In my previous post, I discussed how life in the suburbs can be quite lonely. I deliberately glossed over a major structural component of the loneliness epidemic, believing it merited an entire post on its own. Driving a car, something many of us do daily, is another way we may be experiencing social isolation. While driving a vehicle may not be the inherent issue, a problem arises when the majority of America’s infrastructure is car-dependent. The automotive industry has played a profound role in shaping our lives, particularly in the American suburbs. This essay will function as an observational piece, a continuation into my exploration of the loneliness epidemic as I attempt to consider every angle. In lieu of an academic argument or policy proposal, I will share how I arrived at the conclusion that being obligated to drive contributes to the problem, drawing from lived experience.
Something always seemed off within me each time I got behind the wheel of a car. I recall particularly lonely drives home from work, where I yearned for a conversation with a stranger but was barred from doing so because I was in a vehicle. At last, it registered with me that cars function as isolation pods. When you are driving, you’re virtually cut off from much of the world, prevented from interacting with others. We are inside a cage made of glass and steel, sealed away from a lot of society. It can feel dehumanizing.
To better understand, let’s scrutinize the power dynamics involved in owning and operating a car. At its core, a car is your private property. I can’t think of any other instance where you bring this valuable of a belonging out with you in public. It’s akin to a house on wheels. You regulate the temperature, control the music, and lock your doors to keep people out. You allow a small number of carefully selected and trusted individuals into your home, just as you would with a car. Thus, driving your vehicle is moving this highly personal, selective, and protected thing through public spaces. Not only is it inconducive to human interaction, it creates a dissonance in our state of mind. There will be a hundred people occupying the same area, i.e., roads, and yet they will not have the opportunity to reach out to one other. The sense of disconnection that comes with car ownership is deep.
Hence, car dependency can take quite a psychological toll. There are various consequences associated with driving, most of them dire. For starters, having to keep track of your car keys so you do not end up stranded. Figuring out the parking situation is another stressor. And, of course, car expenses are far and away the most significant reason people are so cautious about their vehicles. This encompasses loans, insurance, gas, and repairs. They advise against leaving valuables visible in your car, but your car is the valuable. That is tens of thousands of dollars being left alone in a lot somewhere. It creates a persistent feeling of anxiety that something can happen or go wrong with their cars at any time, which keeps people unhappy. Every drive quietly fills us with dread. A car is a dear to your heart, high-stakes machine you must guard.
How many times did plans fall through with friends when you wanted to travel somewhere that was a further distance? How many times have you been forced to leave a function early, being mindful of traffic? Who here couldn’t enjoy themselves during a gathering because they knew they had a long drive home? I don’t perceive these as minor inconveniences but rather, immense loads that take away from the occasion when I’m meant to be having a good time. It steals my joy. There are several factors to consider, each holding sizable weight, when deciding whether you’re willing to make that drive. You can’t criticize me for not wanting to undertake them. A car is an inhibitor. It’s a battle I face each time I contemplate stepping out the door.
Furthermore, the logistics of going out for a social drink in particular are a considerable source of stress. I don’t want to burden anyone by making them the designated driver, and I’m not keen on spending all my money on Ubers. Each option involves a car, turning what should be an enjoyable and spontaneous outing into a trying situation, making me contemplate whether it’s even worth it. Car dependency has repercussions for how often we see friends and meet new people.
Car commercials and advertisements attempt to sell a fantasy, that a car is a beacon of freedom. Driving alongside lush scenery, with the message: “You can go anywhere.” Be that as it may, this is contrasted with the actual mental strain of freedom becoming compulsory. I fail to see how owning a vehicle can be considered a liberty when you are hardly given any other viable options for transportation and can get practically nowhere without one. The cognizance of the true price of car ownership is a sobering one.
Anytime I’m on vacation, one of the biggest things I revel in is not having to worry about a car. It’s liberating not being tethered to a 4,000-pound machine. Simply put, it’s fun being able to walk around, take in the sights, and smile at passersby. There’s a certain peace to it. The times I’ve traveled to denser cities, one of the highlights is utilizing the public transportation system, something I’m not afforded in the suburbs. I appreciate a long bus ride surrounded by people on the same journey. I can’t help but wonder, why can’t we live this way more? In spite of this, cars took precedence over humans when many of our cities were designed.
I admit there is privilege in being able to drive and having access to a vehicle. See, someone like me can quit complaining about these so-called “lonely” feelings, hop in my car, and drive. But I think about the people who aren’t able to drive and how even more isolated they become. Those who have aged out of driving. Teenagers and children. People with disabilities. Those who cannot afford to take on the financial burden of a car. What happens to them? They become trapped, essentially, when they’re under the heel of others for transportation. Simple tasks like picking up groceries, seeing the doctor, or cashing a check can become an ordeal. Their world becomes smaller, and loneliness can set in quickly. It’s unjust they are hardly given alternatives when they need it most.
Similar to how some may prefer a life in the suburbs, some may favor the solitude a car offers, not experiencing the social isolation I described. Some are not keen on interacting with others when traveling to their destination. It’s the system that works best for them, and that’s entirely valid. My intention is not to convince you that your car makes you feel any type of way. I’m not declaring that no one should drive. The problem isn’t only cars, but notably, the lack of options. Admittedly, it’s difficult for even me to conceive of a different system when the automobile has been a dominant part of American culture and, subsequently, our lives.
I’m no urban planner. I don’t possess the qualifications to redesign an inefficient and morally questionable transportation system. I merely paid attention to what was making me feel lonely; things many of us had accepted as the norm. I wanted to highlight a key issue with the way we live our lives, as I believe it’s negatively impacting us more than we know, and may have lasting effects. Car dependency resulted in a society where connection and community, a critical part of our well-being, were sacrificed. I want owning a car to be a personal choice, not something we must rely on. I want us to be able to walk and use public transportation if we desire to, anywhere we are, to get to essential places. I’m calling for us to be imaginative, considerate of those who would benefit from a different system, and to ask for more.
Emily Writes 
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