My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as my toddler heckled me from her car seat.
“You don’t like being a driver, Mummy,” she piped up through a mouthful of biscuit. The driving lesson with my husband hadn’t even begun and the choc-chip-laden bribe wasn’t enough to buy her silence. “You like being a passenger.”
The dry heat of summer was yet to hit my regional hometown of Wagga Wagga, New South Wales but sweat still pooled behind my knees.
My husband and I traded wry looks. “Sometimes Mum is the driver,” he told her. “Like today. Today Mum is practising her driving.”
She wrinkled her nose, unconvinced.
“I’m learning,” I added. “Just like you’ve learnt to use the toilet.” I drew in a breath, rubbing my swollen pregnant belly, as she kicked the back of his seat. “And I like driving. I do.”
I’m learning,” I added. “Just like you’ve learnt to use the toilet.
I hadn’t even reversed out of the garage and everyone in the car knew I was lying.
Since returning to country life in 2019 without a driver’s licence, I’d braved deserted bus stops during a devastating black summer. Back then, the sky was red, the air thick with smoke and the buses only came once an hour. (The latter remains true in 2021 – only now you also take hand sanitiser for the trip, thanks Covid-19.)
I’d often get no further than the driveway before I’d have to turn the pram around and my toddler and I would stay inside all day. Afterwards, my thoughts would twist into the same ugly self-criticisms I’ve endured for almost twenty years. Teenagers can drive. You have friends with children who can drive. Everyone in the country can drive. Everyone but you. How could you let this happen? What’s wrong with you?
The first time I had my learner’s driver’s licence, I was 17 years old and only drove a handful of times. The fear was so debilitating that I never even left my parents’ quiet regional suburb during any of the lessons, instead I looped around the narrow streets in a terrified fog. I’d heard too many stories of loved ones and strangers writing off their cars in country Australia and the thoughts haunted me until I’d seared the scenes into my mind like memories. Twisted metal, wisps of smoke, ambulance sirens blaring. The fear was potent and my anxious brain fixated on the worst-of-the-worst possibilities.
Twisted metal, wisps of smoke, ambulance sirens blaring. The fear was potent and my anxious brain fixated on the worst-of-the-worst possibilities.
Once I moved to the city in the early 2000s, my learner’s licence expired, I met adults far older than me who’d never driven and I told myself a new story: I’m not a driver and never will be. I believed it to my core, and it affected every decision I made, from where I lived and applied for jobs to where I socialised.
It was an imperfect plan that worked perfectly for 16 years – until I moved back to the country. Suddenly, the reality of no licence with a small child in regional Australia hit, and it hit hard. I was suddenly isolated. I felt trapped within my own life.
So, after 19 years of locking away my fear and anxiety, I dragged it out of the darkness and decided to deal with it once and for all.
As a first step, I needed to change the story I’d been telling myself. I fished out notes collected from psychologists over the years about managing anxiety and challenging automatic negative thoughts. I signed up to Turia Pitt’s School of Champions course, choosing “Getting my driver’s licence” as my goal, and completed psychology practice The Indigo Project’s online Get Your Sh*t Together Course (neither are sponsored; just critical to my eventual mindset shift). I kept a journal of the process for five months, and binge-watched every episode of Driving School on 9Now, admiring the bravery of the young drivers and feeling inspired by the others who, like me, were well out of their comfort zones.
One of the hardest parts was fighting my shame and asking others for help.
One of the hardest parts was fighting my shame and asking others for help. Yet, as it turned out, striving to achieve a significant goal would take a village. I leant on my ever-patient husband and parents, as well as an empathetic selection of friends who were sworn to secrecy and showered me with nothing but cheerleading. My final secret weapon came in the form of a relaxed and kind retired-police-officer-turned-driving-instructor called Rob Hall, whose local driving school came with rave reviews and a blue Corolla that I fondly nicknamed the Blue Bandit. We’d listen to ’80s pop and power ballads while he worked on boosting my confidence, skills and safety awareness; a responsibility he didn’t take lightly after baring witness to years of tragic accidents on country roads and highways.
I got my licence in January 2021, the day before my 36th birthday, driving the Blue Bandit with a lucky charm growing inside my engorged belly. I cried happy, hormonal tears and caused a scene at my local Service NSW, Rob cheered and fist-pumped the air, and I gave him a soppy card explaining that he’d changed my life forever.
Later that week, back in our garage, my toddler flashed a cheeky grin from the back seat. I braced myself for more heckling.
“You’re a driver,” she reminded me as I turned up the air-conditioning to offset the dry heat of another scorching summer. “You learnt to drive.”
I laughed. “I did. And I think I like driving. See, we can all do hard things.”
Now, imagining the possibilities of what else could bloom when I dared to lean towards fear instead of away from it, I finally believed the words. And, over the coming years, I hope my children believe them too.
If this article has raised any issues for you or if you would like to speak with someone, please visit (beyondblue.org.au).
Gabrielle Tozer is a freelance writer and author. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram and . Gabrielle’s forthcoming YA novel Can’t Say It Went To Plan (HarperCollins) is out in May.
