I cross the same five-lane bridge twice a day, on the way to and from my 9-to-6 job.
These crossings occur at approximately 8:40 a.m. and again, at 6:20 p.m. For just a few breaths each day, traffic is stalled on this bridge in favor of the intersecting freeway ramps. This small pause allows me to glance out my window and onto the faces of passersby — not in a creepy way, but more in an anthropologically curious way. Toyotas and Kias and Nissans and Teslas and Hondas and Jeeps. Mostly white Jeeps. All these cars find themselves on a similar commute, yet an unequivocally different journey, as me.
On Monday, I catch a mother conversing with her teenage son in the passenger seat. On Wednesday, a girl not far off in age from me is delicately applying symmetrical dots of (what I assume is) the final step of her moisturizing routine. On Thursday, a puzzled face. What are they listening to in there? One can only imagine. And so, I do.
Perhaps a personal development podcast? A mildly concerning news broadcast? Their mother on the line relaying the details of a mildly concerning news broadcast?
Most days, the lens through which I view my commute is colored less romantically than I’ve just described. Most days, I dread the 45 minutes — 38 on a good day — I spend in my 2007 Prius each morning and evening. Sometimes if I think about it too hard, I can begin to feel the weight of each limb — my arms, my thighs, my repeatedly flexed and unflexed right foot on the pedal — and I start to panic that even the slightest shift in position could result in a fatal outcome.
“How does one remedy this dread?” you ask. Audiobooks? Podcasts? Phoning a loved one? Guided meditations? Yes, yes, sometimes and yes. These certainly make the pill easier to swallow, but ultimately are imbued with the same inescapable burden that plagues many aspects of our day-to-day lives: decision-making in the age of absolute abundance.
At a dinner party a while back, a woman I work with casually mentioned that she drives in silence. Aghast, I thought to myself, “How on Earth does one manage that?” To someone who absolutely must consume passive entertainment while completing everyday tasks this sounded punitive at best. The short-lived trend of “rawdogging” flights back in 2024 comes to mind, when young adults intentionally endured hours-long journeys without a morsel of colorful distraction. Though this was more of a gag than a lasting measure of discipline, beyond the trend lay a question worth raising: Must we always be entertained while in motion?
Every day upon entering my car, I question what I’ll be listening to on that given drive. And every now and then, I’ll find that I’ve spent more time weighing my choice of audible balm than actually enjoying said audible balm altogether. Silence, however, calls for none of this abundance-induced overwhelm, and therein lies the unsung advantage of the silent drive: the eradication of choice. Silence, possibly the sole human experience familiar to all, places the passive entertainment in one’s own hands — your thoughts are your only company.
After chewing on my colleague’s seemingly blasphemous life choices, I came to realize that those fleeting moments on her commute might be the only window of silence she’s afforded each day. Perhaps, I thought, this poorly received concept she bravely posited to a room full of naysayers was worth considering. And perhaps, given this age of unrelenting noise in which we live, creating brief pockets of uninterrupted quiet can be the very respite we desperately crave. Having since tried the silent drive for myself, I’ve found it to be exactly that.
Personally, I’ll often utilize this silence to conduct an internal assessment and question — with the curiosity of a therapist or parent — how I’m feeling in that moment, and overall. The practice of naming said feeling, and taking the time to identify its source, and (when needed) its solution has all but transformed my inner monologue’s tone from one of indifference to one of genuine regard. The silent drive, by serving as a conduit for undisturbed webs of thought, has afforded me the space to adequately process ideas I’ve shelved, areas of discontent I’ve tabled, and everyday musings I would’ve otherwise rendered undeserving of a second thought.
Now, the 45 minutes — 38 on a good day — spent in my 2007 Prius, twice a day, have proved more soothing above all else, tantamount to the guided meditations I once habitually sought. Now, the soundtrack to my commute consists of unadulterated urban ambiance — distant honks from impatient drivers, muffled music spilling from cracked windows, my tires as they fall victim to uneven freeways and the occasional pothole. Now, I’ve found my commute to not only be grounding, but encouraging of the cultivation of thought rather than the flattening of it.
Though I wouldn’t go as far as to say I’ve entirely converted to the silent drive lifestyle, it has certainly entered — and will likely remain in — the daily commute rotation.
Tamara Jiji is a South Africa-born, Los Angeles-based writer and cultural observer.
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