I’m a weather junkie.

A Weather-Channel, radar-following, hurricane-tracker addict. The weather men and women on television are as familiar to me as my neighbors. I check the weather every morning and especially before heading out.

I particularly dislike driving in bad weather. When the rain starts pelting my car, I’ll usually find a safe place and pull over until the storm passes.

Sometimes, though, it’s hard to get away from the storm.

My mom and I were traveling along Highway 190 in Louisiana. It’s the old east-west route through the state, one I’ve traveled many times as Interstate 10 has become an orange-cone parking lot.

As we got closer to the Atchafalaya Basin, I noticed the tall trees on the side of the road were swaying, gently at first and then more violently.

The shorter trees were visibly shaking, and branches were pumping up and down like puppets on a string.

Dust-devils were kicking up and spinning on side roads, and I could feel the wind pushing my vehicle. That feeling made me sit up straighter in my seat and start silently praying Hail Marys.

My mom asked why I was being so quiet.

“Don’t you see how those trees are practically bent over,” I asked her.

“It all looks fine to me,” she said looking out the window. “Everything will be fine. God’s in control.”

I pulled over into a gas station’s parking lot to check the weather radar.

There was an ominous line of dark red and yellow a few miles north of us, and it extended all the way to Baton Rouge. Soon, the storm would catch up to us or us to it.

Ahead was a tall bridge, and I did not want to be at the top of that structure when a strong gust came through.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” my mom said. “You’re usually the one in charge, the one who’s unafraid. I’ve never known you to be a chicken.”

She was right.

I was scared.

Scared of going over the bridge. Scared of being tossed around like a rag doll. Scared of having my mom injured.

Mixed in with the fear was the shame of being a coward.

The only thing to do was to keep going and hope we could get home before rain and lightning joined the wind.

I got back on the highway, marveling at my mother’s calm demeanor, her faith in me and the Lord.

We made it over the bridge, the wind not as bad as I’d feared, but I held my breath the entire time.

“Look ahead,” my mom said. “There’s clear skies up ahead. God is showing us the way. Just head toward that light. You can do it.”

Those words had the desired effect. I had a mission now, a goal to achieve, so I kept driving.

My hands were still gripping the steering wheel, my stomach was churning, and I kept going, not because I was brave, but because there was no other choice.

Perhaps when the storms come, it’s okay to admit we’re chicken. It’s okay to feel like a failure and okay to feel like we can’t take another step forward.

But when you do, when you move forward, even though every fiber of your being wants to crawl back to safety, you’re on the way to becoming a little bit braver.

My mom taught me a good lesson. Sometimes you just have to look for the clear patch ahead, ignore the chaos all around and just keep going whether it’s clear sailing or stormy skies.

Just keep going.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.