Yesterday’s drive home with my mother from my aunt’s was stressful. We were approaching a green light when she told me to hurry through it. I asked if she was in a rush. Honestly, if she wants things done her way, I’d rather she just drive. Whenever she seems eager to get home quickly, I usually prefer handing over the wheel. I forgot about that yesterday, and unfortunately ended up with her as my passenger.
She tends to get antsy and drives more erratically than I do. Even if she insists otherwise, her emotional state definitely affects her driving—whether she notices it or not. In my opinion, if she was truly in that much of a rush, we should have just left earlier.
She has a bad habit of raising her voice—something my father only ever did when there was genuine danger while I was driving. For him, it was reserved for life-threatening situations, never for something as minor as urging me through a green light. When my mom does it, it sets off the “emergency flashers” in my brain, making me feel like I need to be on high alert or quickly fix mistakes that may not even exist. It makes the whole trip unpleasant.
At one point she yelled at me to move into the slow lane on the highway. I was going 53 in a 55mph zone, but before I could even think about changing lanes even if I wanted to, a white car sped past on my right. She’s always urging me to “go with the flow of traffic,” but no matter how fast traffic moves, I refuse to exceed the speed limit. That’s a rule I hold close—someone just died on that same highway, and I don’t want to end up part of another tragedy.
She also criticizes me when I wait for a wider gap in traffic before pulling out. Sometimes I don’t feel fully confident, and I’d rather wait for the safer option because it eventually does come my way. But even then, she raises her voice.
She eventually apologized, saying she yells because she’s used to doing it with my grandmother, who’s hard of hearing. I hope she doesn’t use that as an excuse not to improve. Sudden yelling breaks my concentration. In a way, it’s good practice for dealing with distractions, but the truth is, I much prefer driving alone now—no pressure, no raised voices, no demands to drive faster than I feel is safe.
I pointed out to my boyfriend that if I was really going too slow, why did my mom tell me to slow down when a cop was up ahead? That contradiction didn’t make sense. Later, she warned me not to “slam on my brakes” as we went downhill. But I hadn’t slammed them—I’d only pressed lightly to control our speed and had already checked my mirror to be sure no one was too close behind.
By the time I got home, I felt frazzled. I found myself taking deep breaths and felt restless. Around this time of the month, I’m more sensitive to stress, and since I’ve only had my license for a month, I find myself needing extra reassurance about my driving. A rough experience like that only makes me second-guess myself even more.
I sometimes feel guilty for putting my foot down, maybe because my mother often slips into a submissive demeanor. But I know it’s necessary. I’m the one behind the wheel—the one responsible for keeping us safe, the one with control of the car. Everything depends on me: staying at the speed limit, not too far below and never above. I also have to keep my emotions in check, because driving while emotional affects judgment. It’s something they emphasize in driver’s ed—never drive when you’re upset. So on the ride home, I focused on quelling my anger.
At one point, I hit a yellow light and came to a rough stop without meaning to. I wasn’t trying to scare my mother, but out of the corner of my eye I saw her brace herself, clutching the sides of the seat. She said, half-sarcastically, “If you really wanted to brake that hard, why not wait until we got up to the light and slam on them instead?” The irritation in her voice was obvious.
I tried to laugh it off, but inside I just wanted to get home. I’ve seen both of my parents brake roughly plenty of times at a yellow light, so I know it happens. The difference is, I have an excuse—I’m still a beginner.
But the truth is, I’ll never be perfect. I just know to try better next time.
I was tempted to take an edible to calm down, but I resisted. Honestly, being high often doesn’t feel good—it lasts too long. If it only lasted five minutes, maybe I’d actually enjoy it.
Today, I thought about running an errand and dropping a book off at the library, but decided against it. With Labor Day weekend traffic, it just didn’t seem worth it.
Instead, I stayed home and made myself a homemade affogato, all while thinking about how bloated and unattractive I feel during this time of the month. It’s almost like I become two different people: one who feels confident most of the time, and another who shows up the week before my period—a bundle of anxiety who tries to self-soothe with ice cream and sweets.
Loading comments...