I Didn’t Spiral. I Drove.
Today, I rented a car.
Not because I was going on vacation. Not because something special was happening.
Simply because we’re going to Atlanta for Danny’s doctor appointment.
But here’s what made it sacred:
I didn’t flinch - and that’s new.
Because for most of my life, car rentals felt like something other people were able to do —
people who were allowed access to ease without overexplaining,
people who expected support instead of bracing for its collapse,
people who weren’t raised to believe that receiving came with strings.
Today, I wasn’t performing for peace.
I was inhabiting it.
When we picked up the car I felt calm. Present. Steady.
Even when an unexpected detail in the process caught Danny off guard and his energy got crunchy, I didn’t match it and spiral.
I didn’t jump into overfunctioning.
I just looked at him and said:
“It’s okay. We’re okay.”
And I meant it.
Not from bypass. Not from pretending.
But from a body that finally believes it.
That phrase — we’re okay — used to be something I fought to prove.
Today, it was something I simply knew.
After the car pickup, we drove past Bridgeway Station — this stunning Italian-inspired development near home that feels like a portal every time I see it.
It looks like Florence if you squint.
Or, if you’re like me, see it with your bones.
And in that moment, I felt it:
I wasn’t just driving past my future.
I was already living in it.
I didn’t need a boarding pass to feel arrival.
I didn’t need a big win to feel worthy.
I didn’t need permission to feel peace.
Then I went and got my haircut — the one I’d put off for weeks.
New energy.
New edges.
New mirror.
This was more than a haircut.
More than a drive.
More than a smooth car rental transaction.
This was the day I realized ease didn’t scare me anymore.
That I can receive without shrinking.
That I can be supported without apology.
That I can let calm land — and stay.
For the woman who’s reading this and still bracing when good things show up…
Let me tell you: you’re not broken.
You’re just rewiring.
And one day — without warning, without a big moment —
on some ordinary Tuesday or in front of a mirror —
you’ll realize you’re not waiting to be rescued.
You’re simply… held.
And it won’t feel like you’re running for your life.
It’ll feel like your life is finally running with you.
This piece is part of The Edit — presence-first leadership narratives from The Co.
