I have always known that the outside world is an untamed beast. It shrieks through thin windowpanes, gnashes its teeth at fragile routines, and sneaks into the household in the form of unsettling news and sudden upheavals. It is a beast best observed from a safe vantage point—perhaps from a windowsill, chin resting on paws, a thin layer of glass serving as a fragile boundary between me and the howling uncertainty beyond.
Yesterday, the boundary failed me.
We were in a rental car because someone—some opportunistic phantom—had stolen Mum’s license plate. A trivial crime, perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, but an omen nonetheless. A sign that the constructed order we rely on—numbers, ownership, certainty—can be upended in an instant. Mum was rattled. The car was unfamiliar, unsteady in her hands. Outside, ice and snow transformed the streets into treacherous battlegrounds, and inside, I was trapped in a moving cage of steel, jolted and jostled with every uncertain turn of the wheel.
Schmutz, ever the reckless optimist, chirped excitedly, oblivious to the existential horror of our situation. I, however, was not fooled. The tires slipped. The car wailed in protest. And all around us, the world was loud—screeching brakes, distant sirens, the uneasy hum of engines poised for collision. Every sound, every vibration seeped into my bones. Could this, I wondered, have lasting effects? Could the body hold onto fear like a scent, like an imprint pressed into fur?
It was then that I considered the question that has plagued me since my first glimpse beyond the window: Is the inside world truly separate from the outside world, or are they two parts of the same, inescapable mechanism?
Because the truth is, the outside world does not remain outside. It slithers in through stolen number plates and creeping anxieties, through frozen streets and shaking hands on steering wheels. It echoes in the quiet of the home, in the way Mum sighs at the news, in the way Dad lingers a little longer before stepping out the door. The world’s grand dysfunction is not a distant tragedy—it is an intimate disruption, a sharp claw dragged along the fabric of everyday life.
And yet, what choice is there but to persist? The car moves forward, even as the ice conspires against it. Mum grips the wheel tighter, determined to carve a path through the storm. And I, though shaken, remain curled in my carrier, ears twitching at every unkind sound, but breathing—still breathing.
Perhaps that is what survival looks like. Not the absence of fear, but the ability to keep moving despite it.
A Reflection on the Larger Storm
In moments like these, I wonder if the whole world is caught in a car ride on ice. Political landscapes shift beneath uncertain hands, and the foundations we trusted—institutions, agreements, familiar rhythms—groan and slide out from under us. We are all in a vehicle we do not fully control, trying to navigate a road that was not built for our safety.
Some believe they are at the wheel. They call themselves leaders, architects of fate. But as I observed from my unfortunate vantage point in the backseat, gripping my fear with quiet dignity, even those in charge are just guessing, just reacting, just trying to make it through the storm without spinning into the abyss.
And so, I wonder: if the inside and the outside world are not separate, if the storm is both political and personal, what does it mean to carve out safety?
Perhaps it means holding onto rituals. A familiar blanket, a soft word, the act of reclaiming a space from the chaos. Perhaps it means understanding that no one is truly in control, and yet, we must all act as if we are—if only to keep moving.
Or perhaps it means recognizing that fear is not the enemy. That discomfort does not always signal doom. That sometimes, the best we can do is grip the wheel, breathe through the noise, and hope that the road ahead, however uncertain, will hold us for just a little while longer.
