Independence vs. Interdependence: A lesson from the side of the road

My heart pounded as my truck’s rear tires slid toward a steep ravine. Me, my home and everything I owned were about to tumble off a hill and into the woods.

It wasn’t until someone asked, “What’s the scariest thing that’s happened in your travels?” that this memory came flooding back. After nearly eight years on the road, I’ve noticed a pattern: the juicier the predicament, the less likely I am to talk about it. When Mom read the final draft of my book, she said more than once, “You never told me about that!””

Oops.

This was one of those stories. It happened in fall 2020. I was on a two-lane rural highway in Maine, in the middle of nowhere. I had a client Zoom call coming up, and needed a place to park. I spotted a wide, solid-looking shoulder and pulled off. Something didn’t feel right, so I stopped. My truck was on the shoulder while Coddi, my Airstream, was still on the road. I eased on the gas. The tires slipped. I threw it into four-wheel drive and tried again. The rear of my truck slid right, toward the ravine; it hadn’t moved forward at all.

I got out to investigate. Coddi was stuck in the right hand lane of the highway, just past the crest of a hill (worst place ever) and I was stuck, bad stuck. The rear tires of the truck had sunk into the soft shoulder and drifted downhill. My hands were shaking. If the truck went, it would take Coddi and everything I owned with it.

A few minutes later, a semi pulling a flatbed slowed to a stop. “I’d pull you out, but can’t with the company truck,” the driver said. He rubbed his chin and looked up the road. “I’m due for a lunch break. I’ll sit behind you so no one hits your rig from the rear.”

He idled there, flashers on, protecting me. What a guy.

Three minutes later, a Ram 2500, just like mine, came from the same direction.

“You need help?” the driver asked. A woman sat in the passenger’s seat.

“Yes, sir. Even in four-wheel drive, I’m sliding down the bank.”

He pulled over. The calm, methodical way he inspected the situation reminded me of my grandpa.

He nosed his truck up to mine then put on rawhide gloves that’d seen some work. “I’m gonna throw mine in reverse. Steer your tires toward me,” he said as he attached a chain between our matching front tow hooks. “As soon as there’s tension on the chains, put yours in neutral and let my truck do all the work.”

His tires screeched. The engine roared. The truck bounced. As I watched this stranger risk his own truck to save my rig, something cracked open in me.

For years, I’d worn independence like a badge. I’d been the woman who handled everything, who didn’t need help. Gripping the steering wheel, my eyes met those of that kind, capable stranger, and I saw the truth: my fierce independence was never truly solo. It was quietly held by the kindness of strangers, by the hands of helpers and life’s gifts that appeared at just the right time.

Independence, I realized, is often unrecognized interdependence.

His tires gained traction. My truck lunged, and that kind man dragged my whole rig to safety.

Before I could get out, he was unhooking the chains.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I said, hands together as if praying.

“Been stuck more times than I care to count,” he said, coiling his chain. “Road’s got a way of humbling us all.”

“I want to pay you or give you something.”

“No, no. You’re welcome,” he said, with a wink. “Neighbors helping neighbors.”

Warm tingles rippled through my chest. This burly, weather-worn man from the boondocks of Maine considered me (obviously not a local) a neighbor. Yeah, he’s right, we are all neighbors–everyone everywhere.

I’ve been in worse predicaments since. In 2023, I wrecked my bike, mangled my finger, snapped a rib. I was deep in the Newfoundland bush, hours from a hospital, and I had Covid. You’ll need to read my book to learn how that one panned out. Clearly I survived 🙂

People sometimes ask where my resilience comes from. I don’t think of myself as tough or brave. I just do what needs to be done. Resilience isn’t never falling, it’s getting back up.

Life’s challenges have shown me I’m stronger and more adaptable than I thought, and that being “in control” is an illusion. Independence and interdependence aren’t opposites but partners in a beautiful dance of Life.

This story isn’t just about getting unstuck from a sandy shoulder in Maine. It’s about getting unstuck from the illusion that I’m doing life alone.

I don’t earn resilience, I remember it.

Resilience becomes indistinguishable from love when I stop protecting the identity I think I am, and rest as what I truly am, inseparable from everything.

Maybe that’s why I don’t tell Mom about all my predicaments. These situations unravel in perfect time. Here’s what I know now: every time I think I’m handling things solo, Life sends a trucker with work-worn gloves to remind me of the truth.

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Header Photo: Sunrise from Cadillac Mountain – Acadia National Park, Maine – September 2020

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