The motorway lesson

Learning to Drive

I learnt how to drive later than most.

Halfway through medical school, in my early twenties, I was still entirely dependent on trains, buses, and the quiet reliability of public transport. It had always been enough. I could get anywhere I needed to go, and in the city I was in, driving felt optional rather than essential. But by third year, something shifted. Clinical placements were becoming more scattered. Hospitals were no longer always on the same bus route. Early starts, late finishes, and the reality of on-call life loomed closer.

I realised—reluctantly—that I needed to learn how to drive.

I approached it the same way I approached most things at that stage: diligently, earnestly, and with a quiet assumption that effort would translate into competence. It didn’t—at least not straight away.

The lessons were slow. Painfully slow.

I understood the rules of the road. I could read the signs, anticipate junctions, and describe what I was supposed to do. But my clutch control was terrible. Every attempt at pulling away felt like a negotiation between stalling and kangarooing forward. My foot hovered, my mind raced, and the more I thought about it, the worse it became.

I was overthinking everything.

My instructor was patient, observant, and far more perceptive than I realised at the time. After several lessons that felt like variations on the same frustrating theme, she paused and said something unexpected.

“We’re going on the motorway.”