Our 17-year-old Honda CR-V (affectionately nicknamed “Broomhilda”) met its tragic and untimely demise last summer when a deer darted out of the neighboring woods and crashed into its hood. My husband, who was miraculously unharmed, managed to get it home and repair the dent. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to us, radiator fluid slowly leaked into its engine until, months later, we pulled into our driveway to find our children frantic as plumes of smoke billowed from its hood, every alert on its dashboard lit. like a Christmas tree. She was toast and smelled like that. Watching a tow truck lift it out of our driveway for the last time, I felt an unexpected residue of sadness that lasted longer than I expected.
I'm not the only person who cries a little when my car breaks down. I'm also not the only person who felt compelled to give my car a name. George Slavich, director of the UCLA Stress Assessment and Research Laboratory, says that sometimes we can't help but attribute personality characteristics to the objects we love. “People tend to anthropomorphize certain objects like cars, even giving them names, because our brains are programmed to see personality even when it is not possible to exist,” he says.
So why do we cry about our cars? If you live in Los Angeles, your car isn't just a means to get from A to B and back: it's a tiny mobile home. You spend so much time in your car that it becomes a temporary residence where important memories are made and milestones met, and like our homes, we can become emotionally attached to the places where these things happen. For almost two decades, Broomhilda was that mobile home for our family. We brought our daughter, now a teenager, home from the hospital in it. We used it to drop our oldest son off at college. She carried us through sickness and in health, on countless family road trips, and on terrifying trips to the emergency room. We filled it with furniture, balloons, cakes, pets, and more children than were legally allowed to and from her birthday parties. Her gray cloth backseat was covered in dog hair and a few telltale stains from chocolate milk regurgitated by a dizzy child. As she was towed out of our driveway beyond sight, her remains destined to resurrect other vehicles, I was sure she would be dragged to her metal grave with a few errant Airpods, a fair amount of loose change, and possibly some teeth. milk still. lodged out of reach on her cushions.
Even with the increasing malfunctions of age, Broomhilda harbored countless memories and sparked millions of mundane memories, the kind we create daily but take for granted. “Memories are inextricably linked to the context in which they are created, and for many people who grew up in America, that context probably involved a memorable automobile or two,” Slavich explains. Because teen brains are wired (see what I did there?) to form social memories, important social experiences like a first date, a first kiss, or a first walk can be linked to the car you were driving or riding in. that moment of your life. . “When these types of events occur in life, the brain encodes not only the circumstances of the event itself, but also the smells, tastes and contextual characteristics of the environment. Thus, the cars in which our lives unfold become an inherent part of our history and our personal history,” she states.
In a busy city like Los Angeles, your car is one of the few places where you have complete control over your environment. Says Slavich: “In the hustle and bustle of the city, you can roll up the windows, set the temperature exactly how you want, and play relaxing meditation music or, if you prefer, put on your favorite Jay-Z or Britney. He sings and sings as loud as you want.” Furthermore, whether you know it or not, your car is a space where you entertain yourself. “Every time my friends got in my car they had an experience, whether it was through music or adventure,” says Monica O'Neal, a Boston-based clinical psychologist and relationship expert.
Our cars also house various aspects of our interior and exterior lives. On the one hand, they are a symbol of our sense of identity and autonomy. “Your car represents you,” says O'Neal. “In a way, they have that sense of our identity and a certain narrative of our life and our struggle.” On a surface level, for better or worse, you may be judged by the type of car you drive, which is kind of an epidemic in Los Angeles. O'Neal says, “Cars are almost like your clothes. When people see you getting in and out of a car, you will have an immediate idea of their identity.” He also says that our cars are one of the few private spaces in our lives. “If you commute, you spend a lot of your life in your car. That could be the place where you have privacy and time alone with your thoughts.” Losing a car could also mean losing a sacred space that you could rely on to process your feelings.
The most important thing to know if you're mourning your car is that you're not missing any random items: your car was a sacred space that served as a vessel for the memories you created in it. Any feeling of grief is perfectly normal, common, and in time it will pass. It's been months since Broomhilda went to the dump and I'm still shopping for cars. Naturally, what has attracted me the most are the CR-Vs. They won't be Broomhilda, but I know they will fit us perfectly.
