Meaning is a lifeline and a soft place to land

I got on the bus yesterday.

I was the only passenger.

Before I could even sit down, the driver took a hard turn and slammed on the brakes. I went flying – face-first into the glass window. My mouth split open.

My knee smashed. I’m still sore. Still shaken. Still stunned.

It happened right in front of the bus stop where Richard Lakin was murdered in 2015. Just around the corner from where another innocent person was killed. And up the road from where a woman I know was stabbed back when she was a soldier.

Did the driver do it on purpose? I don’t know.
Before the war, I would have said absolutely not.

I want to believe in people. I want to hold on to the softness. But it’s getting harder lately—because of the war, because of everything. I don’t want to become someone who assumes the worst. I really don’t.

But here’s the thing: this community also holds a fierce, radiant strength—especially among the women. I texted our neighborhood WhatsApp group that I needed an emergency dentist, and within seconds, I was flooded with responses. I was directed to the right place. I was protected. Uplifted. Cared for.

That response gave me something to hold onto. A soft place to land. A reason to keep trying—to trust. To assume the best. Even when it’s hard.

And maybe this was just one of those things.
Beautiful things happen in this city all the time—and so do terrible ones.

Maybe it truly was an accident. Maybe it wasn’t. I’ll never know.

But I wasn’t alone, and even though I was scared, someone also held my hand and made it better.

And I get to make a choice. Do I believe the driver did it on purpose—to scare me, or worse? I know others have felt similar fear on buses.
Or do I choose to believe it was just a mistake—and that thankfully, I’m okay?

Right now, I’m choosing to assume the best.
That may change in the coming hours or days, depending on the news headlines.

But for now, I need to believe that people try their best.

Viktor Frankl wrote, “Those who have a why to live can bear almost any how.”

While Hersh Goldberg Polin was held in darkness for months, he clung to that line—repeating it like a prayer. Other hostages have said it helped keep them alive. I think about that now, as I try to make sense of what happened on the bus. Was it an accident, or something else? I may never know.

But meaning is a lifeline. And sometimes, we have to braid it ourselves from fragments: the ache in my jaw, the kindness of the one who showed up without hesitation, the aching choice to still believe in goodness.

Maybe the why is this: to keep choosing trust, even when it hurts.

To find soft places to land—so we can rise again.