Yesterday, the New York City Department of Transportation repaired 7,601 potholes in 14 hours.

Fourteen. Hours.

That is not a statistic. That is a cry for help.

I have questions. So many questions. For instance, how are there 7,601 potholes just waiting? Are they breeding at night? Is there a pothole underground society we don’t know about? Do they have leadership? A newsletter? Actually, let’s be honest theres probably double that number of potholes.

Then, who is counting them? Is there a person, such as Greg,whose entire job is to wake up, sip lukewarm coffee, and whisper, “Ah yes another 312 have emerged in Queens”? Is there a ceremonial clicker? A leaderboard? A pothole census?

And then,perhaps most pressing when did potholes become symbols?

Because they are. We all know it.

Potholes are not just road defects. They are emotional experiences. They are existential interruptions. They are the universe gently reminding you, mid-commute, that control is an illusion and your suspension system is living on borrowed time.

You don’t just hit a pothole. You feel a pothole. In your spine. In your soul. In your repair bill.

Everyone hates potholes. There is no political divide here. No cultural nuance. No “on the one hand.” Potholes are the great unifier. You could put a group of strangers from wildly different backgrounds in a room, show them a photo of a crater in the middle of a street, and they would all nod in solemn, shared understanding.

“Yes,” they would say. “This has wronged me personally.”

And yet 7,601 of these tiny agents of chaos were patched. Filled. Smoothed over. Made temporarily irrelevant.

It’s almost heroic.

Which makes me wonder if potholes persist not because we can’t fix them, but because they are necessary. Tiny reminders that things break down. That systems falter. That winter happens, and then everything cracks including roads, plans, expectations.

Potholes are what happens when life expands, contracts, freezes, and thaws too quickly. (Which, if we’re being honest, feels like a fairly accurate description of the human condition.)

And fixing them? That’s the work.

Not the grand gestures. Not the sweeping declarations about changing the world. Just showing up with asphalt and a plan and saying, “Let’s make this one small stretch of road a little less terrible today.”

7,601 times.

There’s something deeply satisfying about that. Almost philosophical. If you want to make a difference in the world, start by patching a pothole. Fill the gap. Smooth the rough edge. Prevent one unsuspecting driver from questioning all of their life choices at 8:37 a.m.

Of course, by tomorrow, there may be 7,602 more.

Because life, like New York roads, is relentless.

But for 14 hours yesterday, someone out there was winning. Quietly. Methodically. One pothole at a time.

And honestly?

That’s kind of amazing.