There Is a Better Road

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Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about roads. I’ve been thinking about the road we’re on as a country, and as individuals trying to make sense of our lives.

Some days it feels like we’re moving forward on a path toward decency and common sense. Other days it feels like we’re drifting down the wrong road—one that leads us toward more noise and division, toward a place that’s unrecognizable.

This week, the letter President Trump sent to the president of Denmark really stopped me cold. I honestly couldn’t believe it. The details almost didn’t matter. What shook me was the tone underneath: I want what I want, and I’ll push until I get it.

That’s when it really hit me: this is what it feels like to be on the wrong road. Urgent things are happening in our world right now—war, instability, families stretched to the breaking point—and yet we keep getting pulled into spectacles that distract us, exhaust us, and leave us feeling unmoored.

What’s been unfolding in Minnesota has shaken me to my core. Just weeks after the death of Renee Good, who was shot and killed by a U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officer in Minneapolis on January 7, another American life was taken. On Saturday, 37-year-old Alex Pretti was killed, deepening the pain already felt by that community. Pretti was an ICU nurse with the VA hospital and a graduate of the University of Minnesota. He was also employed there as a researcher.

The news has only intensified the grief, fear, anger, and confusion so many people in Minnesota and across the country were already carrying. Governor Tim Walz has now activated the state’s National Guard as we wait and see what unfolds.

Whatever unfolds, this is the truth: these events are changing the very fabric of our country and our character. People all over feel unmoored, unsafe, and afraid.

This, my fellow Americans, is not who we are. We are not meant to turn on one another. We are not meant to hide out in our homes afraid. The Canadian prime minister was right when he said last week this is not a transition that is going on here in our beautiful country. This is a rupture.

What matters in moments like these is not getting lost in defensiveness, distortion, or silence, but slowing down long enough to mourn, to ask hard questions, and to find our moral compass. This is a spiritual moment. It is one when we must ask ourselves: can we tap into our humanity and the humanity of our neighbors? We have to, because this is our only way forward. If we can’t pause to do this, then it’s a sign we’ve wandered further down the wrong road.

This disorienting feeling may sound familiar. Many of us recognize it not just from public life, but from our own private experiences. If you’ve ever been in a relationship with someone who demands loyalty, attention, and control at all costs, then you know what it’s like to be up against the impossible. You try to negotiate. You try to reason. You try to calm the chaos. And eventually you learn: you can’t build a peaceful life around someone else’s unrest.

So what do we do when it feels like we’re in that kind of relationship with our culture and with our leaders?

Well, we can certainly wait for the next election. We can protest peacefully. We can refuse to stay silent, as Iranian refugee Mandana Dayani writes about today. And we can try to care for our bodies and minds amidst it all, as Dr. Gabrielle Lyon recently spoke to me about.

But I think we’re also being asked to do something else at this critical moment: We’re being asked to choose a better road.

Several years ago, I went to a retreat where they talked about the right road versus the wrong road. They asked us to picture our lives as they were—the speed, the stress, the fear, the ways we shrink without even noticing. Then they asked us to imagine another road. A road where you operate from your highest spiritual self. A road where you’re not led by fear. A road where you stop living in reaction and start living in truth.

So today, let me offer you that same exercise:

If you can, pause for a moment. Put your phone down, let your shoulders soften, and take one long breath. Now close your eyes for ten seconds and picture your life as it is right now.

Picture the pace. The noise. The obligations. The things you’re carrying that no one sees. Picture the road you’re on and ask yourself gently: Does this road feel like fear? Or does it feel like freedom? Does it feel like survival? Or does it feel like purpose?

Now imagine a fork in the road. One road is familiar. It’s fast, reactive, and fueled by proving, pleasing, pushing, and performing. Meanwhile, the other road is quieter. On that road, you are operating from your highest spiritual self. You’re not trying to win or dominate. You’re not trying to be liked. You are not living from a place of panic. You are living from truth. You are living from love. You are living from courage. You are living from the deep knowledge that you belong here.

Now ask yourself: What would you stop doing if you weren’t afraid? What truth would you tell if you trusted your own voice? What would you choose if you believed you were supported by God, by grace, by the universe, by something larger than your fear? What step would you take today if you were living from your highest self?

Don’t answer that question with your mind. Answer it with your body. Because your body will tell you the truth. You’ll feel the tightening when you’re on the wrong road, and you’ll feel the exhale when you turn toward the right one.

Now open your eyes and exhale. That feeling? That’s your compass.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself whether we’re still capable of choosing the right road. Sometimes I’m unsure, because it feels like everything is a mess. And yet, when I slow down long enough to listen, I hear the same answer within: yes. There is a right road forward—and it’s not one that’s left versus right. Not red versus blue. It’s a road that honors our shared humanity. A road that makes room for dignity and decency. A road that chooses peace over dominance. A road that chooses belonging over cruelty.

I believe we know what that road looks like, because we’ve all wanted the same basic things for a very long time. We all want to feel seen, safe, and like we matter. Who among us doesn’t want to live in a country where our children can go to school without fear? Who among us doesn’t want meaningful work and the ability to pay our bills? Who among us doesn’t want to see a doctor when we need to? Who among us doesn’t want to provide for the people we love? And who among us doesn’t want to trust that our local, state, and national leaders will respond effectively when storms wreak havoc on communities—like the extreme cold, snow, and ice threatening more than 230 million people across the U.S. this weekend?

And yet, more people than ever feel lonely. More people than ever feel politically homeless. More people than ever are afraid to bring children into the world. More people than ever feel like it’s becoming harder and harder to get by. More people than ever feel like they’re performing instead of living, turning themselves into brands instead of members of a community.

This is the wrong road. It’s a road of isolation, fear, and exhaustion. It’s a road of “every person for themselves.”

But there is a better road. It’s the one, to quote poet Robert Frost, less traveled.

I often write about the concept of the open field and the beckoning of something wider and freer and more true. And what I know is this: No matter who you are, no matter how lost you feel, no matter how far you think you’ve drifted… there is always a fork in the road. That fork is the moment we decide whether to keep going down the wrong path or choose the one that our hearts, souls, and bodies feel called to walk down instead.

So, my friends, go slow this morning and feel your way forward. Make room—as poet Mary Oliver wrote—for the unimaginable. Don’t fear the road less traveled. Close your eyes and picture the world you still believe is possible. Feel what the right road feels like in your body, and then take one small step toward it.

Not someday. Today. Because the right road isn’t a fantasy. It’s a choice. And it’s waiting for us.