Three Cars, One Path — and the Moment I Remembered Mine

I was following. Not lost—just not leading. Two cars ahead of me, people I knew, people I trusted. I stayed behind them, watching where they turned, letting their movement shape mine.

At some point, I left my own car.

I climbed across hoods—awkward, exposed, determined—and slipped into theirs. First one, then another. I was welcomed. I belonged there. I knew how to be with each of them, how to fit, how to move between spaces without friction.

But when I arrived in the lead car, someone looked at me and asked, “Who are you?” And I didn’t answer for myself. I pointed backward to the car in the middle. “Ask her.”

As if I could be explained by someone else. As if my place was something reflected, not rooted.

Still, we arrived.

A gathering of women. Like-minded. Aligned. The kind of place that feels like an exhale you didn’t know you were holding. And I knew, without question, I belonged there too.

But then—quietly, without panic—I realized: I didn’t have my car.

At some point, in all the moving and joining and belonging, I had left behind the very thing that was mine. The way I would get home. The path that was mine to choose. And that was the moment. Not fear. Not failure. Just awareness. I can move with others. I can belong in many spaces. I can adapt, connect, and be welcomed.

But I am also meant to lead myself.

To stay in my own seat, even when I travel alongside others. To choose my direction, even when I walk in shared purpose. To be known from within, not explained from behind.

This is what it feels like to come into my own power—not all at once, not perfectly, but in the noticing.

In the remembering.

In the quiet decision to go back for my car.

And, then... ? I woke up.