That moment, more than 20 years ago, was when I truly understood the gravity of what we do, not just as an industry, but as claims professionals. Our work matters. It touches lives in ways we don’t always see.
Income Protection claims in particular, have taught me that the drama isn’t always loud. These cases are often complex, involving medical, functional, and financial assessments. They may not grab headlines, but they’re deeply personal and they matter, having far reaching consequences. Claimants rely on these payments to cover essentials such as mortgages, rent, food and utility bills. The stakes are high, and the pressure to get it right and in a timely manner – is immense.
There have been highs for me. Helping someone through a devastating diagnosis, supporting a family after a loss, or simply being a calm voice in the chaos. But there have also been lows. Declining a claim is never easy. The emotional toll of those conversations can be profound. Industry medical officer Dr Rob Rosa’s piece on “moral injury” really struck a chord with me and I’m delighted he has replicated this for our 7 claims story project. We’re not just delivering decisions; we’re navigating grief, anger, and fear.
I’ve had calls that shook me. A farmer from Yorkshire once threatened to wait outside my office to “beat me up” because we weren’t ready to pay his claim, although he did call back later to apologise. Another time, a customer with mental health issues called to say he was going to end his life. Then he hung up. It was late, the office was emptying, and I had no protocol to follow. I rang his GP, explained what had happened, and they contacted emergency services. Thankfully, he was okay. Could I have handled it better? Possibly. But I acted decisively, and that mattered.
