There’s nothing quite like driving in Italy.
The first time you round a sharp, blind curve on the edge of a cliff with a drop so steep it feels like the earth just gives up, you understand why they take their espresso strong.
My husband calls it a life of yield.
It wasn’t a casual comment. It came from that deep, intuitive place in him that often sees meaning before I can even name it. As we wound through the Amalfi Coast hills, roads barely the width of a generous tablecloth, guardrails more symbolic than protective, he watched the movement around us and quietly offered words that carried weight. A life of yield. And the moment he said it, something in me knew he was naming something true, even if it took me longer to comprehend its depth. Cars darted forward with purpose, scooters slipped through spaces I would describe as impossible, and yet somehow, no one seemed bothered. No honking. No flared tempers. No dramatic gestures.
Just movement. Intention. And constant yielding.
It’s worth noting that this same man, who speaks so spiritually about surrender and trust, still completely unravels when I lean against a handrail overlooking a cliff. I’ll place one casual elbow down, and suddenly he’s gripping my arm, whisper-hissing, “Noelle, no,” like I’m about to stage-dive into the Mediterranean. He can handle Italian drivers taking blind turns at thirty miles an hour (and him doing the same), but me resting on a guardrail is apparently too much existential risk for one man to process.
I watched the drivers in real time. An elderly man in a tiny car confidently took a hairpin curve, then stopped on a dime to let a group of tourists shuffle across the road. No frustration, no rush, just a quiet acceptance that life includes unexpected pauses. A young woman on a scooter zipped around us, then slowed instantly when a delivery truck inched toward her. She simply nodded and let him pass, like she’d always expected to. They all seemed to live with an understanding: Something, or someone, might meet you around the bend, and you need to be ready to make space. There was something beautiful about it. Something human, even holy.
We are so conditioned to move forward fast, to push, to get ahead, to claim our right of way. But here, on the cliffs of Italy, people move with a different rhythm. They go for it, make no mistake. They drive with confidence and courage. They take the turns sharply and boldly. But they also yield. Effortlessly. Without resentment. Without losing momentum. It struck me that this is the tension we spend most of our lives trying to hold: the dance between boldness and surrender. To live with intention, but not entitlement. To move decisively, yet remain interruptible. To pursue your lane, while expecting to slow down for someone else’s. A life of yield isn’t passive. And it isn’t timid. It’s a life where you still accelerate into the unknown, still take the curves on the cliff, still go after what’s ahead of you. But you do it with a posture that’s willing to stop, to make room, to let someone cross in front of you without feeling robbed. It’s courage anchored in humility. It’s forward motion without the need for dominance. It’s trusting that the road is shared, not owned. And maybe that’s the part that feels spiritual to me. Because the more I think about it, the more I realize this is the way God invites us to move through the world: Bold and brave, but never bulldozing. Strong but surrendered. Fully alive, yet yielding to the sacred interruptions, those moments when someone else steps into our path and we’re invited to pause, make space, and honor their presence.
The cliff-side roads of Italy may be dramatic, but the truth they reveal is simple: You can live fast without living furious. You can move with intention without losing your tenderness. You can stay expectant without staying entitled. A life of yield isn’t about going slower; it’s about going wiser.Maybe that’s what those drivers have known all along.
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