Red Lights Are A Mirror

Last Tuesday, 8:47 PM. I’m idling at the intersection of La Brea and Melrose, the light’s been red for what feels like forever. There’s a guy in the black Tesla behind me revving his engine. The woman in the silver Civic to my right is checking her lip gloss. And I’m just sitting there, hands at ten and two, watching the red.

The light doesn’t care about any of us. It just hangs there, glowing, doing its job. And that’s the thing about red lights — they don’t negotiate. They don’t care if you’re late. They don’t care if your phone is dying. They don’t care if you have a meeting in nine minutes and the Uber Eats driver is circling your block.

I started noticing this around June, on my commute from Silver Lake to my office in Culver City. Some mornings I’d be driving to a 9 AM call and I’d catch myself leaning forward at a red light, like the extra two inches would somehow make it change faster. Like my body could argue with electricity. Like the light had opinions about me.

My passenger seat is mostly empty these days. I drive alone most days now. So I’m the only one witnessing the small weird things I do at red lights. Which is either a relief or a warning sign, depending on the day.

Last week at the corner of Sunset and Vine, the light turned red and I literally sighed out loud. Like a small child being told to sit still at dinner. I heard it leave my mouth and I thought — who are you? When did I become someone who sighs at traffic? I’m 34. I have a 401k. I pay my taxes on time. And I’m sighing at a stoplight.

But here’s the part that got me. I started watching other people at red lights. Not in a creepy way. Just — what do they do in those 30 to 90 seconds when nothing is happening? It’s the most honest 90 seconds most of us get all day.

The Tesla guy? He scrolls Instagram. The Civic woman? She sings along to whatever’s playing. The construction truck two cars ahead? The driver has a paperback open on the steering wheel. I see him every morning now. He’s on page 47 of some John Grisham paperback. We’re on a first-name basis at this point, even if he doesn’t know my name.

And me? I grip the wheel. I stare straight ahead. I breathe weirdly.

That’s when it hit me — red lights aren’t really about traffic. They’re a mirror. The light is the same for everyone. Same red. Same length. Same nothing-happening. And how you sit in that nothing? That tells on you.

I told my friend Marcus about this over beers at that dive bar on Western. He laughed so hard the bartender looked over. “Bro, you’re reading meaning into a stoplight.” And I was like, yeah, kind of. But also, watch yourself tomorrow at a red light and tell me you don’t see something.

He texted me the next day. “Damn. I picked my nose.” Then a follow-up thirty seconds later: “Then I made eye contact with the guy in the next car. He saw me. I saw him. We both looked away. It was awful.”

Okay, his was gross. But he saw something. And that something made him uncomfortable enough to text me at 8:30 in the morning about it. Which means the mirror worked.

I keep thinking about my dad. He used to drive me to soccer practice in his old Accord, and every single red light he’d turn to me and say, “Patience is just anger sitting down.” I didn’t understand it then. I thought it was just something dads said, like “money doesn’t grow on trees” or “I’m not sleeping, I’m just resting my eyes.”

Now I’m 34 and I get it. The red light doesn’t move faster because you want it to. You just have to sit with the wanting. And sitting with the wanting? That’s where the mirror part comes in. Because most of us have no idea how to sit with wanting without doing something about it.

I used to think I was a patient person. I really did. I’m the friend who listens when everyone else has checked out. I’m the guy who waits in line at the DMV without complaining — and the DMV in LA is a masterclass in waiting, so that’s not nothing. I send back the wrong order at restaurants with a smile. I held my sister’s hand for nine hours when she was in labor. I thought I had it figured out.

But sitting at red lights for the past two months, I’m seeing a different version of myself. The version who grips the wheel at ten and two like he’s white-knuckling a roller coaster. The version who sighs out loud at the age of 34 in the middle of West Hollywood. The version who, when the light finally turns green, accelerates way harder than he needs to. Like the car owes him something. Like the road owes him something. Like the day owes him something for making him wait.

Who is that guy?

I don’t love him. I’m being honest.

But I can’t stop watching him either. He shows up at every red light. He’s me, in traffic, with nowhere to be in a hurry, and he’s still acting like he’s late to a surgery.

