As I was sitting in traffic one night last summer, driving from Dunwoody to Decatur to a museum opening, with Henry dozing off in the back seat, I was struck by how many people were on the road.
Obviously, Atlanta traffic is insane. It always is.
But as I was sitting in traffic, mostly at stoplights, I was looking around and just thinking.
The colors were very bright and crisp — it was hot enough to be semi-miserable, but not hot enough to be smoggy and gross. There were cars as far as the eye could see on Peachtree. Because it was still daylight out, I could see in the cars and see faces, especially when I was side-by-side looking directly at people traveling the opposite way.
It was then that it hit me how many stories there are. Everybody has a story. No two people have the exact one.
Your story — your TRUTH — is as unique as your fingerprint.
So I started looking…
The man with the earbuds driving the Jetta… what’s his story?
The girl putting on mascara at the end of the day… who is she going to meet? Is she going on a date? Is she going to church or a concert?
The mom with her hands on the wheel, grasping it as tight as she can… is she frustrated, anxious, DONE?
How about the two guys in the 4Runner with their ties loosened, looking like they were about to fall asleep… what’s their story? Were they up til 3 playing in their band and then had to go to work?
The VERY old lady driving an $80,000 Mercedes but can barely see over the steering wheel… how long’s her husband been dead? Does she lay in bed wondering when she’ll get to see him again?
The businesswoman with her blonde hair flying in her Audi convertible… what’s her deal? What’s she been through? What’s she GOING through?
The homeless man sitting near the MARTA station with all his earthly belongings in a duffel bag… what happened? What brought him to this particular place in this particular moment? Is he sad or scared or hungry?
How about me? In my car, with my most prized possession in the back seat drifting in and out of sleep, I realized that my story is still unfolding. More and more every day I’m owning my story. It may not be very interesting and well, it can be downright depressing…
But by God, it’s mine. Just like my fingerprints, my story is unique.
What’s your story? Do you own it? Are you proud of it?
ps: that’s a rhetorical question. you don’t have to answer it in the comments. but you do have to think about it!