A Lesson in Awkward Silence
How an Uber Drive in Stockholm Made Me Realize I’m Okay Now.
Years ago, I read a spiritual book that had a chapter on trauma. For the life of me, I cannot remember who wrote this book, the title, or what it was about, but one thing stood out to me above all the rest. The author proclaimed that in times of great anguish, during times of great distress, the soul could choose to temporarily disconnect from the body. As the body goes through the motions—the day-to-day toil—the soul acts merely as a passenger until it feels ready to partake in life’s complexities once again.
Psychology would call this phenomenon depersonalization, the dissociative act of detaching from oneself. Although I’ve never experienced DDD (depersonalization-derealization disorder), I do feel that at some point, my soul took a little break—a siesta from the burden of feeling too much in a short period.
I’ve written a lot about the compounded grief I experienced between 2019 and 2021. It was, and remains, the most challenging period of my life. After much reflection, I believe I can pinpoint when and where I realigned. The moment I finally felt comfortable, confident, and secure in myself once again.
In December 2021, I spent a week in Stockholm walking an average of 15,000 steps a day, oohing and ahhing at the beauty of the Venice of the North. I stood dumbfounded at the helm of the 17th-century warship, the Vasa. I danced solo at the ABBA Museum and even had a spontaneous astrology reading in the Götgatan neighborhood. It was a magical trip. I met incredible artists, made new friends, and serendipitously received tickets to a sold-out theatre show. (A tale for another time) In six days, I felt more alive than I had in years. When it was time to leave, I grimaced at the thought of returning home. I wasn’t ready.
Hours before my flight, I decided to treat myself to an Uber, skipping out on Sweden’s excellent public transportation system. I selected my private ride option for 300 krona ($30* USD) and waited for Anders* to pick me up.
When he arrived in his four-door, black Volvo, Anders pulled into a space in front of my hotel like he was vying for a chance to be cast in the next Fast & Furious franchise. Before I could make the few steps to the curb from the hotel door, he had already jumped out and immediately began placing my luggage inside the trunk.
Before opening the car door, I said, “Thank you,” and found my seat behind his on the black leather interior. I took immediate note of how exceptionally clean the car was and how it had that new car smell, and I had zero regrets about booking the private transfer.
When Anders was buckling his seatbelt, I glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. The white strands of his hair resembled a light dusting of snow along a dark mountainside as they peeked out from under his brown Wiggins wool hat. His dark concaved eyes curved downward and appeared to have merged with the wrinkles on his face. Through a dimple-filled grin, in perfect English, he asked, “Where are you from?”
“Colorado in the US…” I paused, curious how he would respond. Usually, when asked (while traveling), I get one of three replies: “Oh, John Denver!” “Is that near California?” or “Huh, never heard of it.” Other times, I receive a silent smile, to which I quickly reply, “Are you from (insert current city)?”
Anders and I held eye contact through the mirror for a moment. Then one of his eyebrows raised slightly above the other, perplexed. “How old are you?”
Oh no, what’s this about, I thought. “37.”
Without hesitation, he aggressively replied, “You need to stop gallivanting, get married, and have a family!”
Was he kidding? I stared at his reflection in the mirror trying to uncover humor or sarcasm. When I saw no sign of misinterpretation, I looked out the car window at the buildings moving steadily by, taking a moment to respond.
How do you convey hardship to a stranger and hope they understand the deep sadness it conveys? This man had no prior knowledge of my past divorce, miscarriages, hysterectomy, or the painful last two years of my life. Was he even privy to this knowledge, or worth a reply?
I loosened the top button of my white winter coat and felt my shoulders sink into the curvature of the seat’s interior. It felt like a tight embrace or shoulder squeeze from a family member and a wave of confidence washed over me. Finally, I spoke as calmly and diplomatically as possible.
“Well, I was married. I’m divorced. I don’t have kids, and I can’t have kids. I have no plans on settling down at the moment. So, yeah...”
I could tell by his stunned, wide-eyed, expression that he didn’t know what to say. “Oh…” was all he could muster and quickly shifted his focus from my reflection to the road ahead.
The rest of the twenty-minute car ride to the Sweden Arlanda airport was filled with uncomfortable silence and the occasional sound of trucks passing by, an airplane overhead, or his phone receiving another Uber ride request. Even when Anders helped me pull the luggage from the trunk, even when I once again said “thank you,” he never spoke. He just smiled, gently nodded his head, and hopped back in his car.
I never learned anything about Anders. Which is unfortunate because I’ve always enjoyed speaking with drivers (while traveling) and learning about them, their city, and their culture. But after that moment, I didn’t think about it. And it wasn’t because I was being vindictive or passive-aggressive. I was too preoccupied with feeling something else—a lightness and sureness that I had not felt in a very long time.
In the past, I may have been negatively impacted by this experience. I may have felt the need to justify my life choices to a stranger, and for what? My ego? If I hadn’t been in the right mindset, I would have been left spiraling for days—igniting insecurity, doubt, and even self-hate. Left to wonder if he was right or if there was something wrong with me. His comment could have justified all the ridiculous rhetoric I had ever told myself, corroborated by the society in which we live.
While watching the Stockholm skyline disappear behind me, I realized I wasn’t feeling any of those things. The awkward silence permeating the car only spoke of Anders’ inability to understand my unconventional way of life. His uncomfortable silence was unable to comprehend my untraditional needs, especially, as a woman in her late thirties who should have or want more. But there are lessons to be learned from even the most awkward of conversations.
I’m sure Anders moved on from our moment, unfazed and unchanged. For him, our brief exchange was probably nothing more than a fleeting moment; another ride, another day. I could have spent hours, maybe days, trying to figure out why my presence made him so uncomfortable but honestly, the silence in the car, spoke more about who I had become than of him.
In that moment, I reclaimed something within myself that I had lost. Not only was I fully present, but I was confident and completely at peace about my life choices. This was huge for me, considering that a year prior, I spent a lot of time asking myself, “Why me?” Feeling like I had missed out on life’s guaranteed moments (the American—white picket fence dream), but nothing is guaranteed. And I have never been traditional.
Coming back to my soul, coming back into my body, was the deep realization that those fears of inadequacy were gone. My calm and matter-of-fact demeanor spoke of the peace I felt within and the nature of my indestructible spirit. Temporarily forgotten, but always simmering just below the surface.