Portal: The Unexpected Spaces Where We Find Ourselves
A Personal Essay on Sanctuary, Comfort, and Emotional Escape
Sometimes, I miss having a car. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want a car in NYC until I have a dedicated parking space. I love how public transportation can get you anywhere in NYC, and being a passenger doesn’t make people question your status in life, like it does in most places around the country.
The biggest problem I encountered as a driver was getting into a lot of accidents. I would nod off at the wheel often. It got to the point where I was convinced that owning a car would dramatically shorten my life expectancy. These were well before the days of ride-share apps, but nevertheless, after my last car was totaled, I said to hell with this.
But I miss the way a car felt like my own personal portal. My first car was a Black Volkswagon Jetta. I got it around the age of 22. I worked full-time as a hair colorist and saved money for the down payment. I was living in Atlanta, where not owning a vehicle essentially cut you off at the knees in terms of access to the city. The world was now my oyster. No more having to bum rides. No more standing in a grassy knoll on the side of a road that was deemed a bus stop.
I felt so free in that car. The only time I’d ever moved out of the house at that point was for the two years when I moved to L.A. to attend college. When I came back to Atlanta, I moved into my dad’s house, and having that car felt like an extension of me. A place outside of the confines of his house that was my own. I loved being able to give my friends rides. I loved crisp Spring mornings with the windows down and my music cranked up. I burned so many cd mixes, full of illegally downloaded songs, and named each of them something ridiculous like, “Pussy Pussy Trap Shit., Vol 1.,” which as you would expect, went triple platinum in my black Jetta.
I lived in Atlanta for six years after college and only had a boyfriend for one of those years. I blamed my perpetual singleness on the city. In 2008, I took a trip to NYC for fun and met this beautiful Australian boy. A devastatingly handsome face, long and completely disheveled hair, and attire that looked like he a cross between a pop-rock lead singer and an Urban Outfitters store manager (not mutually exclusive). We hung out for the whole week, and for me, it felt like a beautiful honeymoon. I wondered if encounters like this only existed on vacations. When I flew home, I remember experiencing the distinct feeling that I was leaving home, not coming home. That was the first time as an adult that I felt like I should be living in NYC. When I landed in Atlanta, I took the subway to the station where my car was parked and drove home.
It was a somber drive home as I listened to the college radio station. When I pulled into the driveway of my dad’s house, they started playing a live version of a song by an artist I had never heard of, Citizen Cope. The song was called “Sideways.” I was struck by his raspy voice over the soft strum of the guitar. The pain in his voice.
These feelings won't go away
They've been knockin' me sideways
They've been knockin' me out lately
whenever you come around me.
I turned the music up, as I sat there in my car, my safe space, my portal, and felt it envelope me. A week of independence, a glimpse of what companionship could look like in my life, and the swift realization that it was time for me to move, at least out of my dad’s house and eventually out of Atlanta. As I listened to the song, I took a deep breath in, and it felt so staggered. It reminded me of the way a child breathes when they’re in the middle of a crying tantrum and are stuttering as they try to get words out. I felt my cheeks warm up, and then I just began uncontrollably sobbing.
I was not crying over the cute alt-Aussie—he was just a catalyst—but over everything that I felt was missing in my life. Independence, dating, that vibrant pocket of Brooklyn’s queer counter-culture that aligned with me and my personality. My black Jetta, my portal, was a safe space for such an expulsion of emotion. Even safer than my bedroom, where there was a chance my sobs could be overheard.
Although I live alone now and my apartment is a safe space, there’s something about smaller confines, like a car, that can be more comforting. It’s like when newborns are swaddled or tightly wrapped to soothe them because it mimics the womb. My car was the adult version of that. It’s not lost on me that people often find comfort in releasing emotions in the smaller spaces of their homes. The shower, the closet, under the covers.
While I don't miss the practical headaches that car ownership brought me, I do miss that feeling of carrying your safe space with you wherever you go. But maybe that's something you learn to do without four wheels and an engine—maybe you learn to carry that portal inside yourself. To find quiet ways to process in the moment through a deep breath or a few minutes of internal reflection, while knowing you still have your true sanctuary waiting for the deeper unpacking. The location changes, but the need for sanctuary never does.