Last Monday morning, as I was beginning one of my favorite rituals, walking in my neighborhood with my dog, I experienced an odd sort of twinge in my left foot.

I had just stepped onto the sidewalk from the last of three cement stairs at my building’s front door. Pain began to radiate from the middle of my foot. I thought I heard the sound of something snapping.

The discomfort was bearable for a while, then the pain grew. I made the walk short, much to my dog’s displeasure, and took my time getting up the stairs to my second floor residence.

I checked email then set about trying to figure out where I could go to have my foot checked out. I didn’t want to go somewhere only to be “referred” to another clinic or other provider.

I ended up going to an orthopedic immediate care clinic in my network where I was x-rayed and given a post-op boot to wear. I was asked if I wanted a cane or crutch or walker then told to come back in two weeks.

I was disappointed with the directives given. I wanted a precise diagnosis and treatment plan right away.

The x-ray didn’t show any breaks, although the sports medicine doc agreed that some types of fractures might not show up on an x-ray for a while. They were reluctant to order an MRI because of the expense.

I drove home and parked, taking even more time to ascend my back stairs than when I climbed up to my unit’s front door after returning from my abbreviated morning walk.

I was near tears. Losing much of my mobility sucked. Although I have lived alone most of my life, and certainly managed all right during the pandemic, I wished I had a “go-to” person or two that would take care of things.

I set about figuring out who could shop for me and made arrangements for dog walkers. I found myself talking about the injury to people who weren’t that involved in my daily life.

I felt in unfamiliar territory, sharing personal information I wouldn’t normally, but I wanted others to know that I was going through a hard time.

Once, during the week, I did go out for dinner. A friend came over and drove us to a restaurant to meet mutual friends who were moving to California in two weeks. It was interesting to be a passenger instead of the driver.

I generally like driving myself around. I like choosing the radio station and the volume.

I like deciding which yellow lights lean to golden and merit pressing harder on the gas and which yellow lights lean towards “amber” and truly deserve more caution.

I like that the mirrors and my proximity to the wheel have been adjusted to suit my preferences.

I like tooling around without shame over old dry cleaning receipts or slightly stained grocery tote bags occupying my back seat.

Being a passenger has made me think about letting go and asking for help — and my relationship with time.

Being driven or being cared for can be nice as long as I choose the destination or have a say in what’s needed.

Sitting on the right side of a vehicle encourages me to observe and be present to life in front of me; businesses that have opened or closed on nearby boulevards, new locations for bike racks, the angle of the sun.

And, of course, sitting on the right side is an opportunity to practice patience.

As I thought about my initial reaction to waiting two weeks to take another x-ray just to figure out the severity of my injury, I had to laugh about my new attitude. Going somewhere as a passenger, It seemed easier to cop the attitude, “I’ll get there, when I get there.”

Experiencing an injury and slowing down has caused me to think about realizing a dream being about allowing as much as it’s about effort.

Sometimes it’s great to experience things coming to you.

Knowing that being a passenger or driver is based on where you sit, not on who you are, is no small thing.