MERGE RIGHT

What a highway lane ending, a Grand Valley bumper sticker, and a Friday afternoon escape taught me about choosing who you want to be.

It’s Friday afternoon.

Which already feels like a small win.

Earlier in the morning, before I taught class, one of my students casually mentioned that a group of them would be heading to Horrocks Farm Market later.

And if you’re not familiar…

It’s not just a market.

It’s a whole experience.

Indoor farm market.

All the delicious things.

A beer garden.

A pond.

Plants everywhere.

And—perhaps most importantly—you can sip something fun while you wander.

She invited me to join.

And I gave the responsible answer:

“I’ll see how the day plays out.”

But in my head?

“Oh, I’m going.”

Because it had been a while since I’d been out with other adults…without someone needing a snack, a ride, or a referee.

I texted Brandon.

“Hey, I’m not sure what we had planned tonight—are you cool if I head to Horrocks?”

He said yes.

And just like that…

I was on the highway.

I had fully escaped the house in joggers and a boxy Fitness Studio t-shirt—which, for branding purposes, felt like a strong choice.

But about halfway there, I had a thought:

Is this what one wears… to drink an alcoholic beverage in public?

Because my shirt very loudly says fitness on the front.

And my jacket?

MoveMaker on the back.

And then I thought:

Actually… yes.

Of course this is what I should be wearing.

How else are people supposed to know how much fun they could be having with us on AND off the dance floor?

So I kept driving.

And then I hit one of those weird highway merge situations.

You know the kind.

Two lanes.

Becoming one.

There’s a sign:

Left lane ends. Merge right.

I’m already in the right lane.

And there’s a car next to me on the left—very close.

Uncomfortably close.

In the lane…that is about to not exist.

And immediately, my brain goes:

Sir, you should really be speeding up or slowing down.

You’ve been warned.

The signs are clear.

This is not my problem.

And then I paused.

Just for a second.

And instead of holding my pace…

I turned off cruise control and slowed down.

Just enough to let them in.

They merged.

Barely.

But they made it.

And in that exact moment…

I noticed something I didn’t love.

This little, automatic story I had already started writing about them.

Who they were.

How they drove.

What kind of person “does that.”

All of it.

Without any additional context.

And then I saw it.

A tiny blue and black “GV” by their license plate.

Grand Valley.

My alma mater.

And without even thinking, I said to myself:

“Go Lakers.”

They couldn’t hear me.

I know that.

But it still felt like the right thing to say.

And just like that…

The story changed.

Because Grand Valley shaped me.

It gave me people.

Experiences.

Perspective.

And almost everyone I met there?

Pretty awesome.

So maybe…

That person wasn’t intentionally inconsiderate.

Maybe they were distracted.

Or in a rush.

Or having a moment where they just needed to feel like they were getting somewhere.

Maybe they just needed a little space.

And in that moment…

I had the ability to give it to them.

And here’s the part that sticks with me:

I didn’t have to slow down.

I wasn’t obligated.

I was technically in the “right.”

But I also had a choice.

To prove a point.

Or to make space.

And for whatever reason…

On that Friday afternoon, on a random stretch of highway…

I chose to make space.

And the funny thing is—

It didn’t cost me anything.

I didn’t get there later.

I didn’t lose anything.

But I did leave that moment feeling better.

Because maybe we’re not as different as we think we are.

Maybe the person next to you isn’t “that kind of driver.”

Maybe they’re just…

a person…

in a moment.

And sometimes, the smallest shift—

A foot off the gas.

A pause in the narrative.

A different assumption—

Can change everything.

So I pulled into the parking lot, found a great spot (obviously good karma at work), and sat for a second.

Took a breath.

Put on a deep red lip stain that absolutely was on my teeth the entire time I was there.

And thought:

That felt like a good choice.

Not because it was big.

Not because anyone noticed.

But because I noticed.

And sometimes…

that’s enough.

Move Like It Matters.