A quiet case for walking, long-term wealth, and freedom on your own terms
For the first time this year, I have been leaving my teenager alone. He used to go to school until he was about 8, but after that, we’ve always been together because of homeschooling. He’s never really been on his own, besides the rare time I went to the store. That only started happening when he was older, like 16. And now that I’m getting used to leaving him by himself, and he loves it, I realized something. I don’t have my driver’s license. I’m 34, almost 35, and I never really learned how to drive.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I drove once. A friend gave me a driving lesson and said I was a natural. I just needed a few more lessons to get the technical stuff down, parallel parking, the usual. But something happened with his family, and we never picked it back up.
For years, I thought I couldn’t do it. Thought I was too anxious. Too scared. PTSD will do that to you, make you feel like you’re always doing something wrong, like you’re a danger even when you’re not. I had panic attacks. I doubted myself.
But now? I’m not scared anymore. I have the time. I have the money. I have the stability. If I wanted to, I could go get my license. I could pay for lessons. And I don’t know if I want to. That’s the shift. It’s not about fear anymore. It’s not about not being able to. It’s just… maybe I don’t want to. And that’s a kind of freedom I didn’t expect.
I used to think I wanted to own a car because I felt like a failure without one. Like I missed some milestone of adulthood. But as I’ve gotten older, and closer to the life I actually want, that desire disappeared. I told my kid, if he ever wants to drive, I’ll pay for his lessons. He said he’s good. And I get it.
If you truly want something, you run toward it when you have the means. I ran toward education. I ran toward investing. If owning a car was that important to me, I would’ve done the same. But it’s not. I don’t want the responsibility. I don’t want to worry about parking tickets, insurance, break-ins, maintenance. I don’t want to walk out of my house and see a piece of metal that quietly drains my money every month.
Maybe one day I’ll get my license, just in case. You know, emergency scenarios. If someone I love can’t drive, I want to be able to step in. But we’ve gotten by fine without it. I’ve taken Ubers. I’ve paid for rides when needed. If it ever came down to it, I could call an ambulance. Money gives you options like that.
And that’s the thing: money gives me options.
If someone told me, “I’ll teach you how to drive for free, give you a free car, but you have to give up your investment portfolio,” I would say no every single time. Without hesitation. Because my car won’t build generational wealth. My car won’t give me flexibility. My car won’t buy back time. But my portfolio? That’s doing all of those things.
It’s funny, our culture has this obsession with cars as the symbol of independence. Especially in the West. I remember when my friend moved to Japan and was so happy to give up his car. He didn’t miss it at all. In fact, he was relieved. That excitement he had about not having to drive anymore really stuck with me. It reminded me that in so many parts of the world, not driving is normal. You walk. You take the train. You bike. And no one sees you as less capable for doing so. When I thought about going to Boston, my first thought wasn’t, “I need a car.” It was, “I can’t wait to learn the train system.” I got excited about subways, bikes, taxis. That’s what freedom looks like to me. That’s how I want to live.
I used to think not having a car was a failure. But now I see it differently. Because it’s not that I don’t have a car. It’s that I didn’t want one badly enough to make it a priority. Walking has always been part of my life. And honestly? I think it saved me. I haven’t always taken care of my health. I haven’t seen a doctor since I was a teenager. But I’ve never had any major surgeries. No broken bones (other than a fractured tailbone once). And I truly believe that walking was my counterweight. It balanced out the sugar, the stress, the seasons of my life when I didn’t treat my body the way I should’ve.
I see people all the time who drive a block instead of walking. I’ve never been like that. Walking keeps me grounded. It keeps me human. It’s quiet, but powerful. And it shows up in other areas of my life too. Like how I shop. Driving, to me, has become a part of my ethics. I don’t like the idea of just buying brand new things, because at the end of the day, the way I see life is that when you get rid of something, it ends up in a landfill. I don’t like mass-producing things. I don’t like being a part of that. Even though I’m an investor, it’s really hard. It conflicts with my ethics a little bit. But at the same time, I understand, you can’t sit out and think you’re going to be okay in life. It’s capitalism. That’s the system we’re living in and surviving through.
So I choose how I’m going to be a part of it, and how I’m not going to be. That’s the key. You can’t avoid the system, but you can decide where you participate. And that choice matters. I buy my clothes at Value Village. Not because I have to, but because I want to. I also feel like by not driving, I contribute less to environmental pollution. I think about my environmental footprint, and it matters to me. Taking the bus isn’t always ideal, honestly, I get irritated with the system sometimes.
The hygiene standards have gotten worse, and I’ve seen how bus drivers allow people to get on regardless of personal hygiene. At a certain point, it’s not just about fairness. It becomes a health hazard. But even then, I sometimes wonder if all the other stuff that comes with owning a car, insurance, parking, maintenance, pollution, outweighs this. Sure, in those moments it feels like it does, but then when I look at my balance sheets for the things that matter to me, I don’t think it does.
Not driving is part of how I live lighter. It’s one of the small but meaningful ways I try to reduce harm. That matters to me. I like reused things. I don’t like being part of mass production when I can help it. Most people donate perfectly good clothes. And I wash them when I get home. It’s simple. It works. And it aligns with what I believe.
I’m an investor. I have portfolios. I could go to the mall and drop hundreds of dollars. But I’d rather put that money into stocks. Into long-term assets. Into my future. That’s the thing about this life: you get to choose where you invest. Not just your money, but your energy. Your values. Your attention. And not owning a car? That’s not rebellion. That’s alignment.
I’ll contribute to a household if I’m in a partnership. I’ll help pay for a car if we need one. If there’s a family, I want it to be safe and reliable. I’ll do my part. But the idea that I have to own a car to be seen as successful or capable? No. I’ve walked through too much life for that to be the measuring stick.
If someone looks at me and sees my lack of a license as a limitation, they’re not for me. Because they don’t see what I’ve actually built. They don’t see the years of survival. The intentional choices. The way I’ve invested in my future without glamor or noise. The way I’ve raised a child. The way I’ve walked through this world on foot, and still arrived.
I don’t need to drive to prove anything. I already did.
I wrote about my thoughts on this awhile ago, you can read them here: Why I Don’t Regret Not Driving and Owning a Car, but as the world is starting to open up for me in a way it never has before I find myself revisiting choices I have made in my life that have benefited me even when society might not agree.
The Broke College Student 
Leave a comment