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 m...