Airstream: The Fine Art of Dodging Deep Conversation - And How One Shiny Trailer Changed Everything

Truly connecting requires many things: self-awareness, personal responsibility, compassion, and empathy, to name just a few. But the common thread in all connection is deep conversation. It doesn’t matter whether it’s with your kids, friends, coworkers, or partner. At some point, to truly connect to another, you’ve got to feel your feelings and talk openly and honestly.

We all know this is part of love, of relationships of every kind. Deep conversation requires vulnerability. And damn, really being seen can feel scary and uncomfortable. Vulnerability is like the scariest roller coaster at the amusement park. You want to ride it so badly. The faces and laughter of everyone exiting the ride give you all the evidence you need that certain death is not imminent. On the contrary, everyone looks happy, excited, and very much alive. But your nervous system and brain still find creative ways to convince you otherwise: I’m too hungry to ride that coaster. I need to use the bathroom. I ate too much cotton candy. What if I throw up? Look at the bumper cars! Those are fun!

Redirection: the fine art of avoiding vulnerability. Dangling a shiny object to distract yourself and others from the beauty and discomfort of deep conversation. You may not even realize you’re doing it, or that you’ve been redirected, until you’re five minutes into a ride on the carousel instead of screaming at the top of your lungs on the Big Dipper.

Enter Steve, my boyfriend of 14 years. In my case, the shiny object was exactly that. An Airstream trailer careening down the highway.

My biggest lesson in redirection happened about six years ago. We’d been together for over seven years. Years of healing, unlearning, rebuilding, and blending, trying to create something new without losing our minds or ourselves in the process. Me, chest-deep in therapy. Steve, wading in the shallow end, trying to build some confidence. Both of us doing our best to be self-aware and vulnerable.

It was the Fourth of July. We were working through some challenging issues involving some very important people in our lives. There was no resolution yet, just a lot of hurt feelings. I wasn’t ready to spend the day with the people at the center of those issues. We needed space to breathe, to reset, to find our compass again. I was excited to learn that the day was just ours. A chance to play, calm our nervous systems, and remember that we actually like each other, so we could figure out how to reach a resolution.

The morning smelled like sunscreen and summer. I buckled my seatbelt, potato salad in hand, ready for adventure. As we backed out of the driveway, Steve hurled an emotional hand grenade into my lap: a change of plans. It wasn’t going to be just us.

He knew I’d be hurt, so he waited until a stage-left exit was impossible. I could feel the lump rise in my throat. I knew it was one of those moments that required a deep, vulnerable conversation, and I wasn’t going to avoid it. Tears welled up as I began to speak, my voice thick with frustration that he’d chosen that moment to tell me.

He listened, eyes forward, hands light on the wheel. His silence made me think he was really listening, maybe even preparing something thoughtful to say.

We were in the middle lane of the freeway when he finally opened his mouth.

Here we go, I thought. We’re about to build a bridge. We’re doing the thing.

I leaned in. He took a deep breath and said:“Babe… (long pause) do you know they still make Airstream trailers? Look at that!”

He pointed to the slow lane, where a truck was towing a brand-new, shiny silver Airstream. The temporary paper plate flapped violently in the wind.

My mouth hung open.“Huh? No, I didn’t,” I whispered.

And then my mind drifted to my great-uncle’s Airstream, to the idea of a cross-country adventure, to where that couple might be headed. For a moment, I too got excited and considered talking about it.

Then I snapped back. Wait. What the hell just happened?

I realized I’d been skillfully redirected from a crucial conversation about communication and emotional responsibility to daydreaming about traveling the country in a shiny aluminum tube.

This was Steve’s masterful maneuver, his instinctive escape hatch. A way of dodging big feelings and skirting the edges of vulnerability, even if just for a while. And I almost bought it. I nearly ended up on the carousel.

Wide-eyed, stunned, my head swiveled to the left, and I shouted:“You just Airstreamed me! You distracted me so you wouldn’t have to talk about this. And it almost worked.”

I reflected on other conversations we’d needed to have over the years, and I started to see the pattern.

Conversation about money? Airstream.Conversation about marriage? Airstream.Conversation about family? Airstream.Conversation about needs? Airstream.

The shiny object wasn’t always a silver trailer, but I frequently found myself on the bumper cars, scarfing down cotton candy with a stomachache instead of losing my stomach on the vulnerability coaster.

Damn him, I thought. How could he do that to me? To us? I felt myself blaming him for the lost opportunities to connect. I wanted him to take full responsibility for his behavior and lack of vulnerability.

Family, money, marriage, sex, parenting, needs. Ugh. Just reading that list can make you want to hold your breath. Like the roller coaster, we say we want to ride, to have those vulnerable conversations, but secretly dread the uncertainty that comes with them. They’re weighty and revealing, shining a light on our dark corners and unresolved traumas. They’re messy, emotional, and rarely have a simple, neat resolution. They force us to take responsibility for ourselves. What scares us, where we fall short, what isn’t healed, what we really need. Taking personal responsibility also means owning our beauty and magic. Vulnerability is uncomfortable—no wonder we jump out of line.

A flicker of curiosity entered my mind as I realized that in that conversation and all the others, he wasn’t the only one to line-jump. He may have dangled the shiny object, but the discomfort of vulnerability made it easy for me to look away, too. It was safer to join him in distraction than to risk being misunderstood or rejected. I told myself I wanted depth, authenticity, and vulnerability. But sometimes I was just as quick to reach for the metaphorical cotton candy.

That realization changed everything. I wanted him to take responsibility without having to do that myself. The truth was, I’d been Airstreaming myself just as much as he’d been Airstreaming me. Once I realized the subtle ways I had redirected myself from discomfort and the truth, I couldn’t unsee it.

The day unfolded. And we got back in line for the roller coaster. The conversation continued. We started to pay attention to when we redirected and what we avoided. The Airstream became our symbol, our reminder. Every time we caught ourselves dodging a conversation or polishing the surface instead of diving in, we’d say, “Are you Airstreaming me?” We’d laugh and then jump back on the ride.

Over the years, that shiny trailer has become less about avoidance and more about awareness. Like a mirror reflecting the parts of ourselves we were finally brave enough to see and take responsibility for. Reminding us to take the chance for the exhilaration of a deep connection. One minute, your heart is racing in fear. Next, you're laughing in relief, through tears of joy. That shiny trailer reminds us that you never get that feeling, never deeply connect, if you keep stepping out of line or looking away.

Stay. Ride. It changes everything.

xo-k

Author’s Note:

Steve and I have ridden many coasters over the past 15 years. Growing, stretching, and becoming more vulnerable and authentic with each one. And this year, we decided to ride the best coaster of all: the pièce de résistance.

We got married on August 31, 2025. Two people still learning to stay in the line, even when it’s scary, and to keep choosing the ride together.