We All Moved Over for the Ambulance
A letter about decency, dignity, and why we still belong to each other.
It was just another ordinary morning. I was behind the wheel, coffee half-finished, my thoughts split between the meeting I was about to lead and the text I had forgotten to send. A siren began to rise behind me. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the ambulance cutting through traffic, lights urgent but silent.
And something remarkable happened. Everyone moved.
All at once, every single car made space.
There were no arguments. No hesitation. No anger. Just a collective understanding: someone needs help, and our job—right now—is to get out of the way.
It was so quiet and so precise, it felt choreographed. Like we had all, at some level, agreed to be decent before we even met.
And for a moment, I felt something rise in my chest.
We are still capable of caring for people we do not know.
I’ve now lived in America a decade and a half longer than I lived in the country of my birth. I came here as a young man with ambition and a suitcase, and I built a life brick by brick. I earned degrees, held jobs, raised three children, paid mortgages, watched parades, and shoveled driveways after long weeks of work travel. I’ve voted in every election since I became a citizen, not because I believed politicians would solve everything, but because I believed I should try.
And I still do.
But something in the fabric has frayed. Not just politically. Not only in policy. Personally.
There’s a bitterness creeping in—a readiness to sort, to harden, to mock. We label each other faster than we listen. We don’t just disagree—we dismiss.
And then, sometimes, something breaks that pattern. Something interrupts the slide toward our worst instincts. Something reminds us who we were before the noise.
Several years ago, I remember driving down I-55 when traffic suddenly slowed to a full stop. Standstill for a couple of hours. Not for construction. Not for an accident. A dog had escaped from a transport truck and was weaving through lanes in panic.
I remember expecting the usual response: horns, frustration, people inching forward, trying to get ahead.
But that didn’t happen.
Cars stopped. Doors opened. A man pulled off his sweatshirt and crouched low, trying to coax the animal in. A woman quietly formed a barrier with her car to keep the dog from veering into danger. A teenager signaled behind him to slow the approaching cars. People who had never met became a team—not by coordination, but by conscience.
Eventually, the dog was caught. People clapped. And then we all got back in our cars and drove on.
No one took credit. But everyone contributed.
That day stayed with me—not just because it was touching, but because it reminded me what we forget when we sort people too quickly: that most of us, given the moment and the choice, want to help. We want to do right. We want to be decent.
So why is it so easy to forget that now?
I’ve spent most of my professional life traveling the globe—representing my companies, leading teams, advising clients. And again and again, I’ve felt something that doesn’t always make the headlines: admiration.
When I walked into conference rooms in Singapore, or customer visits in England, or strategy sessions in Seoul, there was often a sense of respect—not just for me, but for what I represented.
Not power. Not wealth. But possibility. That this person—this American—might bring something hopeful, collaborative, forward-looking.
That sense of mutual dignity used to feel more common here at home.
Now, I watch as some people joke online about a young man being shot to death. They justify the senseless crime because of the beliefs he held and propagated. Others mock a protester’s death if they belonged to the “wrong” side. Some express glee and justification in the attack on an individual in their eighties in their home, just because they disagree with the views of their politician spouse. There’s anti-Semitism on one end, anti-immigrant hate on another, and people dehumanizing each other in between.
It’s not one side. It’s all of us, forgetting that our opponents are still people.
We ask: Did they deserve it? Instead of Are they okay?
We forget that disagreement doesn’t mean disposability.
And it scares me—not just because of what it says about our politics, but because of what it signals about our future.
Because I still believe in America. I believe we are capable of becoming better tomorrow than we were yesterday. I believe that for my children, for my neighbors, and for every team I’ve ever been lucky enough to lead.
I’m the father of three young adults—25, 22, and 19. They’re forming their own worldviews. They’re smart and skeptical and curious. They ask questions I didn’t ask at their age.
And one night, sitting at the dinner table, one of them asked me something that stopped me cold.
“Why do adults talk about each other like they’re not real people?”
I didn’t have an answer. Just a knot in my stomach.
Because they’re right. We’re losing something.
We’re teaching our children to admire speed over substance. To value volume over vulnerability. We reward the people who win the argument, even when they lose the room.
We’re modeling a world where nuance is punished and kindness is treated as optional.
And if we’re not careful, we’ll raise a generation fluent in conflict but starving for connection.
I can’t fix the national mood. But I can protect the rooms I’m in.
I can hold space for tension without contempt. I can ask the second question. I can look for the third option. I can model calm.
Because every room has a temperature, and every leader is a thermostat.
Here’s what I’m learning to practice:
Assume complexity.
People are not headlines. They’re not their worst day or loudest opinion. Ask one more question. Every time I have, I’ve found someone deeper, more human, and more relatable than I expected.
Protect the room.
Leadership isn’t loud. It’s steady. It’s asking how people are doing, not just what they’ve done. It’s pausing when someone is upset. It’s noticing when someone’s missing. It’s what holds everything else together.
Stay unshakeably local.
I can’t solve global dysfunction. But I can notice my neighbors. I can check in on friends. I can send a text, invite someone in, say something kind when no one expects it.
The national narrative will always try to divide us. But the local one—the real one—is where we can start to belong again.
Decency isn’t a strategy. It’s the foundation.
And too many of our strategies are crumbling because we forgot to start there.
We don’t have to agree on everything. But we must agree that people matter.
That pain deserves pause.
That conflict can exist without contempt.
That we’re allowed to care, even when we’re afraid.
And that sometimes, the most American thing we can do is move over. Quietly. Without being asked. Because someone needs help.
And that—just that—is enough.
Enjoy your loved ones and the rest of your Sunday. And thank you for spending some of it with me.
And, please do check in on your neighbors and friends.
Warm regards,
Adi