I drove eleven miles past my exit last Thursday. Not because I was lost. Because I was having an argument with someone who wasn't in the car.
Full courtroom drama. Opening statements, cross-examination, devastating closing argument. I was winning, obviously. I always win the ones that aren't real.
Somewhere around mile nine, my hands started hurting. That's when I looked down. White knuckles. Jaw locked. Shoulders up around my ears like they were trying to leave without me.
I'd been driving angry for twenty minutes and hadn't noticed until my body filed a complaint.
That's the difference between calm and awareness. Everyone wants calm — the emotional thermostat set to a steady 72 regardless of weather. But calm is a rest stop. You visit. You leave. It's not a place you live.
Awareness is noticing you're in the car at all. Noticing the hands. Noticing the jaw. Noticing you've been prosecuting a case against your coworker while your body runs the vehicle on autopilot.
I'm not calm. I may never be calm. I'm a person who feels things at full volume and probably always will. But I'm getting better at noticing the volume knob. Not turning it down — just seeing it. Knowing it's there. Knowing I have a hand.
That's not peace. It's navigation. And you can navigate a storm without pretending it's not raining.
