The strange thing about life is how it sneaks up on you in the most ordinary places. Sure, we expect big emotions at weddings, graduations or at the end of a long journey. But nobody warns you about the emotional ambush that hits when you turn onto a road you haven’t driven in 10, 15, maybe even 20 years.

That happened to me recently. I took a drive that, on paper, was just another errand, another place to be. But the route I chose — the same two-lane road I drove almost daily when I was younger — turned out to be something else entirely. Without invitation, it cracked open a memory vault I forgot even existed.

It started slowly. I rounded a bend and suddenly remembered that’s where I got pulled over for the first time, nervously handing over my license with shaking hands, convinced my life was over. A little farther down, I passed the street where my friend used to live — the one whose basement we treated like a makeshift therapy room as we sorted through life, love and the utter uncertainty of our futures.

Funny how a road can hold so much history.

Movies make fun of these moments — or maybe we make fun of the movies for having them. You know what I mean. The reflective scene where the character goes back to their hometown, walks into an old diner and gets swept up in sentimentality. Cue the soft piano music, the dramatic stare out the window. We’re supposed to roll our eyes.

But then it happens to us.

I couldn’t help but think of “Peggy Sue Got Married,” that ’80s classic where Kathleen Turner faints at a high school reunion and wakes up as her teenage self. She gets to revisit the people and places that shaped her — this time with the wisdom of perspective.

Driving down that road, I felt like Peggy Sue in my own small way. Not quite transported, but undeniably connected to younger versions of myself. The girl who used to speed down that same stretch with the windows down and music blaring, convinced she knew everything.

The one who cried behind the wheel after her first heartbreak. The one who dreamed big dreams before she had the words — or confidence — to admit them out loud.

Or maybe it was more like “Midnight in Paris,” when Owen Wilson’s character romanticizes the past only to discover that every era longs for the one before it. That hit me too. Because as much as I felt the tug of nostalgia, I also recognized the truth: I wouldn’t actually go back.

Those moments are sacred not because they were perfect — but because they were mine.

There’s something beautiful about how memory works. It doesn’t ask permission.

It doesn’t wait until you’re ready. One minute you’re driving to your destination, and the next, you’re revisiting a thousand little moments that remind you how far you’ve come — and how many pieces of yourself you’ve collected along the way.

I laughed thinking about how much we dismiss these reflective journeys when we see them on screen. Too sentimental, we say. Too dramatic. But maybe real life is far more sentimental than we admit. Maybe we’re all just trying to make peace with the roads we’ve traveled — literal and metaphorical.

That day, I didn’t find myself longing for the past but appreciating it. Grateful for the scrapes, the laughter, the friendships, the detours, the lessons.

Each mile carried a memory that shaped me into the woman I am today.

And maybe that’s the point. Roads don’t just lead us places — they bring us back to ourselves.

From me to you — if you ever get the chance, take the old road. The one you haven’t seen in years. Let it pull you back for a little while. Not to relive the past… but to honor it. Because sometimes, to see clearly where we’re going, we need a reminder of where we’ve been.

Mother, author, entrepreneur and founder of Dandelion-Inc, Lisa Resnick wants to hear your story. Share memories with her by emailing lisa@dandelion-inc.com.