The Pump Next to Mine

My gas light came on yesterday. So annoying.

I was running errands—on my way to pick up the kids from camp—when that little orange bulb started glowing on my dashboard like a tiny reminder that I probably shouldn't push my luck.

I pulled into a crowded gas station and somehow managed to snag the very last pump that had the nozzle on the correct side of my car. A small victory.

I was standing there, music playing, listening to potential songs for class the next morning, when I heard a voice.

"Isn't it crazy how gas always goes up right before the weekend?"

I looked over. The man at the pump beside mine was smiling.

"I know," I laughed. "What an odd coincidence."

That could have been the end of it.

Instead, we kept talking.

Like so many conversations these days, it eventually drifted toward politics. I couldn't hear every word over the sound of the pumps, but I caught enough to realize we probably didn't see eye to eye.

Years ago, I might have felt myself tense up.

Instead, I smiled and said, "It just feels like everything in the world has gotten a little...wonka-doo lately, ya know?"

He laughed.

"That's a great word."

"When there isn't a word for something," I told him, "sometimes you just have to make one up."

Then I introduced him to another favorite in my vocabulary: kerfuffle.

For the next few minutes we debated—not politics—but the proper uses of wonka-doo and kerfuffle.

We laughed.

The conversation wandered to how painfully slow the gas pumps seemed that afternoon.

"My kids are going to be mad," I joked. "I'm trying to pick them up early from camp today."

He smiled.

"They'll probably spend the whole ride home telling you everything they did."

"I have two chatterboxes," I said. "No idea where they got that from."

He laughed and told me about his daughter, who also loves to talk, and his twenty-year-old son with special needs who prefers to keep to himself.

He shared that they had switched school districts years ago because his son wasn't getting the support he needed. They eventually landed at a local RESA.

That caught my attention.

One of the members at my studio had recently taken a leadership role there after serving as a special education director.

"I am not surprised," I said. "I think the world of her."

As we talked about his son, I realized there was one more connection I could offer.

For nearly ten years, I served on the advisory board for the Miracle League of Mid-Michigan—an incredible organization that gives children and adults with disabilities the opportunity to experience baseball in a way that's accessible, joyful, and deeply rooted in community.

To my surprise, he had never heard of it.

So there, beside two gas pumps on an ordinary afternoon, I found myself sharing one more piece of my world with someone who might genuinely benefit from knowing it exists.

It struck me later that this is often how good things spread.

Not always through advertisements or social media.

Sometimes through two strangers who happened to pull up next to each other while filling their gas tanks.

As we wrapped up, he noticed the dimples in my smile and pointed to his own.

"Oh," he said, "you've got these too."

"That's how you know you're good people," I joked.

He laughed.

"You have a wonderful day."

"You too."

I pulled away from the pump with one of those smiles that lingers for awhile after the conversation ends.

And I have a feeling he did too.

I've been thinking about that interaction ever since.

Neither of us changed the other's political views.

Neither of us won a debate.

Neither of us even tried.

Instead, we found something that's becoming increasingly rare.

Curiosity.

Humor.

Shared humanity.

Tiny moments of connection.

It's easy to believe that the biggest thing separating us is what we disagree about.

But I wonder if what's actually separating us is how quickly we stop looking for everything else we have in common.

A made-up word.

A slow gas pump.

Kids who never stop talking.

Pride in our communities.

A resource that might help another family.

A smile.

Even dimples.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that people are usually far more interesting than their opinions.

When we make room for the person before the position, something changes.

Not necessarily in the world.

But in the moment.

And moments have a funny way of becoming experiences.

Experiences become memories.

Memories shape relationships.

Relationships shape communities.

We call this Human Experience Design—the intentional practice of creating better conditions through the moments we shape every day.

It's a discipline built on a simple belief:

Better experiences create better conditions.

Better conditions help people become the best version of themselves.

It isn't always about designing conferences, classes, or elaborate systems.

Maybe sometimes it's simply about paying attention.

About staying curious long enough to discover the person standing in front of you.

About recognizing that every interaction holds the possibility of leaving someone a little better than you found them.

The world may feel a little wonka-doo right now.

And there's definitely been a few kerfuffles.

But every once in a while, two strangers at neighboring gas pumps remind each other that being neighbors still matters.

And maybe that's how we move good forward.

One conversation at a time.

Move Like It Matters.