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Buying My First Car: The Freedom I Didn’t Know I Needed
A Story About Growing Up, Letting Go, and Finally Taking the Wheel
I didn’t expect to cry in the parking lot of a used car dealership, but I did. Not a full breakdown — it was just a quiet, private kind of crying. The kind that surprises you when no one’s looking and you can finally feel what you’ve been carrying.
I had just bought my first car: a 2012 Honda Civic, black, with 96,000 miles. A few dings in the back bumper and a coffee stain on the passenger seat, it wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t even exciting. But it was mine and that changed everything.
I never grew up in a house where cars were a big deal. My parents drove practical beaters. Our minivan rattled when it idled, and the air conditioning gave up somewhere around my sophomore year of high school. It wasn’t cool. But it got us to school, to grocery stores, and to Sunday dinners. That was enough.
When I got my license at sixteen, there was no “surprise car in the driveway” moment. Just a “use it if we’re not using it” policy. I was grateful, but I always knew the car wasn’t mine. I felt that in the way I asked for the keys. The way I calculated guilt into every trip. The way I returned it with a full tank, just to say thank you.
