I Am Traffic

Driving a very big car and learning to take up space

We got a new car last summer. Well, a used car, but new to us. We traded in our zippy Audi A5 Sportback for a hulking Lexus GX460.

We had taken our A5 in for an oil change down the street, and they — of course — did a “complimentary check” and told us we needed new motor mounts. Sounded like a typical sus mechanic thing, because who ever needs new motor mounts? What did we even do to this car for it to need new motor mounts?

My prized Audi A5 Sportback. I loved that car.

In any case, we said thank you, and we planned to get a second opinion. In parallel, we went down a path of “what if we do need to pay thousands of dollars to replace motor mounts? Is it even worth keeping this car?” The short answer: probably not. It was already six or seven years old, and German cars don’t have the best reputation for reliability. They do, however, have a reputation for being expensive to maintain. And so we did a little car shopping. Our next car would be our forever car. Without boring you with all the details of the thought process and the dealership experience, we handed over the keys to the A5 and suddenly were owners of a Lexus GX460. It has a red interior, and I referred to it as “cute” and “a cozy little boat” during the test drive.

It wasn’t meant to be a statement car. It was a practical decision. Reliable Lexus, more comfortable road trips, Colorado things, and hey I felt confident driving this giant car.

The red leather interior complements Kona’s red (different red) fur.

A good friend was visiting from out of town recently, and he asked me how I liked driving it. I told him the biggest adjustment wasn’t the size (surprisingly — also, heyo!), or the parking, or the turning radius, or the lack of Apple CarPlay. The biggest difference is that people drive differently around me now. They’re aware of my presence on the road in a way they never were when I was in my Audi. I’m not blending into traffic anymore. I am traffic.

He laughed and said: “Because they know you can end them.” I’ve been thinking about that a lot.

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For most of my life, I’ve been pretty good at making myself small. Not in a self-deprecating way — more in an accommodating way that felt, at the time, like being easy to be around. I was agreeable. I took up only the space I was given. I moved out of the way. I apologized preemptively. I shrank so other people could feel more comfortable, which I told myself was just being polite or considerate, but was probably something else.

A lot of it is my Asian-American upbringing: don’t make waves, don’t rock the boat. That instinct followed me into my career. Early on, I did what I was told. I rarely pushed back. I made sure other voices were heard in meetings without trying to amplify my own — not until later, when I had enough experience and clout to start making waves. But even then, it cost something to get there. I didn’t realize how practiced I had become at disappearing until I had a year to stop and actually look at myself.

This past year — the year of not working full time, the year of pottery and writing and record players and learning how to taste wine with intention — has been a slow process of remembering who I actually am. I’ve written about that in various ways. But I’ve been slower to name the thing underneath it all, the thread that runs through every rediscovery:

I’m learning to take up space.

Not space as in being loud or demanding or difficult. Space as in: my presence is allowed to be felt. My opinions don’t need to be softened before I offer them. My needs don’t need to be minimized to protect someone else’s comfort. I get to exist fully, not just on the sidelines.

And then I look at what I’m driving around in — this big, 5,000-pound, not-subtle SUV — and I think: huh, maybe I already knew that, even before I knew it.

A curb hates to see me comin’.

When I drove the A5, I was fast. Nimble. I blended into traffic and drove around my obstacles. When I drive the GX, I am on. the. road. I am aware of how much space I take up, and others are aware too. They move around me. They stop for me. I now fully understand why you see the smallest women climb out of the biggest SUVs. There’s a feeling of presence and power. And safety, honestly. Because they know you can end them.

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There’s something interesting about a car as a mirror for identity. We don’t usually think of it that way — a car is a practical object — but we’re aware of what our cars say about us. The stereotypes exist for a reason. When I drove a Honda Fit, I felt practical but cool. When I drove a Subaru Outback, I felt practical and uncool (I hated that car; it was zero joy to drive). When I drove my A5, I felt impractical and very cool, and had a lot of fun.

The GX doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t try to fit in. It’s not sleek or subtle. It rolls up and is unapologetically there. People see it. People accommodate. Not because it’s threatening, but because it’s present.

I want to move through the world like that.

I think I’m somewhere in the middle of a longer recalibration, figuring out what it looks like to take up space without overcorrecting into something that doesn’t feel like me either. It’s a balance I’m still finding.

Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

But I keep coming back to that moment: a friend, a joke, a throwaway line about physics and vehicle mass. What I’m now hearing underneath is something else — an instruction, almost. Exist in a way that can’t be easily overlooked. Take up exactly the amount of space you’re entitled to, and stop apologizing for it.

I called it a cute and cozy little boat on the test drive. But did I really buy something I’d been working toward my whole life?

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