Is it Noise? Or is it Connection?

I live in one of the far northwest suburbs of Chicago. We lucked out when we found this place a few years ago; despite being in a community with about 6,000 homes, when I’m sitting outside, it feels like it’s just us. Visually, anyway. We back up to a wetland and there’s a trio of evergreens at the corner of the house, so my view is of trees and grasses and sometimes wildflowers.

It’s delightful.

What is not so delightful is our proximity to I-90. We’re a couple of miles off the interstate, and on some days, like today, the sound of traffic can make it feel like we’re right next door.

It’s loud. There’s a constant whine of vehicles speeding along at 70 mph–or closer to 90, if we’re going to be real about it–and on cloudy or humid days, the noise is amplified.

But with all those trees, there are also birds. Lots and lots of birds. I can now identify cardinals, red-winged blackbirds, mourning doves, and more (thanks, Merlin!) by their songs alone, and hummingbirds by the buzz of their wings as they strafe me on the way to the feeder. There are chipmunks and bunnies (so many bunnies!) and squirrels and deer and coyotes and at least one raccoon.

Like I said, it’s delightful.

For the last three years, I’ve lamented humanity’s intrusion on my idyllic soundtrack. Until Monday. I had an epiphany: maybe the whine of traffic isn’t degrading my experience. Maybe it’s a connection.

Working from home, I don’t get a lot of social interaction besides my husband. I get the casual “good mornings” with neighbors on our morning walks, but unless I’m traveling, that’s it.

As an extroverted introvert, or an ambivert, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I traveled sixty-six days in the first six months of 2026 (that’s a lot of sixes), and by the time I got home on July 7, I was ready to nest. More than ready.

It’s been three and a half weeks and I’m still happy to be here. More than happy.

Except for that traffic, you may say. And frankly, it’s loud enough today I’m feeling a bit like shaking my fist and yelling at them all to go home themselves. But maybe they are. Or maybe they’re going on an adventure. Some of them, those semi drivers, are working. One truck is delivering a new microwave for a young man getting his first apartment. A family’s on their way to shop for school supplies. The siblings in the back are buried in screens while Mom and Dad decide where they’ll take them to lunch if they behave themselves in the store. A couple is heading to Galena for a romantic getaway weekend, and a young woman cries as she heads off to college, ready to spread her wings but oh, so sad about leaving her parents.

Humanity has been speaking to me for the last three years, and I’m just now hearing their stories.

The realization has brought balance. I no longer hear the dichotomy of man vs. nature. I hear the blend, the coexistence. It’s an uneasy balance, to be sure, but it’s also the reality, and I’d rather listen to these previously conflicting sounds as part of a symphony of the world I live in.

We plan to move next year. Will it be to someplace far away from the noise of man? Heck yes it will. But until then, I’ll be a little more comfortable in my new awareness that traffic can be an intrusion, and it can also be connection. In this situation, like most, two things can be true.

Happy reading,

Theresa

“Two things can be true” is one of the primary themes of Diary of a Cockeyed Optimist. It’s even implied in the title. My upcoming memoir is about pain and joy, fear and gratitude, anger and love. It’s about death and rebirth through loss and hope. It’s about the strange truth that something can break you open and make you whole at the same time.

Follow the Kickstarter campaign and be part of bringing this book into the world. It launches August 18, the six-year anniversary of my diagnosis!

I’d truly appreciate it if you’d also share it. Thank you so much!