Will I run out of road?
The question tailgated me along my road to a driver’s license. I feared a tremble on the brake or a darker turn of thoughts would collapse the cement beneath my tires. Yet I had to keep driving; the only way to freedom was forward.
You will be tested on a variety of road maneuvers. Stop sign: wait.
Only practicing in the De Anza College parking lot over the summer, a plot of my progression over time had a shallow slope.
Right turn on red: yield to all directions.
As the new school year picked up, so did my desire to drive. More difficult routes accelerated my confidence and love for cruising. Yet around the corner, roadblocks deflated my enthusiasm: limited support, trouble getting my six instructor hours and a renewed battle with mental health. I thought a professional instructor would be more patient than my father, yet I waited in a parking lot as my new coach ran errands during a paid session.
“Stop spending so much time driving,” my mother told me. “You need to focus on school.”
I shut the driver’s door in response: I couldn’t give up the one activity keeping me in motion. But soon, aches in my joints revved and my thoughts sank into depths I couldn’t steer out of. I became bedridden for weeks, feeling the road crumbling under me.
Yellow light: brake or accelerate?
Meanwhile, a Tesla Model 3 hummed in the driveway, promising comfort: a firm wheel I could control. Though I wasn’t yet strong enough to rebuild my road, I knew I wouldn’t make it through if I stalled getting up for another day, if my mental stoplight turned red. So, my foot found its way back to the gas pedal, solidifying my choice to continue on.
Unprotected left turn: tires forward until congestion clears.
As I accumulated hours behind the wheel, I set hourly reminders to check the DMV appointments page. The day I could drive alone — windows down, music blasting — kept the road growing, even if it wasn’t smooth.
“You need more practice,” my father said from the passenger seat the week before my test, “I hope you fail.” The wheel jerked under my grip; his lack of faith unsteadied my steering. Every street sign seemed to read: FAIL. Still, I was on the ramp to freedom. I had to stay in my lane.
Freeway merging: the scariest part.
Shuffling documents with sweaty fingers at the DMV. Shaky hands missing the seatbelt buckle thrice. Pulling out from the lot, roads blurring by, pulling back in, setting Park. Wiping palms on pants.
“Congratulations,” the evaluator said, handing me my scoresheet.
2 minor errors. A checkmark beside “Pass.”
Freeways: full speed ahead.
The first time I drove alone, I finally felt 16 and free, cruising down a road wide with possibility.
You have completed your test. The road is yours.
