Mile Markers
29 years ago, I almost died.
22 years after that, I experienced the death of my identity as I knew it. I can only describe that process as the most painful and profound experience of my life. Fitting that on my birthday (today), I would be reflecting on my life and the iterations of me it has produced. And perhaps most importantly, be grateful for all of it.
In March of 1996, my family was traveling up I-55 to the annual state basketball tournament that my grade school competed in for many years as I was growing up. I had experienced this same trip as an athlete myself, but this time I was a fifteen year old with a driver’s permit, on my way there as a fan to watch my younger sister take her shot at it. Eagerly anticipating the rite of passage that is a driver’s license, I accepted the offer from my dad to drive the first leg of the trip, since interstate driving was part of the practice I needed to accumulate in order to meet my driver’s ed requirements.
We left early enough that daylight was still plenty abundant. I didn’t really want to be driving in the dark on the interstate (and neither did my parents), so we agreed that I’d drive for an hour or so, and then my dad would take over around Springfield and drive the rest of the way. I cautiously took the wheel of our green Ford Aerostar minivan, and we headed north. My dad was in the passenger seat, my nine year old brother and mom were in the middle seat, and my sister who was in seventh grade at the time, spread out in the rear of the minivan.
My dad showed me how the cruise control worked, which I thought was pretty cool. We set it right at the speed limit, so I could focus on the driving and not worry about how fast I was going. We were full of excitement and anticipation, as my family loved sports and the camaraderie that came with traveling with a bunch of fun-loving basketball families. Hotel rooms, intense basketball games, loud fan sections, going out to restaurants, swimming in the hotel pool, shopping at Woodfield Mall . . . these were the things adolescent memories were made of. We were on our way to a good time and we knew it. Loaded up with music, snacks, a Game Boy, and magazines; we were amped for the four and half hour drive on the way to a weekend of good times.
Until mile marker 66.
We hadn’t been driving quite an hour, and I was cruising along when out of the median to my left, a skunk darted into my path. My driving inexperience went on full display, as I instinctively jerked the wheel hard to the right to try and avoid hitting it. When I did this I felt the van leer to the right uncontrollably, and again, out of inexperience and ignorance, jerked the wheel back to the left to try and regain control. Except I lost it. Completely.
I’m sure in real time this all happened in a matter of seconds, but to me it felt like time disappeared. It was one of two times in my life where I can say I understand what it feels like to completely let go of all attachment to everything and just be. I saw white lights flying at me in a sea of black. I’m not sure now if those were headlights of oncoming cars as we rolled over and over in the van, or if it was the last visual my brain produced before I experienced a concussion and blacked out. All I know is that I was aware that my van was rolling over and over and over, and that there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. In that moment, I very clearly remember saying to myself silently in my head, “You’re going to die now, and it’s okay.” This moment was filled with surprising stillness, and I didn’t feel anxious at all. People who know me, especially the me of the first three and half decades of my life, know that I was a pretty good example of what high-functioning anxiety looks like, so this profound calm and peace in the most traumatic moment of my life was unexpected.
When the van finally stopped rolling and landed upside-down in the median of the highway, we all found ourselves hanging suspended from our seatbelts, which thankfully we were all wearing, otherwise I have no doubt that we would have not survived. I should say my mom found us hanging suspended, because she immediately started calling out each of our names to see if we would respond. Praying we would respond. One by one we did, except for me. I was silent the longest, and for a moment, my mom didn’t know if I was passed out or dead. I slowly regained consciousness. I think my dad released my seatbelt, and I fell to the roof of the car and crawled out through the shattered window. In a foggy daze, I was starting to come to understand the reality of what had just happened. It seemed like the police, ambulances, and fire trucks were there almost instantly, although I know it must have taken some amount of time for them to respond to the scene. Several semis had pulled over to assist, and I imagine one of the travelers who saw this all unravel in front of them made the 911 call. As soon as I stood up outside the van and looked around, I saw my dad with blood completely covering his face and I lost it. It turned out that his injuries were much milder than his appearance let on, but a cut over his eye had bled quite a bit, and turned him into a terrifying sight for me when I realized I was the one who did that to him. Pretty quickly, EMTs started crowding around me and paying close attention to my ear while I was being questioned by the police. I know I was in shock. I don’t really remember much of what I said or how those conversations went, but I knew that the EMT’s were dialed in on something on the side of my face. As it turned out, the lower part of my ear had completely lacerated and was separated into two parts. I didn’t feel any pain. And I had no idea how much blood was on me or my clothes, but I had to be cut out of them in the ambulance on the way to the ER, so I imagine it didn’t look good.
Once at the ER, our injuries were all treated, and miraculously were all mild. No broken bones. No internal bleeding. Cuts, scrapes, and contusions were the worst of it. Somehow we had escaped death with the least possible damage. We were released from the hospital and my mom’s cousin and her husband who lived nearby graciously allowed us to stay with them for the night. I clearly had a concussion and experienced dry heaves for the next twelve hours, but the next day we decided that going home wasn’t going to help us move on, and we decided to rent a car and drive the rest of the way to Chicago. That might sound crazy, but looking back, the distraction and the company of lots of people we loved were probably the exact thing we needed. We moved on. And honestly, even though we probably should have, we never really talked about it much after that. I have come to realize as an adult how much that experience impacted how I process fear, guilt, shame, and control. Some of which I carry to this day.
Mile marker 66 right outside of Carlinville is quite the literal reminder of that life-changing experience. Every time I make my Monday commute to my Springfield office, I drive past the spot that impacted my life in a very profound way. Two decades later, however, I was so caught up in distracting myself, that I was oblivious to the figurative mile markers along the way that might have prevented the crash I was inevitably speeding toward in my life.
