I was told the road would be straight.
Smooth.
Painted in white arrows,
clearly marked:
this way forward,
that way back.
But the pavement lies.
Sometimes it splits
without warning,
like someone forgot to finish the blueprint.
Sometimes it rises, cracked,
like it’s tired of holding everyone’s weight.
And me?
I came with shoes laced for speed,
heart trained for the final lap,
told by teachers, parents, pastors—
just follow the path,
just keep your head down,
just trust the signs.
But the signs change.
One day it says “merge.”
Next day, “dead end.”
Then a kid with a marker rewrites it to say
“you’ll never make it.”
I’ve seen roads where the asphalt peels like skin.
Where people trip, fall,
pretend they didn’t.
Get up. Laugh.
Bleed quietly into their socks.
Expectations don’t always tell you
the road can flood.
That sometimes you build a map,
only for the city to reroute it overnight.
They say success is a highway.
Fast. Loud. Glorious.
But I’ve found more truth
in the silence of narrow alleys.
In the feel of my soles
against gravel.
I expected shortcuts.
Got detours.
Expected green lights.
Got intersections with blinking yellows,
and no one to tell me
if it’s my turn to go.
Some friends flew past.
Engines roaring.
I waved.
Others stalled.
I stayed.
Held their hand while the world honked behind us.
And in those moments,
I realized—
maybe the road isn’t built to serve my pace.
Maybe the road doesn’t care.
But my feet?
They still move.
Even when the pavement cracks,
even when the stripes fade,
even when I’m not sure
if this path leads home or nowhere at all.
I walk.
Not because I’m sure,
but because I can.
And sometimes that’s enough
to lay down
the next stone.