There is a reason life is so often compared to a journey down a road. For all intents and purposes, it is. What the metaphor never suggests, perhaps most importantly, is that there is a destination. Maybe that’s why the cliché lives on—because there is nowhere in particular we all really need to go. We start the journey with a destination in mind, possibly, but it is never the direction we really end up heading in. We meet other travelers along the way and when we’re lucky, those travelers become passengers with us, accompanying us while we discover ourselves and the world around us. We have maps that we assume to be correct, and sometimes they are, leading us to extraordinary places and allowing us to see extraordinary things. Other times the maps aren’t so reliable, forcing us to make decisions and choices, and abandon the map completely. Sometimes we get lost and rely purely on instinct. Along the way, we switch seats, moving to the front and to the back, seeing the world from different vantage points. Sometimes we drive, and other times we let ourselves be driven. We spend our whole lives traveling, and the real reward lies not when the “are we there yets” cease to be asked, but rather in the flat tires we learn to change, the songs we sing, the way we’re able to see the world pass right outside of our window, the feeling of the wind in our face, and how, one way or another, we always seem to find our way.