By Rachel B.
This is a love letter to all the commuters out there.
Let’s talk about the HOV lane for a moment. I try to follow the rules, I stay out of it when it’s just me, and yet I watch car after car cruise past with one person inside. Today I saw two people…and a dog. Does that count as the third passenger? Someone help a girl out!
Then there’s rain. Why is it that one drop sends drivers into chaos? Headlights off when they should be on. Wipers stuck on full blast—or worse, still swiping across a dry windshield after the storm is long gone. And don’t even get me started on the turnpike daredevils at 6 a.m., weaving through traffic at 100 mph. No one wants to get to work that badly—unless they’ve just stolen the car.
Here’s the thing: I actually enjoy my commute. Two hours a day when I have no choice but to stop and do something for myself. I can catch up on podcasts, call a friend, sing in silence, do a little car karaoke, starring in my own version of The Voice. (Spoiler: I always win. Golden buzzer every time.)
My Spotify playlist is a diary of my life. One day I’m lost in the 60s, the next in the 70s, a little 80’s and 90’s to shake things up, or belting out modern hits. With Bluetooth and CarPlay, no one knows if I’m singing or having a heated debate. And I like it that way.
Of course, commuting comes with its villains: bus drivers who cut you off without fear, digital road signs that state the obvious (“Snow ahead!”—thanks, I noticed, it’s a whiteout), and people who just can’t figure out the zipper merge. Regular commuters know the rules and etiquette of the road, but every day a few rogue drivers ruin the flow.
After nearly three decades on the road, I’ve seen it all:
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The nose pickers.
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The drivers practically kissing their steering wheels.
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The ones who flash their hazards and speed up the shoulder like the rules don’t apply to them.
Sometimes I just study faces in traffic and wonder if they’re thinking the same things I am: Is this really what we’ve been doing for years? For a while, my commute even became a metaphor—I’d pass a chicken truck every day on my way to a job that made me miserable. Both of us, headed to slaughter. But things change. The chicken truck is gone, I left that school, and now the drive feels different: full of reflection, gratitude, and even joy.
And here’s where credit is due: shout-out to the New Jersey Turnpike Authority. Truly. For the most part, my commute is smooth sailing, and when bad weather hits, those crews are out there working tirelessly to keep the roads safe for the rest of us. From one commuter’s heart—thank you.
Even on the craziest days, I still get to watch the sunrise kiss the Statue of Liberty, to see New York City wake up, to feel the magic of a world moving before most people have even had their coffee.
So this love letter is to you, fellow commuters—and to the folks who keep our roads safe—the singers, the dreamers, the rule-followers, the road philosophers. We share something unique every day. The road may be chaotic, but it’s ours.
