For most people, that probably doesn’t sound extraordinary.

For me, it felt like getting my life back.For the next year, I depended on everyone else.

My best friend Stella drove me when she could. My daughter helped when she visited. Women from church took me grocery shopping. I used taxis and buses.

Every ride came with the same uncomfortable feeling—that I was inconveniencing somebody.

Then I missed my eight-year-old granddaughter Emma’s first piano recital because Stella’s car wouldn’t start and I couldn’t find another way to Columbus.Six months later, I passed my test on the first attempt.

I was terrified, cautious, and probably the slowest new driver in the state, but I finally had my license.

Emma called afterward.

I thought the hardest part was behind me.

Then Ryan moved in across the street.

He was in his late thirties, drove a large black pickup, and rarely bothered speaking to anyone in the neighborhood.

At first, I barely thought about him.

Until one morning, I discovered his truck partially blocking my driveway.

I had a doctor’s appointment, so I politely knocked on dor.
“Ryan, would you mind moving your truck? I need to leave.”

He looked past me toward my Chevy.

Then he laughed.

“Maybe take an Uber, Carol. Women your age have no business driving anyway.”

I stood there stunned.I was wrong.

Sometimes strength means learning to steer your own life.

And sometimes it means knowing when to pick up the phone and ask the right person for help.

That turned out to be one of the most important lessons I ever learned.

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