As we prepared to drive across the country this summer, John’s mother, who road tripped from North Carolina to Oregon in the early ‘60s to attend graduate school, offered two pieces of advice:
1) Do not wait until empty to fill up your tank. When you see a station, get gas.
2) Whatever you do, do not drive across the Continental Divide in Colorado.
We found her suggestions charming and laughed a little, assuming they were out of date. After all, gas stations seem to be everywhere now. Big, massive ones with football stadium lighting and unnecessary footprints. Too many, I would argue.
But on the way to New Mexico, after we’d spent a few days exploring New Orleans and Austin, we found ourselves in the middle of the desert in Far West Texas. John, who is known for staying cool and calm under pressure, started to tense up, and I could feel it.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, turning down the radio.
“I’m not sure we’re going to make it to a gas station,” he said. I squished my eyebrows together. This was something that would happen on my watch—no question—but never on John’s.
“We’re out of gas?” I asked, still trying to process the news. “You can keep going for a while once the light comes on.”
“We’re out of gas,” he said, shaking his head.
I turned the music down and drummed my fingers on my leg. It was getting dark and there was no civilization in sight, which until that moment, had felt like a very good thing. We were headed to Marfa by way of a small town called Marathon, and flat, empty desert reached in every direction.
“How far do we have to go?” I pressed, chewing on my lip. Herbie was asleep in the backseat.
“I don’t know,” John said. “Maybe an hour and a half.”
My imagination flooded with images of us stranded on the road at midnight in the middle of nowhere. If you’ve never seen it before, the middle of nowhere in Texas hits differently. The further west you go, the more each mile stretches and expands, taking your sense of time along with it. Neither of us had known that once we left Highway 10 for the state highways of Texas, gas would have to wait.
When I think about the fear and discomfort that running out of gas on a trek across the desert sparks, it reminds me of the way we traverse the landscapes of our lives—even the most barren ones—with few resources and little preparation. We push ourselves, in work and relationships and community, to give more than we can manage in an already-extractive world, charging ahead with little support. We are conditioned from a young age to believe this is just the way things are.
Those of us socialized as women become particularly inclined to give to those around us—even when our tanks grow empty, even with no gas stations in sight.
Feminine labor—emotional, intuitive, and otherwise—is taken for granted and almost always expected for free. If we try to monetize those sacred and critical yet hard-to-quantify parts of society, recognizing our worth, the world resents it. Stay in your lane, says the racist capitalist patriarchy. But give us what we need.
On a broader scale, men and women alike have been taught that the only goals worth having are career-based. We come to understand that our worth is linked to our success, without noticing that the success we seek only exists within a narrow framework of ideals developed to benefit a select few. They hold the power, and the rest of us are simply driving through the desert.
How often in the workplace do we convince ourselves to “power through,” “press on,” or work late nights for someone else’s benefit? We do it at the expense of giving our bodies and minds rest and fundamental care.
I have been questioning the merits of work and productivity culture for years—and abandoned a flourishing corporate career in 2017 as a result—but thanks to the pandemic and a widespread wakeup call around people’s values and motivations, these questions have become more mainstream. “Work is a false idol,” proclaimed the New York Times last month. In China, the “lying flat” movement questions the relentlessly competitive work culture of the middle class.
My mother-in-law’s advice—don’t wait until you’re empty to fill up your tank—is just as important in our personal lives as it is at work. Often we give too much of ourselves in relational situations that unwittingly mirror the extractive dynamics of society around us. In some cases, it can be harder to draw a line in relationships than at work.
Backing away from situations with people who, over time, have taken more than they’ve offered in return is almost always painful, yet can be crucial to keeping your inner tank full. If someone leaves you feeling unsupported, uncared for, or unhappy—if a relationship is not reciprocal—putting self-protective distance in place or having an uncomfortable conversation may be in order. This is one way to stop for gas.
We hurdle towards milestones of the human experience—dating, friendship, marriage, children—before stopping by the side of the road, metaphorically speaking, to take a break and fill up. Would we be healthier and happier if we made healing and wholeness—our full tank—first priority?
Filling your tank when you see a gas station, whether it’s empty or not, means different things for different people. It could mean stopping work before dinner, no matter what. It could mean committing to regular therapy and keeping the appointments. It could mean prioritizing meals and movement over your job. It could mean seeking people out who nourish your soul and letting everyone else come to you.
Maybe it’s as simple as prioritizing the spiritual and creative practices that leave you feeling gathered and at peace.
After an anxious hour of driving, John, Herbie, and I rolled into Marathon, Texas on fumes and stopped for dinner. Chips and guacamole were the only thing available at that hour and we were happy to take them. Luckily, the two-pump gas station was open late.
Between you and me—
How are you doing this week? I got to see a few of my favorite people in Nashville over the weekend and felt really happy while I was there. It made me think that, in some ways, the secret to life might be simpler than we think. Maybe all we have to do is go to the places, and the people, who make us happy.
If, like me, your nervous system gripped with existential fear and dread when you read the news about Joe Manchin blocking the core of the new climate bill, you can email him your thoughts. Knowing how little time we have to act, how many years ago we should have started, and how sacred our ecosystem is on planet Earth, I did not hold back.
On a lighter note, this song was likely playing when we almost ran out of gas.
Till next time, take care out there.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. If you enjoy this newsletter, please consider supporting it by becoming a sponsor. You can also click the heart, share online, or forward to a friend. It all helps!
I love this because yes to all of these messages, and also i am a chronic gas light apologist ("we still have like, 100 miles!")