I drive to work the same way every day. Same freeway. Same merge. Same three-lane shift over to my usual spot: the second-fastest lane. Not the slowest, not the fastest, just the steady lane where I can ride the flow of traffic without too much fuss. I know this route. I know this lane. And I know—without fail—that I’m going to hit a pothole.
It’s not just any pothole. It’s the pothole. The one that sits like a landmine in lane three. The one I somehow always manage to forget about until it's too late. Whether I’m doing 65 or crawling in bumper-to-bumper, it doesn’t matter. I hit it. Every time. And every time, it rattles me.
You’d think I’d learn. I know where it is. I know it’s coming. I’ve tried everything—nudging over to the right side of the lane, skimming the left edge, even attempting to straddle it like I’m threading a needle with a Honda Civic. But without fail, there’s that thud. That jarring clunk that shoots up through my tires, into my seat, and somehow into my soul. And I find myself wincing, again: “Oh. There it was.”
I told a friend about this, and he burst out laughing. Because it’s ridiculous, right? It’s the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. And here I am, day after day, lane three, pothole.
But this morning, mid-thud, I had this thought: Isn’t this just… life?
I’m in one lane. One single lane. But I’ve got an entire freeway available to me—four full lanes and a carpool lane I can’t use (unless I suddenly take up carpool karaoke with a mannequin or something). And yet, I keep defaulting to this one lane, this one route, this one rhythm. Even though it doesn’t serve me. Even though it hurts.
What else am I doing this with?
I say I want to write children’s books. And I’ve got a finished manuscript. But I haven’t found an illustrator. Why? Because most nights, I get home, I’m tired, and I scroll. Instagram, mindless games, the bottomless binge-watch. Then I go to bed thinking, tomorrow I’ll change. And the next day? Groundhog Day. Same routine. Same lane. Same pothole.
There’s no rule that says I can’t get in a new lane. No sign saying, “Zach, you belong in lane three forever.” Change is there, available like an exit ramp that shows up every five miles. The real question is: Am I willing to take it?
We all do this, in some way. You want to write, but the remote is closer than the pen. You want to start that business, but first—just one more scroll, one more episode. The discomfort of change can be enough to keep us stuck in lane three indefinitely.
And every now and then, we get a few “good days.” We miss the pothole. Traffic flows. We think, Maybe I’ve figured it out. Maybe the lane isn’t so bad after all. But then—clunk. There it is again. The pothole. The wake-up call. The reminder.
And the most dangerous part? We start to externalize it. Why hasn’t the city fixed this yet? Meaning: Why hasn’t the world made it easier for me to not change? If the pothole were gone, I could stay in this lane. It’s their fault. Not mine.
But the truth is, the pothole isn’t the problem.
The problem is I keep choosing the same lane.
There’s a whole freeway out there. As Moana so wisely put it, “There’s more beyond the reef.” There’s more beyond lane three. There’s a faster lane. A slower lane. A lane with a smoother ride, or at least a different view. One where maybe I finally send that email to an illustrator. Or write a new page instead of watching another one.
So I’ll ask you what I asked myself:
Where in your life are you driving the same lane, hitting the same pothole, and pretending like it’s not a choice?
The lanes are open. The road is wide. You don’t have to stay in lane three forever.
Love,
Zak