Rétine

See, there is nothing particularly interesting about an intersection. With its busy lanes, wide roads, and noisy sounds, the intersection of Broadway and West Broad Street is one of the worst places to actually think—yet this unremarkable crossroad became a turning point in the way I came to see the world.

It was the summer after ninth grade, my last in Virginia before moving to Dallas. I spent those final few days biking, trying to memorize not only the physical place but the feel of it. I wanted to see everything—one last time.

One day, my route wound past Short Pump Town Center and brought me to the busiest intersection I’d ever tried to cross on a bike. Cars surged in from every direction. The turning lanes felt endless. The crossing signal took eons to change. I waited—three full minutes—rooted in place, hands gripping the handlebars, sweat tracing my spine. My frustration built.

But then, something shifted—almost like the world came into focus.

The longer I waited, the more I noticed. The pavement beneath my wheels was chipped and fading. A gust of wind carried the scent of freshly laid mulch from a nearby median. Rétine by Amir played in my AirPods—a song I’d heard dozens of times—but now it felt richer. One lyric echoed: “Et si c'était pas l'hasard mais le destin”—What if it wasn’t chance, but destiny? I blinked. It felt like the world had gently tapped me on the shoulder.

The intersection hadn’t just made me pause physically—it slowed down the world for me, breaking the ever-present forward motion I had clung to. I realized how rarely I paused, waited. My instinct in life had always been to move forward, plow through, advance—but here, I couldn’t. And for the first time in a long time, I felt it was okay.

My economics teacher had once said that today, we are inclined to emphasize the individual—always rushing, achieving, doing. It was hard to understand what she meant then, but now, made to be still, I saw it clearly.

That block of concrete, stuck between strip malls and signal lights, turned out to be the first place I actually listened—to my surroundings, to my thoughts, to myself. It wasn't meant to be gazed upon; it’s just an ordinary stretch of asphalt. But in that moment, it was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been.

Since then, that lesson has stayed with me. Even now, amid the demands of junior year, extracurriculars, and a new life in Texas, I carve out time to slow down—letting a song play through, watching the colors of a sunset, just breathing.

That intersection in Henrico didn’t merely slow me down. It reminded me that growth doesn’t always come from moving forward—it often comes from being still long enough to understand where you are.

It taught me how to live.