When Driving Stops

I reached a point recently where driving no longer feels like the right option. It's been coming for a while. I didn’t want to admit it at first, since driving has always been part of my independence. It's how I've gone to church, grown ministry, supported youth, attended ordination meetings and school visits, and everything else that fills my week. It was the way my long distance relationship lasted with Hannah, how I maintained access to the boys, and how we’ve gone on all our adventures over the years. It was freedom, routine, and normal. It’s not normal anymore.

Life works differently now. I travel everywhere by powerchair and train. I live in Rochester and worship in Sittingbourne, so my usual route is a twenty minute train journey followed by a thirty minute chair journey to church. It's predictable, works well most days, and gives me independence in a way that feels natural. I roll off the train, head through town, and arrive at church ready for whatever the day holds. It’s simple until my weakened core reminds me that simplicity has a cost. The pain is constant.

My ministry sits in Sittingbourne, so my travel sits there too. Youth group nights, meetings, trustee responsibilities at the community village hall, pastoral visits, the ordination process, and friends all take me back and forth. Canterbury’s hour travel is also part of that ordination and diocesan journey. Chair to station. Train to town. Chair to my expected place. It's a functioning system.

Driving is harder now. I can still drive with hand controls, but I'm noticeably weaker. I leave bigger gaps, drive slower, signal earlier, and take fewer journeys. My core makes every movement harder. Turning to check my blind spot pulls at muscles that recover slowly. I feel the strain for hours afterwards. I'm not unsafe, but I'm not the driver I was. I'm more cautious because I have to be. My reactions mentally are the same. My physicality is different.

The occasional incidents make everything more complicated. Most days the train is fine. Some days it's not. A cancelled train or an out of service lift turns a simple journey into a problem. On those days I rely on Southeastern's WAV taxis. They are brilliant and the drivers are kind. They get me where I need to be without fuss and still offer travel security.

Sometimes Hannah could take me, but her life is busy. She is a church warden and present for everything that role requires. She also has Arty’s football commitments. She balances both with care, but it means she cannot always drop everything to drive me somewhere.

Our car doesn't help the situation. It's a seven seater, but it is not wheelchair accessible. It only fits my manual chair. The manual chair isn't designed for my body anymore. It's lower, making lifting transfers harder for Hannah, but it hurts my back and core when I'm in it. The cushion is standard, not made to fit. The back support does nothing for my core. I can't self propel, so someone has to push me, removing my independence. Trips like Wrexham make the reality obvious. I spent the entire time in the manual chair because my powerchair is too heavy for the car. It is not sustainable. The pain outweighs its use, even if that’s occasional.

Motability allows WAVs for drivers and passengers. There are drive‑from‑wheelchair vehicles, internal transfer vehicles, and passenger vehicles, all designed for different needs. The scheme doesn’t block disabled drivers from choosing a WAV. It simply asks what works for your body, safety, and daily life. In my case, the passenger layout seems best. My strength has changed. My independence comes from the chair and train rather than the steering wheel. I could look at a drive WAV, but that limits Hannah’s ability to use it. Internal transfer vehicles sound ideal, but the reality of my core weakness makes that harder. Considering my health over the next three years, being a passenger makes sense.

All of this leads to one conclusion. I stop driving. It's not a dramatic decision. It's a practical one. I can let Hannah drive me on the days when the chair and train are not possible. Midge could help now she's passed her test, but I think it's three years minimum before she can be a named person on the Motability insurance. I can keep my independence by shifting how I access it rather than holding on to something that no longer works.

Letting go of driving is not giving up. It’s accepting that my life and my body have changed. I keep reminding myself that I’ve driven maybe five times in six months. In many ways, I’ve already stopped. I’m choosing an option that keeps me safe, mobile, and present. I’m choosing a future that works rather than a past that hurts.

I just need to get my head around it. I'm not losing freedom. I'm reshaping it. All around the active life I’m living.