This story contains descriptions of mental illness and suicidal ideation and may be triggering for some readers. If you or anyone you know is struggling, please contact the the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.
Like any true Houstonian, I’m obsessed with our traffic. Since we’re the home of six out of 10 of the most congested roadways in Texas, it’s not hard to see why our city’s highways got their bad reputation. For example, I strongly believe if you’re trapped in the Galleria area between 4-7 p.m., you might as well check into a hotel for the night rather than brave rush hour. And one of the few times I ever heard my sainted abuela curse was when we were stuck on I-45.
Houston is so car-centric that the concept of walkable cities is about as mythological as jackalopes and spring without pollen. In fact, when we tell potential transplants that Houston is full, we’re talking about our roadways and the approximate 715,000 folks who drive them every day.
Still, I can’t completely hate Houston traffic, because I sincerely believe it’s the secret to my blissful marriage.
My husband and I have been together since high school and, even back then, Houston roadways played a role in our lives. Most of our dates involved splitting something from the Taco Bell dollar menu and cruising down State Highway 249 while listening to music and plotting the next stage of our lives together. However, for our one-year anniversary, we decided to mix it up. We ventured out to the Museum District by ourselves for the first time. Unfortunately, we (badly) underestimated how long it would take us to get home during rush hour. Three hours later, I was grounded for getting home late and we had learned our first lesson about Houston’s notorious traffic.
At 21, we got married at a time when we were stuck making long commutes to work. The daily treks were approximately an hour and 15 minutes round-trip, but most days, we were able to carpool. Besides saving on gas — a big concern of ours as broke newlyweds — these long drives also offered us something else: one-on-one time.
At that point, we were living with my parents and sister. Though grateful for my parents’ help, we felt cramped. The work commute offered a rare bit of privacy. I could complain about my parents treating us like kids, and flirt with my husband; we’d compete over who could make the most ridiculous pun.
The drives also served as a time limit for arguments. As high school sweethearts, my husband and I were more than aware of the stigma attached to our relationship. We knew folks weren’t necessarily banking on the longevity of a teenage romance — so we made it our policy to resolve any fights in the privacy of these drives. Besides keeping our relationship away from the family chismosos, it kept those same well-meaning yet nosy family members from inserting themselves into our tiffs.
Another unexpected benefit was sharing unique parts of parenthood together. I was terribly ill due to morning sickness during all three of my pregnancies. I was too weak and too sick to drive myself. Thankfully, my husband was there to chauffeur and nurse me through. Later, when I returned to work after giving birth, I used my breast pump while my husband drove.
For 10 years, my husband and I shared the same commute. However, just like Houston’s daily rush hour, nothing lasts forever. In 2014, after taking on a new role close to home, my commute dropped to under 15 minutes. Unfortunately, that meant my husband and I no longer shared a ride. Sure, my shorter trek came with less time in the car, but it also came with increased work stress and the loss of intimacy we had cultivated over those previous miles.
It was during one of these shorter drives to work that I realized something was wrong. I was stressed out, overworked, my health wasn’t great, and I felt disconnected from the things that made me happy. But that’s adulthood, right? I shrugged it off at first. That is, until I was driving to work one day and I thought, ‘I wish I’d get into an accident so I don’t have to go to work today.’
I was shocked at myself. Maybe I was a little overwhelmed but I didn’t think I was suicidal. I pushed the notion away and went on with my day. However, the thought came again, day after day, until I no longer felt worried when it popped into my head.
That’s how I knew it was bad — beyond anything I could fix on my own. I thought about our former commute and remembered how happy those times were, and knew what to do. The next day, I asked my husband to drive me to work. It was an unusual request, but as always, he accommodated me. Just like when we were teenagers, he drove us down 249. In the familiarity of our car’s passenger seat, I told my husband for the first time that I was depressed and feeling passively suicidal. My confession alarmed him. As we drove, I explained what I could about my mental state while he listened. Once we got to my job, we parked and we did what we always did in these situations: stayed in the car until we reached an accord.
The following several months were tough, but I received mental healthcare treatment and we made beneficial changes to our lives. The space that my husband and I had created for ourselves in the midst of Houston’s traffic had done its job.
Houston traffic gave us an opportunity to connect during life’s bustle in a way we might not have had without that dedicated time. Ultimately, it made our relationship strong enough to meet life’s obstacles and gave us a reason to want to take the long way home.
