Four months ago, I started a new full-time job for the state of California; a path I never thought to choose. After a year and a half of quitting my job at a coffee shop (which I held for five years) and jumping into entrepreneurship, I hit a wall. I ran my savings dry and had to pick up work where I could. As money troubles weighed on me, I started feeling like I couldn't engage in what I was doing without this nagging fear that I might end up compromising my ethics. I didn’t like the feeling of having to depend on something I was building to keep me afloat. I felt compromised. So to keep getting by, I applied to hourly jobs I felt could be a quick fix to my financial struggles. I started and quit three of them within less than three months of being there. And eventually, I fell back into a cycle of survival—oscillating from having weekly panic attacks to undergoing moments of deep depression—up until I realized that I refused to stay on this hamster wheel.
I sold my ‘09 Corolla last month. This was huge for me.
She was my first and only car, and we sort of had a complicated relationship. She was given to me by my parents, but for a long time, felt far from a gift. When my parents unexpectedly came home with a car one day around my 18th birthday; I asked if it was for me as I had requested one in replacement of a debut1 and I can’t even remember what they said. All I know for sure is that I never got a straight “yes.” And while it was clear to me that I was to use this car to get to and from school, she never felt like mine.
As a fan of neutrals, I despised the car’s color—blue-green; teal. It didn’t feel like me at all (although, now everyone tells me that whenever they see a blue-green Toyota Corolla, they think of me). This is not to say that I wasn’t grateful for her. I understand that to have access to a car period is a privilege in itself, and as I said, we had a complicated relationship. I am at the point in my life where I know that emotions often show up as paradox, and with A LOT of practice, I’ve learned to hold all of it at once.
I put that seafoam green colored car through a lot.
I recall moments from high school when I would overstuff her with six people to go out to lunch because I was one of the first few of my friends to drive.
Back in college, I drove my friends to a party and stopped for gas. My friend Brian kindly offered to fill up the tank, but I, as usual, resisted the help and insisted on doing it myself. I soon discovered I had parked too far from the nozzle, so I anxiously corrected the position of my car while Brian and I playfully continued to argue over who would do the gas pumping. In mid motion of me backing up, I didn't notice that Brian, who was seated right behind me, had his door slightly open and was already on the move, determined to beat me to the task. The memory of the wince-inducing sound when I reversed the car and the passenger door met an unforgiving pole still lingers to this day. As a group, we all conducted our individual google searches and found out how to get a dent out of a car. Eventually, we found ourselves bringing out a blowdryer and using the heat to pull it out. It helped, to my surprise, but of course it was still obvious that something happened, and while it didn’t appear as horrifying as it did pre-blow dryer, the dent remained and served as a continuous reminder of this core memory.
I cried over every break up in that car: three boyfriends, the flings in between, and many friendships I assumed would last forever.
I drove it up and down the coast several times during the two years I spent college in the bay.
I resorted to her as my safe space whenever being at my parents’ house felt too heavy and I needed to escape.
At some point in my later years, when my mental health struggles were at an all time high, I strongly considered turning her into my home. I tried it out for one night and parked outside of a hotel I felt somewhat safe around. I slept in the back and covered myself in jackets and sweaters and used the rest of my clothes to cover my windows in attempts to create a fort-like sanctuary. Except it felt like everything but a sanctuary because I needed heat in the winter to sleep soundly and a bathroom nearby to go pee 3-4 times in the middle of the night, every night. I decided after 12 hrs that I was not about this life, but in case of emergency, it was nice to know that I could manage to survive at least one night.
I wrote my best poems in that car. One morning around 5:45 a.m., 15 minutes before clocking in at the coffee shop, I was listening to a song with no words on repeat. The poem came to me immediately, like magic; I wrote every single word down in my journal. By the time I needed to clock in, the piece was finished.
I’ve had my most life-altering epiphanies in that car during my long commutes to many jobs far away from my city, listening to podcasts and playlists from all eras of my life.
Somewhere along the way, perhaps starting with that gas station dent, and continuing until the end of our journey together, I failed to take care of her. I experienced a couple of minor accidents: Once, someone hit my bumper, leaving a subtle dent in a parking lot. They offered me $500 to settle it privately instead of reporting it to insurance, and I accepted, never bothering to repair it. On another occasion, someone hit me, and in my anxious state, I made the confusing choice of fleeing the scene (???), overwhelmed by personal challenges at the time, and unable to deal with the inconvenience of exchanging information with a stranger. Even during car washes, I neglected to thoroughly dry her, which likely contributed to the paint peeling on the roof. She was keyed—not a clue why or by who—and I never gave it much thought. I added scratches on top of scratches to her as I mindlessly backed out and pulled into driveways. More recently, a motorcycle hit the side as I was turning and ran off, leaving me in a state of distress. Parts of her began to fall off and after some repairs, I started to look more closely at all the scars and damages she had collected over the decade.
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As much as I hated the thought of getting a full-time job and having to place actively building my business on hold, ever since I accepted it, I’ve come across many blessings. I finally feel somewhat financially stable. I’ve been able to slowly start paying off my debt. I’ve been able to afford therapy and outlets of creativity that I wasn’t able to before. I’ve been able to start saving for the future. And finally—something I’ve been long waiting for—I’ve been able to afford a new (used) car.
I thought I would experience nothing but joy to finally get a car that felt like me. But life's lessons have shown me that alongside change, often comes a measure of grief.
“I thought I would experience nothing but joy to finally get a car that felt like me. But life's lessons have shown me that alongside change, often comes a measure of grief.”
As I was getting ready to sell my car, I started to recognize how tightly I had still been clinging onto various aspects of my life—old belongings, tired habits, and stale relationships—all due to my fear of change and the unknown.
There’s a strange comfort in familiar instability.
Starting on a new path always feels cringey because it forces you to go through a reckoning, a shedding, a war with the army that is made up of versions of yourself that you know—even if it’s with resistance—are ready to die.
I've come to value these sort of heartaches—the kind that signifies personal growth, remembrance of Self, and the readiness to embark on a new chapter.
Although my experience with my car was never love at first sight, there’s no doubt that I grew to love her over time. She became my go-to place for safety, almost like a security blanket. And I ended up holding onto her longer than I ever thought I would.
It wasn't until our last day together that I truly realized how much I would miss her. Our belongings hold energy, and as I sat in my car in deep reflection, I was hit by a wave of sadness when I reminisced on our 14 years together. It was difficult to imagine my life without her. And at the same time, I knew I was finally ready to let her go.
a coming of age party known as a huge tradition in Filipino culture (similar to a quinceanera)