Becoming — May 2026
Cheating in the Carpool Lane
I almost cheated on the 101 driving to meet a friend this week. Running late — again — to meet an old coworker. The lane next to me was crawling…
I almost cheated on the 101 driving to meet a friend this week. Running late — again — to meet an old coworker. The lane next to me was crawling…
I almost cheated on the 101 driving to meet a friend this week.
Running late — again — to meet an old coworker. The lane next to me was crawling and the carpool lane was wide open and I drifted in for two minutes before I pulled back out. I’m alone in the car. Just me, my coffee, and the kind of self-talk that always sounds like I’m late, I’m sorry, just this once.
The thing I want to tell you is that I pulled out because I’m becoming a better version of myself. The peaceful one. The one who doesn’t cut corners.
But I’m not.
I pulled out because I started doing the math. $580 ticket. Two-point hit on my record. Roughly the cost of the breakfast we were about to have, times fourteen. The numbers got there before the values did.
But I sat in traffic for the rest of the drive and the real question started forming anyway. Not why did I drift — but the one underneath. Why am I always late.
Here’s what I think is actually true, even though I don’t love it.
My lateness isn’t about time. It never has been. I overcommit because saying no still feels like losing. I leave late because the rush is the only place in my day where I feel like I’m choosing something. And the small rule-breaks — the carpool lane, the shortcut, the corner cut — those are how I take back power in a life where, for a long time, I didn’t have much of it.
It’s a whole sequence. Overcommit → Leave late → Take the shortcut → Arrive almost-on-time → Repeat. The shortcut is the move. The lateness is the move. The whole pipeline is me saying I get to decide, even when I’m deciding badly. Even when the person I’m cheating most is myself.
Today I broke the chain at the last step. I didn’t take the shortcut. Which sounds like progress until you notice I still left late. My friend was late too — saved from an apology by pure coincidence. The pattern in me is fully intact.
I sat in the lane. Drove the speed limit. Got there fifteen minutes late.
We had a great breakfast and I spilled all my tea.
Twenty years in the making.
A space for the messy, beautiful middle.