The Road Test
Part III: A LIcense To Drive
The first time I touched the steering wheel after so many years was nice and warm, like a hot soup after a bad day. It was comforting, soothing. Instinctively, I knew what to do next. My hands and feet knew the steps of this familiar dance. I just needed to let go. And I did. I trusted their rhythm, their wisdom. My eyes sharp, ready to take every detail in: the sunlight over the yellow and orange of the leaves, the crazy scooters dodging between the cars, the honks of the impatient New Yorkers. Everything was old and new. Familiar and exciting. And I continued for one hour and thirty minutes. It was my first driving class. The connection with the instructor was instant. We shared stories about our native countries, recommendations about TV shows, anecdotes about our daily lives. He was always cheerful and reassuring. And after five classes, I was ready to take the test.
I don’t remember a single detail of the first time I took the road test in Madrid in 2013. I know I didn’t pass, but I don’t have any other memories. Was the sun’s reflection over the other cars annoying? Or did I have to fight the wind? Did my instructor frown with disappointment when he knew about the result? What did I do wrong? I’m not even sure if my mom was still alive, but I recall I didn’t get the license on time, so I could never drive her to the hospital in an emergency as was planned.
“When my mother died, I lost my compass.”
The second time is more vivid in my mind. I remember how mad my instructor was when he announced, “You’ve passed the test, but you don’t deserve it.” I knew my exam wasn’t flawless, but the feeling of relief silenced my perfectionism and his bitter voice. I finally felt free from that torture. I put the license deep in my wallet and forgot about it. My mom had passed away three months before; she didn’t need my driving skills anymore, so I didn’t need them either.
I passed the road test in New York City last week, and this third time, it had a different taste ten years after the first try. Even though my body was sweaty and trembling, I felt confident, motivated, optimistic. I didn’t need my uncle’s money to pay for the classes. I took all the time I needed to prepare for the test. There was no rush, no hidden responsibilities behind it. Just the image of freedom and autonomy. The dream of crossing the country. A clear purpose at the end.
This last time, I focused on feeling compassion with myself—both the past and the present versions. I’ve never felt so close to my twenty-five-year-old self. We are healing so many wounds together this year. Hand by hand. I finally realized I couldn’t be where I am today without her. Physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And, perhaps, in all the lives that I could have lived, this is the only one in which I’m really in control and present. Full of confidence and joy.
“I’m holding the reins of the carriage again. ”
When my mother died, I lost my compass. The horses started running without any specific direction. The carriage of my life didn’t have anybody leading the reins. How do you continue living without your mom seeing you grow up? Who are you going to make proud? The dreams you once had disappeared like steam. What now?
Ten years later, I’m holding the reins of the carriage again. The horses walk steadily, calm, and happy. I’m finally where I wanted to be: living abroad with a partner who loves me unconditionally, working in an international institution, sharing my life with a diverse community, and getting involved in all the projects that fulfill my soul, like learning to drive again. I can’t wait to see what comes next; I have all my trust and faith in the pilot of this car.
Read Álvarez’s driving series.