Fast lane, full stop.

Most mornings, I leave home with just enough time to get to work.
No margin, no wiggle room—just calculated urgency.
I know exactly how long the drive takes, when and where the traffic peaks, and how to shave a minute or two off if I need to.
There’s no time to waste.
Or so I tell myself.

On that stretch of road, I know the precise spots the speed van lurks and even the times it is likely to be there. After prolonged observation, I’m convinced it is the one van at the two spots!

It had become a rhythm of its own—cutting it close, moving with purpose, feeling like I was in control.
Then came the morning I met three ambulances on the road.
All headed the opposite way, lights flashing, sirens piercing.
I remember thinking, Something serious must have happened.

And I prayed, for my children, for my young one going to school and for all others.
But I kept driving.
I was late. I had work to do.

It wasn’t until that evening that I found out what had happened.
A road traffic accident.
A fatal one.
Just a few miles from where I’d passed.
I had driven away from the chaos, unaware that a life had just slipped away behind me.

That knowledge landed heavy.
And strangely, it made me feel like I’d been rushing past more than just flashing lights.
I’d been rushing past life itself.

What was I racing toward anyway?
What was I carrying that couldn’t wait to be dropped?

That day, the road held more than traffic.
It held a mirror.
And in it, I saw myself: always in motion, always a little ahead of now.

But I also saw something bigger.
We’re all in a race.
Different tracks, different shoes—but most of us are running.
Running to achieve.
To prove.
To arrive.
To stay relevant.
To not be left behind.

We race through our mornings, our meals, our milestones.
We check things off, stack accomplishments, say “yes” out of obligation, to feel present, scroll while we walk, talk while we think, exist while we strive.

We call it ambition. Or purpose. Or being productive.
But sometimes, it’s just noise.
Motion for motion’s sake.

It wasn’t guilt that filled me. It was clarity.
Because speed is seductive. It makes you feel important.
But what it often steals is presence.

That evening, I didn’t tick off my to-do list.
I sat. I breathed. I listened to my children fill me in with details (word on the school yard) of the accident and talk about their day with the kind of attention that doesn’t multitask.
And the world didn’t collapse.
It waited.

As a nurse, I’m trained to respond—to move quickly, to act.
As a mother, I’m always in motion—a super woman.
As a quiet leader, I often feel the pull to stay ahead, to keep everything (and everyone) going.

But that day reminded me:
It’s not always about doing more.
Sometimes, the deepest form of care—for others, for myself—is found in slowing down.
In being wholly present.
In listening before leaping.

Slowing down isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom.
It’s the holy hush between moments—the space where life, real life, waits to be felt.

And maybe that’s what we’re missing in this grand race.
Not success. Not meaning. Not drive.
But rhythm.
Stillness.
Breath.
Room enough to ask ourselves:
Why am I running? Who told me I had to? And what if rest is not falling behind—but finally catching up with myself?

---

**So I’ll ask you, gently—what pace are you living at?

And is it giving you life, or just getting you through it?