Lifestyle
I stopped driving on L.A.'s chaotic freeways. How do I get over this painful anxiety?
My New Year’s resolution this year is simple. This weekend — my first back in L.A. after visiting family for the holidays — I will drive to the 101 freeway entrance by my house and I will … get on it.
Simple as that. But far easier said than done.
I haven’t driven on the freeway in more than two years — I’ve been too afraid. I’ve rarely even ridden as a passenger on the freeway, with someone else behind the wheel, and when I do, I sit on my hands so my fingers won’t tremble.
Fear of driving on the freeway is hardly uncommon — and for good reason. Headlines reporting fatal accidents and police pursuits ending in deadly crashes are more commonplace than ever in L.A.
But here’s the thing: It’s an entirely new phenomenon for me. Living in Los Angeles as a journalist, I’ve fearlessly traversed the city’s vast thicket of freeways for decades. My work took me from the mountains to the desert to the sea. Years ago, I dated someone in San Diego and endured the three-hour drive on the 5 south every other Friday for about a year. And all with relative ease.
So what changed? My brain, basically.
The pandemic was rough, in infinitely varied ways, for everyone. For me, on top of the stresses of the public health crisis and its myriad economic and social repercussions, I experienced a series of losses in succession, sometimes with just weeks between them. And it didn’t let up for about two years. My grief manifested on the freeway, where I’d have small, then more pronounced, panic attacks — something totally new to me.
Here’s what happened: In early 2020, a sibling of mine tragically died. Later that year, my partner and I broke up. We’d been together for several years and it was a significant loss. This was in the early days of the pandemic, when many of us were wiping down our groceries and staying inside for days on end. I was doing that too, but now alone in my apartment.
I don’t have children but my cats provided comfort during that period. (For some of us, our pets are our kids.) Then they both died too, one after the other — unexpectedly. The first, only 8 years old, suffered a violent and painful death. My second cat, much older and more fragile, witnessed it and became so anxious afterward that she got sick and passed away only months later.
The silence in my home, after that, was unsettling: no scritch-scratching of claws on hardwood floors or chomping of kibble in the background as I pecked away at my keyboard writing articles. I’d sip coffee in the mornings, taking some comfort in the lush view of the greenery on my deck. Until nearly all the plants died in a heatwave.
Then my parked car was smashed during a hit-and-run. Insurance paid to fix it. But then the car was targeted by catalytic converter thieves. Again, insurance covered the repairs. But when, several months later, the thieves struck again, my insurance company declared the 14-year-old Honda a total loss.
When the tow truck came to haul my car away, I fell into the driver’s burly arms and cried. I’d had that trusty, beat-up Honda longer than any romantic relationship, and at that moment, it felt like all I had left.
Given this sustained succession of emotional gut punches, my central nervous system was on high alert. A car door would slam outside and I’d jump, my body bracing tensely: “What next?”
That feeling manifested — exaggeratedly so — driving on the freeway. I held it together in all areas of my life, but the freeway became a release valve for my pent-up grief. Instead of seeing the big picture while driving, getting into the flow of traffic, I saw too much detail. The freeway was a dangerous, kinetic collage of spinning wheels and whirling, sparking hubcaps and rectangular hunks of metal flying forward, any piece of which, at any instant, could crash into me. It was like at the start of a billiard game, when the cue breaks the racked balls with a fiery crack, sending the multicolored striped and solid orbs flying in all directions. That’s how I saw traffic. Panic.
The freeway was a dangerous, kinetic collage of spinning wheels and whirling, sparking hubcaps.
The lane I was driving in felt constricting and narrow; trucks on either side of me felt hulking and ominous. My jaw clenched, my breath quickened, my teeth chattered. And my heart pounded in my chest.
It wasn’t a choice so much as survival — I could not drive, safely, on the freeway anymore. I made adjustments, slipping like water around rocks. I changed my Waze settings to “avoid freeways” and took surface streets everywhere instead. I took Ubers or carpooled with friends if the drive was too long on surface streets. If headed especially far, I took a train.
I should add that I don’t particularly like to drive. Nor would anyone close to me say I’m good at it. Before L.A., I’d only lived in walkable cities with active public transportation systems: Philadelphia, San Francisco, Tokyo, Boston. But I certainly never feared driving.
And for those who have always feared freeway driving, it’s understandable. Traffic-related deaths in Los Angeles have been on the rise in recent years, at their highest point in two decades. In 2022, 312 people died in traffic accidents, according to the Los Angeles Police Department’s most recent data. That’s a 5% jump from 2021 and a 29% jump from 2020.
Perhaps the most disconcerting part was that my newfound freeway phobia sparked something of an identity crisis: I am not a fragile or fearful person. I take risks, I speak up for myself, I have a sense of agency. I don’t recognize this new, tentative version of myself. I’m confused by her, ashamed. Who is she? How do I get back to the self I identify with? Does she even still exist?
I’ve since healed from those aforementioned losses and am feeling infinitely revived in my personal life. New cats, new boyfriend, new car. But, oddly, the freeway fear has stuck.
