License
Life used to be a comfortable car ride: Dad behind the wheel, directing the path; Mom in the front seat, always a glance away from meeting my needs; and I in the backseat without a care in the world—able to entertain myself, daydream, sleep, and still arrive at whatever destination my parents had planned.
But that comfort was brittle, and it shattered the moment I was old enough to be at the helm. Being in the driver’s seat made me grasp how complacent I had become; I was simply too used to having my parents pave the way for me. In front of the steering wheel, I became exposed to obstructions, hazards, and the dangers of the road. For the first time, I was able to see that real life is much rougher than the privilege I had grown used to.
I remember the first time I drove independently without an instructor. It was supposed to be a short trip, and so I drove, thinking I could handle it, only to come back having a flat tire, multiple dents, and a huge scratch across the car.
Too frightened to call my dad, I handed the phone to my older sister. After she explained the situation, I took the phone back, sobbing, and apologized with a shaky voice. I braced for a reprimand, anger, or at least some disappointment. Instead, what I heard was a chuckle and a calm voice saying: “Okay lang ‘yan, ang importante walang nasaktan. Lahat naman may ganiyang experience sa una.” (It’s okay, what’s important is that no one got hurt. Every first-time driver experiences that.)
Perhaps there is some truth to what he had said; it was a relief that no one was hurt, and I know new drivers make mistakes. But instead of feeling comforted, I viciously replayed the scenes continuously in my mind, and each time I only grew angrier at myself as if I wasn’t allowed to mess up. But deep down, I knew that it wasn’t just about the car; it was about the looming thought that if I couldn’t even manage a short drive, how could I possibly handle the rest of my life?
Thoughts like those plagued my mind. Because, unlike driving, where a license dictates whether or not I am ready to drive on my own, life does not offer such a permit. At some point, I was simply expected to begin maneuvering on my own. And in this strange paradoxical age where I am old enough to take control, yet young enough to still have lapses and uncertainty, I find myself afraid to make another wrong move. It scares me that another mistake on the road might leave the car covered with a million little scratches until it becomes broken and battered.
On other days, the fear shifts into something different—maybe I’m not driving fast enough. While I’m driving slowly, others seem to be speeding down highways of opportunities, landing achievements while I’m stuck, slow-paced, falling behind, and missing out.
But more than anything, I despise seeing the imprints of my mistakes. Those dents and scratches became remnants of the moments I lacked, a souvenir for every failure I had.
But somewhere along the way, I began seeing that I was missing the point. Maybe those imprints weren’t proof that I failed, but marks that meant I was moving. No longer in the passenger seat, I am learning to steer and accelerate on my own. Even if the road ahead feels rough and endless, the fact that the car is moving means that I am making progress.
As cliché as it may seem, maybe this is what growing up feels like: learning that mistakes are necessary even though they’re messy and uncomfortable. This humbling truth has always been hard for me to digest, as I am used to having my life “in order.” Not because I had everything under control, but because I had my entire support system present to fix problems for me. But I can never truly learn in the passenger seat; I must grip the wheel, venture out, experience making wrong turns firsthand, and find my own way forward, even if it means messing up the car a little.
And so, I will stop chasing perfection. After all, the goal was never to have a spotless car, it was to keep it running until I arrive at my destination—until I become who I am meant to be. I am in my own lane, and I do not have to compete, race, or match anyone else’s speed. For now, I will continue moving at my own pace, and that should be enough.
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Elyza Beatriz Q. Rellosa, 19, is a sociology sophomore at the University of the Philippines Los Baños. She’s still nervous about driving, but she tries her best every time.
