Perspective.

How One Seemingly Ordinary Day Changed Everything. Warning; This is a story that is NOT for the faint of heart.

A photo from my recent trip to Lake Tahoe

I have been a bit quiet lately, taking some intentional time away from social media and in-person gatherings since the beginning of summer, giving myself some time and space to contemplate what’s next. Do I continue moving forward with the work I am doing, or go in a completely different direction? And if the answer is to let something go, do I have the grace to accept it?

At the time, I thought I was taking the summer to figure out my future. I had no idea life was about to give me a very different kind of perspective.

A big part of this time away has been intentionally slowing down. I’ve been working on projects around the house, reviving my old recipe repertoire that had become stale and boring, and reconnecting with good friends.

This past year has been a doozy.

It’s been hard to show up and put on a brave face when someone asks how I’m doing. I hate lying, but the truth has felt like a heavy, wet dog blanket I wouldn’t wish on anyone else to carry. As things have slowly lifted and a little light has begun appearing at the end of the tunnel, showing up authentically feels like taking a deep breath after being caught in an undertow for far too long.

A few weeks ago, a close friend rented a house in Lake Tahoe and invited me up for the week. Naturally, I jumped at the chance. We both love good food, so I volunteered to make a few dinners and breakfasts. In the days leading up to and preparing for the trip, I felt something I hadn’t experienced in quite a while—genuine excitement to travel somewhere beautiful and leave everything else behind.

The drive up was joyful. Just me, my little car, the top down, a fun summertime playlist on Spotify, no rushing and very little traffic. When I arrived, I pulled into a small town, drove slowly through the streets, admired the lake, and took it all in. The water was impossibly blue, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and I had absolutely no agenda.

Life felt perfect.

That first night I made my famous skirt steak fajitas. We shared good wine, lots of laughs, and decided that since rain was forecast for the next day, we’d spend the morning exploring neighborhoods around Donner Lake, dreaming about places we might rent together next summer.

The next morning we loaded up the cars with towels and food and headed out. I wanted to drive so I could keep the top down and soak in every bit of Tahoe’s beauty. My good friend and his daughter rode with me while his wife and two daughters followed in their SUV.

Traffic was light. An older RV was several cars ahead of us.

About fifteen minutes into the drive, everything changed.

As I rounded a curve on the winding two-lane road, the RV was suddenly blocking both lanes. A small SUV had crossed into oncoming traffic, struck the passenger side of the RV, and was now pinned underneath it.

The scene didn’t feel real.

Just moments earlier that RV had been driving peacefully up the highway. Now smoke and fuel were pouring from underneath it, and a mangled SUV was trapped beside it.

I pulled over. We all jumped out.

Several other cars stopped too. Complete strangers immediately ran toward the wreckage, everyone trying to figure out how they could help.

The driver of the SUV was conscious.

The passenger was not.

Cell service was spotty, so everyone scrambled to call 911 while others assessed the passengers, checked on the people in the RV, and worried about the fuel continuing to pour across the road.

Watching ordinary people instinctively jump into action was remarkable. Nobody stopped to ask whose fault it was. Nobody hesitated. Everyone simply did what they could for complete strangers.

Someone finally found a box cutter to cut the seatbelt and managed to free the driver. He was badly injured—his nose was clearly broken with cuts all over his face, and his arms and legs were covered in cuts and glass. He was a mess and needed a towel. I ran to my car, grabbed one of my beach towels, and hurried back. He was sitting alone beside his car in complete shock.

I sat down next to him.

He began screaming for his wife.

“Is my wife alive?”

He was despondent. He was yelling at himself, incredibly angry that he had fallen asleep behind the wheel. I wrapped my arms around him and simply kept saying how sorry I was. He kept asking out loud why he couldn’t have drifted to the other side of the highway where there was no oncoming traffic.

In moments like that, you realize there isn’t anything you can say to someone who has just experienced something so traumatic. I didn’t know what to do exactly but I knew he needed someone to just be with him and so I would not leave his side until help arrived.

Everyone else was desperately trying to reach his wife, who remained trapped inside the vehicle and wasn’t breathing.

As fuel continued spreading across the highway, we were told we needed to move farther away from the RV. I helped him walk to a safer location while we waited for emergency crews to arrive.

It couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen minutes.

It felt like forever.

When the first responders arrived, the entire scene shifted. Everyone moved with incredible speed and precision. I remember standing there in complete awe, wondering how many times each week these men and women are called into someone else’s worst day. They don’t have the luxury of falling apart. They simply arrive, take over, and do what needs to be done.

I left with an entirely new appreciation for the quiet courage required to do that kind of work.

Meantime, I was surprised by how calm I felt amongst all of the chaos.

My only job was to stay with this man and offer whatever comfort I could, while he continued to yell “What have I done?”

With my arms around him I kept saying, “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re alive.”

“Your wife is going to be ok.”

Eventually the paramedics placed him on a gurney and wheeled him toward the ambulance.

As I walked back to my car to leave, I caught only a brief glimpse into another ambulance where his wife was receiving chest compressions.

I looked away.

I had already seen enough. I didn’t need to see anything else that I could not unsee.

As we drove away, the gravity of what had happened finally hit me. I had to pull off at the next exit because I suddenly felt physically sick.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that man.

His life had changed forever in a matter of seconds.

And how lucky the passengers in the RV were. On impact, a Thule rack had launched off the SUV and speared through the passenger window. It was a miracle the person survived with only a scratch on her hand.

Then another realization hit me.

Had we been only a few minutes later, it could very easily have been our car.

I also couldn’t stop thinking about how ordinary the morning had been.

We were heading to the lake with towels, food, and plans for a fun afternoon.

So were they.

None of us wake up expecting our lives to divide into “before” and “after.”

But sometimes they do.

That thought has stayed with me.

I have prayed a lot for that man and his wife. I prayed for their family. I prayed for everyone involved. And I prayed with overwhelming gratitude that somehow, by what felt like mere minutes, my friends and I had been spared.

I’ve tried not to replay the experience over and over, but it’s difficult. I’ve never witnessed something so traumatic so close up. Sitting with my arms around a complete stranger covered in blood whose world had just fallen apart while realizing how close I had come to being in that same position is something I won’t soon forget.

I’ve also found myself thinking about all of the people who stopped that morning without hesitation.

About the first responders who walk into scenes like this every single day.

And about how quickly life can ask everything of us without warning.

While I don’t think I could ever do the work those first responders do, the experience has changed the question I’ve been asking myself.

Before Tahoe, I thought I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do next.

After Tahoe, I realized I was asking the wrong question.

The better question isn’t, What should I do?

It’s, How do I want to spend whatever time I’ve been given?

I don’t have that answer completely figured out.

But I do know this.

I want my work to matter.

I want it to serve other people.

I want to leave someone’s day a little better than I found it—whether that’s through a conversation, a story, or simply showing up when someone needs another human being beside them.

That morning on the side of the highway reminded me that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.

Strangely, instead of leaving me fearful, it left me profoundly grateful.

Grateful for another ordinary day.

Grateful for the people I love.

And grateful that I still have the opportunity to decide how I spend the life that’s in front of me.