We were newlyweds—just one year in. My husband and I decided to drive twelve hours to attend a business conference that we hoped would help us launch our dreams. Tensions were high. We couldn’t really afford the trip, and our disagreements on the drive had left us both feeling hurt, misunderstood, and disconnected.

To make things worse, I was still shaken from a serious car accident the year before, and every hour on the road felt like I was white-knuckling through panic. My husband, however, saw my fear as a personal insult to his driving. He took it as an attack on his ability, when in truth, I was simply afraid of crashing again.

We made it safely to the event, but I was still upset—mostly because he had been offended by my fear instead of understanding it. Then, one of the guest speakers—who also happened to be a professional comedian—got on stage and started making fun of women with poor depth perception.

He described a man driving a car while the woman next to him suddenly SCREAMS for no reason. The man swerves, barely holding the car steady, then turns and yells, “WHAT?!?”

“That car tapped its brakes!”

“Woman, that car is a quarter mile ahead of us!”

At first I thought, Okay, that is NOT funny. I was trying so hard to stay angry at my husband. I didn’t want him to see me laugh. In my mind, he still needed to suffer a little for the way he dismissed my fear. But when the comedian hit the punchline, I couldn’t hold it in. All my pent-up emotion came bursting out in uncontrollable laughter. You know the kind—when no sound escapes, and your abs burn from the effort. That was me.

Because honestly, that woman he was describing?
That was me.
That was our twelve-hour drive.

We both started laughing—really laughing—and for the first time in hours, all the tension melted away. We talked afterward, and I explained what I hadn’t been able to say during the drive: I was a nervous wreck, not because I didn’t trust him, but because the year before, we had both fallen asleep on the road and driven off-course. Since then, road trips just weren’t the same. I watched the lines, the shoulder, the center divider—anything that might signal danger. And every little swerve, every car that seemed too close, every tap of a brake from even a quarter mile ahead, triggered a full-body panic reaction.

Even short trips on the freeway made me uneasy. Rounding a bend was especially scary because I’d see the tire and paint marks left from past wrecks. I’d say things like, “Oh... this must be a dangerous spot—look at all the crashes that happened here!” I’d brace for impact just in case. I’d look at semis ahead and imagine what might happen if one suddenly cut us off.

Over time, I learned how to calm myself. I reminded myself that my husband didn’t want to die any more than I did—and he would drive carefully, whether I micromanaged or not. I practiced trusting—trusting him and trusting God. I even discovered a visualization technique that worked wonders: Instead of imagining a wreck, I’d close my eyes and picture myself tucking my children in that night—a vision that assumed we made it home safely.

It took time, but gradually I got my road anxiety under control. One of the biggest breakthroughs came when we realized that the car stayed more centered in the lane—not by watching the painted lines right beside us, but by looking ahead to where the road was going. Even when the road curved, if we kept our eyes on the horizon, the car naturally stayed centered. That lesson changed everything.

And then I realized... that strategy wasn’t just about driving. It was about life.

Ten years later, that lesson was tested to its limits. I was driving alone, just north of Salt Lake City, during road construction for the 2002 Olympics. The lanes had been narrowed to barely three-fourths of their normal width. On one side of me: a semi-truck. On the other: a concrete pile-on. I had no room for error and nowhere to go but straight.

I noticed something important: when I looked at the semi beside me, I would start drifting toward it. But when I looked ahead again, I saw how far I’d veered and quickly corrected. I realized then that the only way to make it through safely was to keep my eyes forward, white-knuckled as I was, and completely ignore the obstacles at either side.

If a vehicle was going to swerve into my lane, fine—but at least with my eyes fixed on the goal, I’d be less likely to panic and overcorrect, causing a wreck that could harm me and everyone around me.

That’s when it hit me:

This is how you reach your goals.
You stay focused.
You keep your vision vivid and straight ahead.
You don’t let the distractions, detours, or dangers at the side of the road consume your attention—because if you do, you’ll drift off course. You’ll slow down. You’ll crash.

The ride is smoother when your eyes are locked on where you want to go. The lane stays clear. Even sudden obstacles are easier to manage when you aren’t reacting from fear, but responding with purpose.

This experience taught me something even deeper about life. We are all traveling this fast-paced, sometimes overwhelming road called mortality—trying to reach a glorious eternal destination with our loved ones and our Heavenly Father. But there are distractions all around us—obstacles that can make us drift, slow down, or crash entirely.

And just like in that narrow construction lane, the worst thing we can do is stare too long at the danger. Even if we think it helps us avoid it, giving it our focus causes us to veer toward it. I’ve learned that when I finally look back toward my eternal goal, I often realize just how far I’ve drifted.

But when I stay fixed on the destination—and press forward with full purpose of heart—those distractions start to pass one by one. If something does swerve into my lane, I’ll be better prepared to handle it calmly and safely.

As one man named Alma taught his son:

"The way is prepared, and if we will look we may live forever ...
Yea, see that ye look to God and live."
—Alma 37:46–47

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