Hi, my name’s Kyle. Yes, I get in whatever lane has fewer cars and then merge. I merge late so others can practice forgiveness. I don’t see it as cutting someone off. I see it as giving them a spiritual workout.
Merging, to me, is faith in motion. When I flick on my blinker, at the last possible second, I’m not being rude. I’m saying I believe in you. I believe you’ll make space. That you’ll overcome the petty human urge to honk and instead ascend toward grace.
Patience is a muscle, and I’m your personal trainer. I push you past your limit. You might shake. You might curse my name. But later, when your blood pressure stabilizes, and you feel the calm wash over you, you’ll thank me. As Gandhi said, or maybe I’m paraphrasing, “Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.” I’m just here to spot you.
Traffic isn’t chaos. It’s just therapy with horns. Every red light is a breathing exercise. Every missed exit is an opportunity for growth. Every time I merge late, someone releases the anger they’ve been holding since childhood. And if that isn’t public service, I don’t know what is.
When people say, “I cut them off,” I say, “No. I opened them up.” I opened up their lungs. Their heart. Their capacity for forgiveness. Some people donate blood. I donate perspective.
Sometimes I think of the highway as one big church parking lot. Everyone dressed differently, but all praying for the same thing: to get where they’re going, and not to lose their humanity along the way. I’m not here to test your patience. I’m here to strengthen it.
It doesn’t just stop there.
I text my ex on her birthday every year. Not because I miss her. But because forgiveness is a muscle, and I refuse to let her atrophy. Every “Happy Birthday” I send is a gentle reminder that she still has emotional work to do. I’m basically her Peloton instructor, except the ride never ends, and she never asked to join.
At the grocery store, I bring fifteen items into the ten-item aisle so the cashier can practice forgiveness between customers. It’s community service, really. I like to look them in the eye as they scan each item. Bread. Milk. Grace.
When I park across two spaces, it’s not inconsiderate. It’s a spatial protest. Forgiveness shouldn’t be limited by painted lines.
As the sages say, “Forgiveness only counts when you didn’t see it coming.”
Sometimes I “forget” to Venmo my friends back right away. Not because I’m cheap, but because forgiveness can’t grow in a world of instant payments.
When I interrupt people mid-sentence, I’m not cutting them off. I’m cutting through to their higher self. Conversations are just traffic with words, and I’m still merging. It’s not about talking over them. It’s about guiding them toward a higher lane of grace.
Last week, a man called me an “entitled jackass.” I smiled. In that moment, I became his mirror, reflecting the parts of himself he hasn’t yet forgiven. His horn was his confession. My lane change was his redemption arc.
And as every forgiveness guru says, “You can’t forgive someone else until you’ve forgiven yourself.” Luckily, I’m already light-years ahead on that journey.
So next time you see me slide into your lane at the last second, just remember forgiveness doesn’t happen in silence or solitude.
It happens when I merge.