“It’s such a normal human impulse when you’ve gone through tragedy and loss,” says L.A. author and psychotherapist Claire Bidwell Smith. “You’re seeing the world through a lens where the unexpected looms around every corner and something catastrophic can happen at any moment. Your life was going along and then: Bam! Bam! Bam! You’re scrambling to hold onto something, so you hold onto ‘How can I predict this, control it in some way?’ But we can’t control the world in the way we would like to, so we get stuck in this catastrophic place.”
Panic attacks in cars are especially common, Bidwell Smith adds. Her theory? “The car is a space where you’re often alone, a quiet private space, and all these thoughts, some of the stuff we’ve been pushing away, start to gurgle up.”
I haven’t talked openly about my freeway phobia much, not even to family. Until recently — and nearly everyone I’ve spoken to about it had experienced something similar or knew someone who had. I was at dinner recently with two journalist friends. One of them said she developed flying anxiety after her father died, something that dissipated over time. The other said her sister in Toronto developed a fear of driving on the freeway after their father died — she still hasn’t gotten over it.
Bidwell Smith says that after her own parents died, she developed a fear of flying and became fixated on her health. A client developed a fear of riding on elevators after his wife died.
How many more people are there like us in L.A.?
“It’s very common,” says Sarah Caliboso-Soto, director of the Telebehavioral Health Clinic at USC’s School of Social Work, which provides counseling for driving anxiety among other mental health issues. “Grief itself can be a very traumatic experience, and when people are driving, in particular, their senses are more heightened. And you can experience anxieties as a result.”
My period of avoiding freeways wasn’t all bad. I traversed neighborhoods I’d never otherwise pass through in L.A., gaining a better understanding of how the city connects. I got lost plenty, on zigzaggy Waze routes, but that had its upsides too. I stumbled on a collection of street murals, on remote side streets, in the downtown L.A. warehouse district. I found an available apartment for rent, for a friend, in Jefferson Park, a gem of a neighborhood filled with old Craftsman homes. I stopped several times for roadside fruit at different points around the city, wolfing down chili-spiked mango, drenched in lime juice, from behind the wheel.
But I long for my freedom again, to be unhindered by an emotional impediment. I miss the person I once was and ache to embody her again. It may not happen all at once; likely it will be a slow process, one freeway ramp at a time.
Lucy Dacus performs at Spotlight: Lucy Dacus at GRAMMY Museum L.A. Live on October 08, 2025 in Los Angeles, California. (Photo by Rebecca Sapp/Getty Images for The Recording Academy)
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This week’s show was recorded in Chicago with host Peter Sagal, guest judge and scorekeeper Alzo Slade, Not My Job guest Lucy Dacus and panelists Adam Burke, Helen Hong, and Tom Bodett. Click the audio link above to hear the whole show.
Who’s Alzo This Time
Mega Media Merger; Cars, They’re Just Like Us; The Swag Gap
Panel Questions
An Hourly Marriage
Bluff The Listener
Our panelists tell three stories about a new TV show making headlines, only one of which is true.
Not My Job: Lucy Dacus answers our questions about boy geniuses
Singer-songwriter Lucy Dacus, one third of the supergroup boygenius, plays our game called, “boygenius, meet Boy Geniuses” Three questions about child prodigies.
Panel Questions
Bedroom Rules; Japan Solves its Bear Problem
Limericks
Alzo Slade reads three news-related limericks: NHL Superlatives; Terrible Mouthwash; The Most Holy and Most Stylish
Lightning Fill In The Blank
All the news we couldn’t fit anywhere else
Predictions
Our panelists predict what will be the next big merger in the news.
In Fairfax, nestled on Beverly Boulevard near Pan Pacific Park, I ran a modest yet beloved pan-Asian restaurant called Buddha’s Belly. More than a place to eat, it was a gathering spot where our team and loyal regulars created an atmosphere of warmth and community. Every day, we exchanged stories about our guests, the generous, the quirky and the kind souls whose smiles lit up our little corner of L.A.
For five years, one regular stood out. The Buddha’s Belly team referred to her as “Aloha.” She had a familiar and beautiful face and she adored our shao bing finger sandwiches and pad Thai. During those five years, all I ever said to her was: “How’s your pad Thai?,” “Nice to see you” and “Thanks for coming in!” Her friendly smile and presence were the highlights of our routine interactions.
Then one hectic afternoon changed everything. Rushing to a meeting and about to leap into my car, I caught a glimpse of Lynda sitting at Table 64, smiling at me through our bamboo-lined patio (a.k.a. “bamboo forest”). I went over to say a quick hi.
“How’s your pad Thai?” I asked, and then I was off.
A couple blocks from the restaurant, I was struck by the feeling that our brief encounter was different this time. There was a spark — a look in her eye. So I did something out of character: I called the manager on duty and asked him to go to Table 64, Seat 3, and ask for her number.
The next day, I found a business card on my desk with Lynda’s cell number. It was on! That small gesture signaled the start of something extraordinary.