In a nutshell, I can say that the collision of realities that occurred years later was the product of being dishonest. Acutely at the time, it was dishonesty with others out of fear. But chronically in my life, it was dishonesty with myself. In hindsight, I have learned that any dishonesty towards others is always rooted in some sort of lie you are telling yourself. Such was the case for me. Facing the darkest parts of yourself and admitting what you are truly capable of is a daunting and revealing endeavor.
So what was I lying to myself about for so long? Man. <Hard sigh.> So many things.
It began in childhood and continued into adolescence and adulthood. Looking back, I realize I lied when I told myself my gut feelings about certain situations and people weren’t valid. I lied when I acted like everything was fine even when it wasn’t, because I convinced myself it wasn’t a good idea to speak up when I thought what I had to say might not be well received. I lied when I told myself that I could bury hurt and anger and that it was the noble thing to do because it would eventually go away. I lied when I determined my value was directly related to how smart I was, how athletic I was, and how “good” I was. I lied when I told myself that it was morally wrong to question beliefs or thoughts that didn’t agree with the world view of those around me. I lied when I convinced myself that my instincts about who and how to love were wrong.
So many mistruths. Which, let me be clear, are really no one’s fault. None of this came from a place of malevolence. I know beyond any doubt how loved and supported I was growing up: at home, at school, and beyond. But I also know that I was completely ill-equipped in knowing how to speak up and show up as the real me at the risk of losing connection and disappointing others. I was the consummate perfectionistic people-pleaser. And when you live your life endlessly trying to please everyone at the expense of your own authenticity, you ultimately observe yourself telling everyone that all is well, when in your gut you know that it isn’t. And that means you observe yourself being a liar. It also means that you spend all of your time trying to manage the perceptions of other people, so as not to risk rejection or disappointment from others. Which means you observe yourself being a manipulator. And even though no part of you set out to be a liar or manipulator, you can only go on that way for so long before the bottom falls out and you have to face the consequences of your word and actions not being aligned with how you actually feel. It doesn’t make you feel good about how you’re showing up in the world. And it isn’t sustainable. Not in any healthy way at least.
When this pattern had reached its peak, I found myself having hurt others and myself in ways that I never could have imagined that the “good girl” who I grew up identifying as could have possibly fathomed. In a way, it was like I could not live one day longer as this divided person who knew and felt so many hard truths but could not voice them, and instead of being a responsible, honest adult who said the difficult things that needed to be said, the scared, little girl inside of me pulled the pin on a grenade and blew it up instead. Both approaches could have charted a completely different course for my life, and obviously mature conversations are preferred to avoidance that leads to explosive consequences. But I have come to understand that the me of then was simply not wise enough, mature enough, or equipped to do it the way I “should have.”
And so, just like I crawled out of the smashed minivan after my near-death crash when I was fifteen because I didn’t know how to respond properly to an skunk running out in front of me, I also stumbled away from the wreckage twenty years later in a daze that forced me to confront the mess and be real honest about how I got there. Why hadn’t I handled this well? What was I afraid of? Who was I really? What did I know in my heart and soul to be true?
That was the most difficult, painful, telling, and honest point of my life. And among the mess, I found out who I really was.
There was no perfectionism to uphold anymore. I had shattered that. There was no reason to be dishonest anymore. I had already lost many of the things I was afraid of losing. This was the second time in my life that I accepted a complete loss of control. Only this time it was the loss of control over what other people thought about me and how I was perceived, the very two things I spent the majority of my life worrying about. It was just me and the truth and the choice to be ruthlessly honest with myself and anyone I cared about from that point on. It was my chance to choose who and what I knew were meant for me and to say no to who and what was not. Had it not been for the grace and compassion I experienced from some very key people during that trying time, I don’t know that I would have made it out in any good way. But thankfully there were. They were there to welcome the authentic, messy, imperfect me with open arms, over and over. Which reinforced for me that I didn’t need to perform for acceptance or love. I could be myself, as I was, and experience the closest, most meaningful relationships I had ever known.
The most beautiful part of the whole experience is the transformation that happens inside of you when you experience that kind of love. It gives you a whole new capacity and ability to show the same kind of love, compassion, and understanding to others. Because you know what it feels like to be scared, ashamed, alone, and judged. And you wouldn’t wish that on anyone else. Ever. And from that flows humility and gratitude. Humility because you know your dark side. You are intimately familiar with it and what it’s capable of. And you are under no disillusion that you are better than anyone else. Gratitude because you know what it feels like to appreciate every little moment of stillness and the freedom that accompanies authenticity. You treasure real connection to yourself and others, because you know what it’s like to be without it. That’s powerful stuff. The kind of stuff that changes the meaning and trajectory of one’s life. I know, because it did for me.
So today as I experience the reflection that comes with another trip around the sun, I want you to hear words of encouragement. Some thoughts born out of the darkest storms, that reflected the light when the sun came out beaming brightly after.
Your intrinsic value is not connected to your success or lack thereof.
Show up as your authentic self. You won’t be for everyone, and everyone won’t be for you. And that’s exactly as it should be.
Be honest. Always.
Be kind. You never know what someone else is going through.
Your people will love you in spite of your actual imperfection, not because of your perceived perfection.
Love wins.
Happy birthday to me. I’ve already been given the gifts of a lifetime: two unbelievable extra chances at living a meaningful, purposeful life. The first time I cheated death. The second time I woke up to life. And I’m not going to waste it.