Street Lights and Potholes

I've been driving the same roads for years. I take the same turns and shortcuts, traveling stretches of pavement I recognize more by feel than by sight. And somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing what was broken.

On the way to the grocery store, there's a pothole I've been swerving around for so long that I barely notice it anymore. I just turn the wheel left and keep going. It's been there for at least two winters, maybe three. I can't remember when it stopped bothering me.

That's what happens with damage you live with for a long time. It stops feeling like damage and just becomes part of the road.

Father Rob said something at Mass that I can't stop thinking about. He didn't sugarcoat it. He said we complain about broken streetlights and potholes in public, in our neighborhoods, and on our streets, but the ones that really bother us, the ones that actually need fixing, are our own. Those are ours.

Many in the church didn't know what to do with that for a second. Neither did I.

Because he's right.

I know exactly which lights in my life have gone out. I know the moments when I go quiet in rooms where I should speak up. I know the things I've meant to address for three years but keep avoiding. I've gotten so used to navigating parts of myself in the dark that I've started to think of the darkness as normal.

The potholes are the same way. Some potholes I hit once, hard enough to shake everything up, and then I never went back. I just found a new way around and told myself it was smart, practical, and that I was moving on.

But you don't really move on from a pothole you never fixed. You just keep swerving around it. The swerve becomes a habit, and the habit becomes your usual route. One day, you realize you've been adding ten minutes to every trip just to avoid something you never faced.

We are walking around like that. Most of us. Right now. Our lights are out, and our roads are rough, yet we still find the energy to have opinions about other people's neighborhoods, why?

I've done this myself, and I still catch myself doing it. It's easier to point out someone else's dark street than to stand in front of your own and admit you haven't turned on the light in years. It's easier to notice the pothole someone else keeps driving past than to look at the one you've been avoiding for as long as you can remember.

My mom used to say, "You never know what the person in front of you is carrying." She was talking about the driver going fourteen miles an hour. The neighbor you wave at but don't really know. The person in the meeting who always seems fine. She meant it as a grace to others. And it is. But I think there's another layer underneath it.

You see other people's roads more clearly when you're not white-knuckling your own. When your own lights are out, and your road is rough, and you haven't dealt with any of it, you can't really be present for anyone else. You're just managing, just getting through the drive. You're so focused on keeping your car on the road that you don't notice who's out there walking on the shoulder in the dark.

But when you start doing the work, when you fix one light, fill one hole, or have one conversation you've been avoiding, something changes in how you move through the world. You slow down differently. You notice differently. Not with judgment, but with something closer to recognition. You say, "Oh. I know that stretch. I've been on that road. That one goes deep."

That's what Father Rob meant. If you fix your own problems in private, you'll be better in public. Not because you'll be perfect or have all your lights shining, but because you'll know what the work feels like. People who've done the work can recognize it in others without needing an explanation.

I don't have everything fixed. I want to be clear about that. I've got lights I've been meaning to address and potholes I've been rerouting around for longer than I care to say out loud. But I'm starting to address more of them. I'm sitting with the uncomfortable ones, picking up the phone, and saying, "This one's been out for a while, and I think it's time."

It doesn't feel like progress right away. It feels like standing in the middle of a dark street and admitting what's obvious, under that one flickering streetlight that should have been fixed years ago.

But the road gets a little clearer. And when your road is clearer, you can see others out there navigating the dark. You can pull over and say with confidence, knowing that it can actually help, "I know this stretch. You're not alone."

That's the whole point, I think. Not to have a perfect road, just to be honest about what needs work.

Which pothole have you been rerouting around so long you forgot it was even there?