The other day, I found myself on the highway driving. The car behind was approaching very swiftly, until he was right on my tail. The lack of space between us was disconcerting and I kept my eyes locked on this vehicle that dared to come so close from the rearview mirror. He refused to let up and as time went on, I felt the pressure build. I let pure reaction take hold of the wheel—flight. Fly away, fly away. I did what any desperate driver would do and drove faster to gain room to breathe or so I hoped. Much to my chagrin, this only made him go faster in turn. When I increased my mph, so did he. When I slowed, he remained right up against me, unwavering. I imagined him laughing maniacally, rubbing his hands together like some a regular house fly—always plotting and caught in broad daylight, rubbing his evil plan right in my face, well, back. My hands gripped the steering wheel and I found it hard to focus on much else. My heart pounded quickly and frustration brewed up inside me, threatening to burst.

I looked ahead and realised that the poor car in front of me was now reaping my own anxiety. So fixated was I in trying to get away from the car at my rear, that I’d failed to notice the car in front of my very face. I was trailing it with no leeway, most likely passing the driver the same amount of tension that had been passed onto me, like a ball handed down and then handed off again. Irony is a smiling mirror.

Suddenly, I am transported, and the cars morph into generations. A connection begins to form. The car behind becomes my grandparents, who are most likely receiving pressure from the car behind them—their parents. They speed up, trying to escape the stifling expectations of the previous generation. In doing so, they unknowingly apply pressure to the car in front of them—my parents, the next generation. My parents, in turn, anxious and frustrated by the pressures placed upon them, try in their own way to create distance so they themselves can breathe. Yet, so focused on the demands of their parents, they lose sight of the car ahead of them—their children, the next generation—me.

I, too, feel the expectations and the strange pressure coming from the cars behind me—pressure and patterns that have been passed from vehicle to vehicle. Together, we form one long line in this family lane. It seems that each generation feels the demands of the one before it and, not knowing how to bear the weight or even where to channel it, tries to speed up and claim independence, attempting to escape the shadow that the car behind casts. In speeding up, it passes that pressure on to the next generation. Yet when will the speeding, the pushing, and the pressing cease? Will I, too, do the same to the car in front—the next generation, my children? I wonder if the decision of just one car could influence the rest of the lane, changing the structure and the feeling of the entire ride, not only for the driver in the middle, but also for the rest to come.

At times, we can be so caught up in the past and what’s come before us, on the pressures that have been thrown onto our own life, that we lose sight of what’s in front of us but also simultaneously of our own car that it ours to drive. I wonder if we were to hone in, looking in both the rearview mirror and out the windshield that we would become aware, slowing down, not speeding. Appreciating, not pushing. Riding, not rushing.

Maybe we’d roll down the windows, stick out our arms and feel the weight of the mighty wind dancing circles around our limbs whilst she tickled our nose. Or perhaps we’d notice the warmth of the sun streaming into the car, and onto our freckled faces. Conceivably, we’d tune into the music floating out of the speaker and painting the view in a more generous light, warming our hearts and ears as it glided out the window. Perhaps even a smile would find its way onto our face and a gleam would jump into our eyes as we appreciated the reality of driving on the vast road, filled with generations of fellow drivers like ourselves all on this rare and magical journey we call life.

All of us have had cars come before us and go in front of us. I wonder if rather than taking on the possible pressure applied from behind, rather than casting it on the next generation to come after, that we would ease off the gas, slow down, and delight in the journey—wind in our hair, sunlight on our face, and hands loosely holding the wheel. After all, what’s the rush?