Anyone who has spent time around a legislature knows that the work runs on two things: trust and process. When trust is high, the rules that dictate the process can be flexible. When trust is low, process becomes the only thing holding the place together.

Spoiler alert: Right now in Minnesota, trust is low. 

This isn’t super unusual for this time of year. May is when the metaphorical cakes are almost all baked, cooled and are starting to be decorated. They’re definitely not finished products yet — there’s a lot of time and attention paid to what fillings are included and what holes might be smoothed over with frosting. And there are also always a few that look a little messy because the process is rushed and the frosting is melting as time runs out. (Can you tell that this time of year is also when the “Great British Baking Show” is how I destress?)

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We’ve been talking a lot about how this biennium in Minnesota is unusual — everything from the tied House, a temporarily-tied Senate, deaths of long-serving members, the governor’s VP run, and a record number of special elections. This session is normal in one way: a level of suspicion between parties and even between chambers that makes every decision feel like a potential trap. And because everyone is waiting for the other shoe to drop, the rules and customs of the institution are doing heavy lifting, are being challenged and have been in the spotlight more than usual.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the House’s slight shift toward single‑subject bills — a reform many people have wanted for years. It’s happening, and that’s genuinely good news for transparency and public understanding. But it’s also creating a level of disruption that isn’t surprising — doing things differently always comes with some disruption — and has been more destabilizing than many of us might have predicted. 

For the last decade or so, the Legislature has operated on a fairly predictable rhythm. Bills are introduced, sent to committees, amended and passed along. Committees assemble their pieces into larger omnibus bills. Those omnibus bills move to the floor, where they’re debated and amended again, and largely passed along party-line votes. And then the House and Senate meet in conference committees to reconcile the differences.

Meanwhile legislative leaders and the governor meet behind closed doors to make decisions — from how much money can be spent, to the actual composition of specific bills. It’s not glamorous, it’s not transparent and it’s not easy to follow, but it’s a system that has allowed two chambers — controlled by different parties more often than not — to eventually land the plane.

This year, the House’s single‑subject approach means most committees aren’t assembling big omnibus packages. Instead, dozens of smaller bills are moving individually. That’s great for clarity. It’s a wonderful way for constituents to understand what their elected officials are voting for and why. It’s also a logistical headache. The Senate is still operating in the traditional model, under traditional majority-minority roles, which means the two bodies are no longer speaking the same procedural language. Matching things up is harder. Timing is harder. Negotiations are harder. And everyone involved — legislators, staff, lobbyists, advocates — is feeling the friction.

None of this is evidence that the reform is wrong. It’s just evidence that the institution is adjusting. And a demonstration that it’s really hard to break from “the way we’ve always done it.” 

The deeper issue is that the Legislature is trying to innovate at a moment when trust is already strained. When people don’t trust each other, they cling to process. They rely on rules, precedents, and customs because those are the only neutral tools available. But process should be designed to support collaboration, not replace it. When rules become the only thing holding the place together, even small changes can feel destabilizing.

You can see what that lack of trust looks like in real time. Members hesitate to accept opposite-party amendments because they assume there’s a hidden angle. The professional nonpartisan staff are being leaned on even more heavily, because their neutrality is one of the few things everyone still agrees on. 

The trust problem isn’t just between the parties — or even just between the House and Senate, which have long operated with a kind of friendly rivalry that turns into “Team House” and “Team Senate” as deadlines tighten. What’s becoming more visible now are trust fissures within caucuses themselves. Members who would normally assume alignment are second‑guessing each other’s motives. Ideological differences that used to be managed internally are spilling into committee rooms and floor debates.

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Even routine decisions are met with side‑eye and follow‑up questions. I’ve argued before that this kind of unalignment, while tense for the people who are participating in it, is actually really important for the public to see the diversity of opinion within the “big tent” of both major parties. Process is dull, but it’s also essential. It’s the scaffolding that lets a divided Legislature function. But it can’t substitute for trust. And it can’t, on its own, absorb the shock of doing things differently.

The House’s single‑subject experiment is a meaningful step toward a more transparent lawmaking process. It’s also a reminder that reforms don’t happen in a vacuum. They happen in real time, with real people, in an environment where relationships matter as much as rules. 

If Minnesota wants a Legislature that works better — not just differently — then rebuilding trust has to be part of the equation. Because without trust, even the best process will feel like a game. And with trust, even imperfect process can still get us where we need to go.

Shannon Watson is the executive director of Majority in the Middle, a St. Paul-based nonprofit. She’s also a longtime State Capitol observer and will provide occasional Voices commentaries during the 2026 legislative session. You’ll find Watson’s previous Middle Aisle columns here.

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