I drive now

I never thought I’d actually see the day when I’d drive myself around, more so that I’d buy my own car. Not because I never intended to, but because for the longest time, I avoided it. A car, after all, is a depreciating asset. Owning one felt like taking on unnecessary responsibility I didn’t want: maintenance, paperwork, the sheer enormity of it all. I always thought I’d rather put my money (time and attention) elsewhere, and honestly, I liked the freedom of not being tied down to big possessions.

But here’s the irony: a car, as much as I resisted it, is also freedom. And that irony has been haunting me for a while, especially since I chose to work 60 km away from where I live. Moving closer wasn’t an option (trust me, I explored that option). My job, as it turns out, comes with benefits I love, and despite trying to look around for something closer, nothing has really compared.

So, the car wasn’t about luxury in the way we usually define it. It was about the luxury of choice.

Public transport was eating up at least two hours of my day, each way! That’s 4 hours per day, 3 times a week = that’s 12 hours per week! If commuting could be a full-time job. Imagine all that time lost? Walking, transfers, waiting… It was economical, yes. It was better for the planet, yes. Although when I do get to the longer train rides, I get to either rest, chat, or read. But cumulatively, it was exhausting. I know this much is true. I spent hours commuting when I was in Manila. I thought, if I had the option not to experience that anymore, why continue to tolerate?

B got a snap of me test driving the car we would eventually purchase

Time is a currency too, and I felt like I was spending too much of it just trying to get from point A to point B.

And so, we got a car.

I can ramble all day about this. But the real accomplishment for me wasn’t the purchase itself; it was learning to actually drive.

I learned to drive at 16, thanks to my mom, who enrolled me in driving school with a plan in mind: she’d buy me a car, I’d take her on errands after retirement, and in exchange, I’d get to drive myself to university. The only condition was that she always knew where I was.

That plan never materialized. She passed away, and life shifted. Priorities changed.

Instead of being the driver, I became the “passenger princess.” My sister, my dad, cousins, colleagues, friends, or Ubers and Grab rides always got me where I needed to go. And honestly? I liked it. I liked being the one to set the music, the navigator, the conversationalist. The car ride curator.

Still, the idea of driving myself never completely left me.

Technically, I’ve had my license since 2017. I got it more for convenience than anything else. A proper ID so I wouldn’t have to flash my passport everywhere (because honestly, who carries their passport to the grocery store?). I enrolled in lessons again that year, this time behind the wheel of a manual car, navigating the infamous roundabout at Quezon Memorial Circle and braving Commonwealth Avenue with all its intimidating U-turns, before finally securing my license. But once I had it, the motivation fizzled. Public transport, plus the generosity of friends, colleagues, and family, kept me going.

There was, however, one serious reason I wanted to be prepared: my aging father. My sister had married and moved out, and I didn’t want to face another emergency helplessly. I’d lived through that once when my mother had a seizure and I couldn’t drive her to the hospital myself. We had to rely on neighbors, friends, and sheer luck to get through that crisis. I promised myself never again.

Thankfully, I never had to. But knowing I could drive if needed reassured me.

In 2020, during the height of pandemic restrictions, my sister let me take her car to the supermarket twice. That was my grand return to the driver’s seat since my teenage driving lessons. A not-so-impressive accumulated distance of maybe 2km. Hardly “experience.”

Fast forward to now.

We bought the car here in France. B was fully on board. More enthusiastic than I was, actually. My version of enthusiasm was closer to panic. The thought of car ownership was overwhelming, even as it was exciting.

I exchanged my Philippine license for a French one in 2022 and signed up for refresher lessons, first using a manual car, and then it dawned on me that there are more and more hybrid and electric vehicles, so why bother? So I eventually signed up for a refresher course for an automatic vehicle. The idea was to grasp the intimidating code de la route (French Traffic Laws). Adjusting to French roads was humbling, but slowly, I got there. I got to drive us home from the car dealer store safely.

Safely, but not flawlessly. I’ve already scratched the car in our parking lot. What is up with these tight right-angled spaces? I’m not an architect nor an engineer, but even I knew that these turns should be curved. Thankfully, it’s a secondhand car. The sting of scratching it hurts less than if it were brand-new, but it still hurts. And frustrating. Also disappointing.

Everyone assures me it’s part of the process. Things get better. I sure hope so.

At the heart of this, driving is more than a skill; it’s reassurance. It’s the ability to say, I can handle myself. I have options. I can choose. I’m slowly transitioning from reluctant passenger princess to anxious but determined driver.

We got the car. I got the skill. And soon, I’ll get the stories too… the good kind, I hope. Now, which playlist should I choose for where we’re headed? Leni on the road, driving off!