I went to university in Boston. Driving from New York meant going over at least one giant bridge. Each time I hit that bridge, I’d notice something shift. My fingers clenched, my shoulders tightened, I hugged the divider, and focused hard on following those in front of me in order to make it to the other side. A few minutes after crossing, the color returned to my fingers and my whole body exhaled. Regardless of the season, state of the roads, or precipitation from the sky, crossing that bridge was often the most nerve-wracking part of that drive.