Eager to seize the moment, I called and invited her out for a date that same weekend. However, it was her birthday month, and that meant her calendar was booked solid for the next three to four weekends. Not wanting to let time slip away, I proposed an unconventional plan: to join me and an octogenarian friend at our annual opening night at the Hollywood Bowl. Little did I know this would turn out to be equal parts amazing and mortifying. My friend was so excited — she had no filter.
Shortly after picking up our dinner at Joan’s on Third, my friend started asking Lynda questions, first light questions like “Where are you from?” and “What do you do?” Then once seated at the Bowl, her questions continued. But now they were more pointed questions: “Have you ever been married?” and “Do you have kids?”
Amazingly, Lynda didn’t flinch, and her honesty, unfiltered yet graceful, was refreshing and alluring. She had been through life’s fires and knew that when it’s a fit, it should not be based on any false pretense. Although I did manage to get a few questions in that evening, I still chuckle at the memory of myself, sitting back, legs extended with a note pad in hand taking notes!
After dropping her off, she didn’t know if she would hear from me, as she didn’t know anything about me. But I didn’t wait three days to contact Lynda. I called her the next day to make plans to see her again. With it still being her birthday month, I asked her to join me that night for a surf film at the Ford with my best buddy. She said yes, and there we were on another chaperoned date.
By our third date, we were finally alone. We ventured to an underground gem affectionately dubbed the “Blade Runner” restaurant. Hidden on Pico Boulevard behind no obvious sign and characterized by hood-free mesquite grills and stacked wine crates, the place exuded a secret charm. Sharing a bottle of wine with the owner, our conversation deepened, and the electricity between Lynda and me became undeniable.
Our story took another turn when I was opening a new bar named Copa d’Oro (or Cup of Gold) in Santa Monica that was similar to a bar down the street called Bar Copa. The owner of Bar Copa invited me to discuss whether the concept was going to be too like his own. While we waited in the packed room, I instinctively put my hand around the small of Lynda’s back to steady us from the ebb and flow of the crowd of people around us. The intensity of our closeness and the energy between us was palpable, and we soon found ourselves at a quieter bar called Schatzi on Main where we had our first kiss.
Our courtship continued, and it would be defined by ease and grace. There were no mind games or calculations. One of us would ask whether the other was free, and it was an easy yes. Our desire was to be together.
I fondly remember being at a Fatburger not far from where Lynda lived, and I phoned her to ask if she wanted to sit with me as I scarfed down a Double Kingburger with chili and egg (yum!), and she said yes. By the time she arrived, I was halfway through eating the sandwich. But I was practicing a new way of eating a sloppy burger that my brother taught me. Why bother to continuously wipe your mouth when you’re only going to mess it up with the next bite? To save time and energy, wipe your mouth once at the end.
I was practicing this new technique with a smear of sauce on my face, and it didn’t faze her one bit. I could only imagine what her internal monologue was!
After six months of effortless companionship, I asked Lynda to move in, and a year later, while at Zephyr’s Bench, a serene and cherished hiking spot in the Santa Monica Mountains behind Bel-Air, I asked her to marry me.
Now, more than 17 years later, with two beautiful boys and our pandemic dog in tow, I can say I found my own aloha right here in the vibrant chaos of Los Angeles.
The author lives in Santa Monica with his wife and two children. They go to the Hollywood Bowl every chance they can. He’s also aspiring to make it into the Guinness World Records book.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Actor Peter Greene at a press conference in New York City in 2010.
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Actor Peter Greene, known for playing villains in movies including Pulp Fiction and The Mask, has died. Greene was found dead in his apartment in New York City on Friday, his manager and friend, Gregg Edwards, told NPR. The cause of death was not immediately provided. He was 60 years old.
The tall, angular character actor’s most famous bad guy roles were in slapstick and gritty comedies. He brought a hammy quality to his turn as Dorian Tyrell, Jim Carrey’s nemesis in the 1994 superhero movie The Mask, and, that same year, played a ruthless security guard with evil elan in the gangster movie Pulp Fiction.
“Peter was one of the most brilliant character actors on the planet,” Edwards said.
He went on to work steadily, earning dozens of credits in movies and on TV, such as the features Judgment Night, Blue Streak and Training Day, a 2001 episode of Law & Order, and, in 2023, an episode of The Continental, the John Wick prequel series.
At the time of his death, the actor was planning to co-narrate the in-progress documentary From the American People: The Withdrawal of USAID, alongside Jason Alexander and Kathleen Turner. “He was passionate about this project,” Edwards said.
Greene was also scheduled to begin shooting Mickey Rourke’s upcoming thriller Mascots next year.
Rourke posted a close-up portrait of Greene on his Instagram account Friday night accompanied by a prayer emoji, but no words. NPR has reached out to the actor’s representatives for further comment.
Peter Greene was born in New Jersey in 1965. He started pursuing acting in his 20s, and landed his first film role in Laws of Gravity alongside Edie Falco in 1992.
The actor battled drug addiction through much of his adult life. But according to Edwards, Greene had been sober for at least a couple of years.
Edwards added that Greene had a tendency to fall for conspiracy theories. “He had interesting opinions and we differed a lot on many things,” said Edwards. “But he was loyal to a fault and was like a brother to me.”
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