Here’s the weird part. I’m not even going anywhere important most of the time. Last Thursday I was stopped at a red light on Santa Monica Blvd near La Cienega, and I had nowhere to be. I was just driving to get gas. The light turned red and my body still reacted like I was late. My foot tapped the brake harder than it needed to. My shoulders went up. My jaw tightened.

The light was red for 45 seconds. I sat there with nowhere to go and a full tank of nothing to do.

I think that’s the thing about red lights as a mirror. They show you the parts of yourself you’ve been outsourcing to your calendar. The rushing. The “I’m so busy” identity. The “I don’t have time for this” voice. The thing you say at parties: “Oh my god, I’m so slammed, I literally cannot.” And then you sit at a red light with no one to be slammed for and the lie falls apart.

The light gives you a gap. And in that gap, all the things you’ve been outrunning show up.

I told my therapist about this last week. She laughed harder than Marcus did. Then she got quiet. Then she said, “I think red lights are the only place left where you can’t scroll. Where you can’t pretend you’re being productive. You’re just… there.”

That hit me.

She was right. I can’t check my phone while I’m driving. I can’t answer an email. I can’t pretend I’m busy. The red light makes me just… be. With myself. In a car. On a street. Doing nothing.

And I’m not great at doing nothing.

Most of us aren’t, if we’re being honest. We say we want to slow down. We book retreats. We pay $400 for a weekend yoga thing in Topanga where someone tells us to breathe. But the moment a red light asks us to actually slow down for 60 seconds? We lose our minds.

I noticed the other day that I hold my breath at red lights. Not on purpose. My body just does it. Like I’m preparing for something. And then when the light turns green, I exhale and go.

What am I preparing for? The road? The next red light? The next moment where I have to stop and be with myself again?

I don’t know.

But I’ve started doing something small. When I catch myself gripping the wheel, I loosen up. When I catch myself leaning forward, I sit back. When I catch myself about to sigh, I take a deep breath instead. When I catch myself holding my breath, I let it out and start over.

I’m not fixing myself. I don’t think that’s the point. Fixing implies there’s a finished version, and I don’t think there is.

I’m just noticing. The red light is the mirror. And I’m trying not to flinch when I look.

My friend Priya told me she gets out of her car at long red lights. Just stands next to it. Stretches. Looks at the sky. “It’s my protest,” she said. “I’m refusing to be a person who’s late just because the light is red. The light and I have a different relationship now.”

I love that. I’m not brave enough to do it in LA traffic. Someone would honk. Probably many someones. There might be a hashtag about me by the end of the block. But I get what she’s doing. The red light is asking you something. It’s asking, who are you when nothing is moving? When nothing is being produced? When no one is watching and nothing is happening and you have no excuse to be anywhere?

And if you don’t like the answer, that’s the work.

I’m not gonna lie — I don’t always like the answer. Sometimes I look in the mirror (the red lights mirror) and I see someone who’s been white-knuckling his way through a perfectly fine Tuesday. Someone who turned “running late” into a personality. Someone who forgot that the brake pedal is also a destination.

But other days? I see someone who is trying. Who is noticing. Who is starting to suspect that the rushing isn’t getting him anywhere faster, just making the in-between worse. Okay the rushing gives me a hit of purpose. The rushing feels like motion. But motion isn’t always progress. Sometimes it’s just a hamster wheel with better paint.

I don’t have a tidy ending to this. I drove home tonight and sat at one more red light at the corner of Western and 3rd, right by that liquor store with the green awning. The light was red for a full minute. Could’ve been longer. I sat there. I didn’t grip the wheel. I didn’t sigh. I didn’t hold my breath. I just watched the red. I watched a woman walk her dog across the crosswalk. I watched a guy on a scooter wait behind me. I watched my own face in the rearview mirror for a second.

Then it turned green. I went home.

That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

A mirror you can’t ignore. A pause you can’t scroll past. A small red light that keeps asking you the same question, every block, every day.

Who are you when nothing is moving?

[“Red Lights Mirror”, “LA Traffic Stop”, “Daily Commute”, “Mindfulness Moment”, “Personal Reflection”