Time stands still at the corner of Peachtree Industrial Boulevard and Pierce Drive. I know because I stood on that street corner almost every day of my sophomore year during the trek from my car to school. The walk didn’t seem too bad—there was even terrain, and it was only about 10 minutes from school. It was better than having my parents drop me off and pick me up every day. But I hated it. I hated the early 20-degree mornings that bit through my jacket, and I hated the sweaty afternoons that concluded a too-long day.

And yet, I made the walk every day of my sophomore year since receiving my driver’s license. I had gotten it eagerly as I turned 16 because I craved the independence that came with freedom of movement: with a license, I could get a job, go to extracurricular activities, and hang out with my friends without relying on my parents, with their busy schedules and lives of their own, to drive me around. So, I gritted my teeth and walked every day.

I almost gave up on driving myself to school one particularly cold morning as I waited at the crosswalk spanning the notoriously busy Peachtree Industrial. The signal held up its authoritarian red hand for over three minutes, so I had plenty of time to think. I clenched the handwarmer in my pocket as it supplied a feeble amount of heat to my near-frozen fingers and tried to take my mind off the rest of the uncomfortable journey ahead of me. I began to realize the sheer number of people who used this road on their morning commute—the cars whizzing past me were not simply machines, but symbols of others’ lives who just so happened to cross my own at the corner of Peachtree Industrial and Pierce. 

I felt the hard ground beneath my feet and the cool air around my face; in the middle of the chaos of turn signals (or lack thereof) and car horns, I felt completely and totally at peace. Suddenly, my annoyance at the drivers who blocked the crosswalk or continued on while I had the right-of-way almost guiltily melted into understanding: they just wanted to get to their destination, same as me. And when have I not also snubbed another for my own gain?

Finally, the friendly pedestrian symbol on the signal allowed me to cross. Still—with surprise—I found myself with a slight twinge of melancholy at the thought of continuing on: I didn’t want to leave my newfound empathy at the unexpected serenity of the street corner. Realizing the cars were stopped around me—for me—abruptly took me out of my mind palace and propelled my feet forward in a brisk walk. But the feelings stayed with me. I carried them to school, to my classes, and then back home that afternoon, where I unpacked the heavy weight of understanding upon my bedroom floor. 

The intersection of Peachtree Industrial and Pierce Drive epitomized human existence: it revealed to me the similarities between my life and those of my fellow people, and the beauty and disquiet in the insignificance of my own personal experiences. But most of all, I realized the importance of finding those few minutes to appreciate what is going on around me, rather than being so confined in my own bubble—to look around and empathize with others, to extend my grace, and to be forgiving. Because the greatest appreciation of life is to take it all in and experience it.