Because I'm Not Allowed

Living Life Without a Licence (and Yes, It Sucks)

I was 24 when I was officially told I wasn’t allowed to drive. Not that I didn’t know already. I mean, all my mates were getting their Ps as teens and hooning around Livo while I quietly clocked that I wouldn’t be joining them. I didn’t have the words back then, but I knew something was different. And at 24, when I got my official diagnosis of Tourette’s, the pieces clicked into place. Suddenly the unspoken became legal. I wasn’t just avoiding learning to drive. I legally couldn’t.

Physically, I’m more than capable. I can walk for miles, lift furniture, dance around my flat with Lulu. But neurologically? Yeah, nah. There’s always that one tic that creeps in from the shadows, no matter how much I’ve suppressed and masked and trained myself into silence. One unpredictable flick, one jerk at the wrong time, and that’s it. Too risky. Too dangerous. And too real.

So I made a conscious decision. I would never drive. I would never put someone else’s life at risk for my pride. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting every time I see someone casually grab their keys and pop out for a Macca’s run. It’s just the reality I’ve accepted. But gods, some days I want to scream at how unfair it all is.

The Curse of the Invisible Disability

Having an invisible disability is a bit like living in a parallel universe. Outwardly, I look “fine”. Most days, I seem fine. I laugh, I work, I socialise, I wander the aisles of Kmart pretending I’m the main character. But under it all? My life is shaped by limits no one can see. I have to plan everything around what I can’t do.

If I want groceries, they need to be delivered or I need to carry them like a travelling goblin across suburbs. No spontaneous beach trips. No ducking to Bunnings because my balcony needs another plant. If I want to furnish my home, I have to factor in delivery fees, waiting days, or beg a mate with a car (shout out to the legends who have lugged armchairs for me over the years).

And the worst part? I have to rely on the goodwill of others constantly. Delivery drivers who don’t just fling a “missed you” card in the mailbox. Friends who understand that “I’ll Uber it” isn’t always an option when Uber drivers flake or my budget is already stretched thin. In Adelaide, I had a note on file with the delivery depot specifically stating they had to attempt delivery due to my disability. That’s how hard it is to be taken seriously when your disability isn’t visible.

If I Could Drive…

Let me tell you, if I could drive, I would be UNSTOPPABLE. I’d own a Holden ute, all sexy and slightly feral. I’d throw Lulu in the passenger seat (in a cute cat carrier, don’t panic) and just go. To the beach. To the hills. To whatever market is on this weekend. I’d go thrifting in towns I’ve never heard of. I’d drive through Macca’s at midnight just because I could.

But instead, I live within walking distance of the supermarket. I choose my home based on proximity to a train line or bus stops. My life is mapped by convenience and compromise. I don’t get the luxury of freedom. I get careful planning and endless workarounds.

Even something as basic as taking cardboard boxes to the tip? A mission. I’ve just moved and I’m surrounded by the aftermath. Boxes, packaging, chaos. If I had a car, it’d be one trip. Easy. But no. Now I need to wait until someone offers, or I hire a man with a van, or I slowly dismantle the pile over six months via footpath bin donations and tears of frustration. Glamorous.

Depending on Kindness (And a Whole Lotta Patience)

Being disabled in a system that doesn’t account for you is exhausting. The amount of mental labour it takes just to function is wild. And while I am grateful for the people who help me, it still makes me feel like a burden. Even when no one says it. Even when they insist they don’t mind. I mind. I do.

Because all I want is independence. To not have to factor in a second person for everything. Need paint? Cool. I can paint. But I can’t get to Bunnings without a plan. Need groceries? Better hope Coles isn’t sold out of burrata again, because I can’t just nip to Aldi and grab some. I miss the ability to be reactive. To be spontaneous. I miss freedom.

It’s not just about driving. It’s about what not driving represents. A life of pause buttons. Of asking for favours. Of relying on apps and taxis and bus schedules and weather, because god forbid it starts pouring while I’m lugging cat litter up a hill. It’s about dignity. It’s about choice.

Let Me Paint You a Picture

Imagine this: you move into a new flat. You’re exhausted, sweaty, stressed. You need a shower curtain, a bin, lightbulbs, cleaning supplies, and a celebratory bottle of Prosecco. If you drive, that’s one trip. Done. But for me? That’s days of careful list-making. Prioritising what fits in a trolley. Calculating delivery costs. Choosing between bins because one is too bulky to carry alone.

And god help me if I forget one thing. Because it means another walk, another order, another workaround. When I say my disability impacts every corner of my life, I mean it. Even down to how I clean my bathroom or decorate my walls. My independence lives in spreadsheets, not spontaneity.

And let’s not even start on dating. Try explaining on a first date why you can’t drive. Try suggesting a picnic and then realising you can’t get there unless they drive, and suddenly it’s weird and you’re awkward and now you’re cancelling because you just can’t be arsed explaining your nervous system to a stranger with a questionable haircut.

Just Because You Can’t See It…

People always say, “Oh but you seem fine! You don’t look disabled!” Babe. That’s the point. My Tourette’s is (mostly) under control. I’ve trained myself into silence. Into stillness. Into shrinking. I’ve made myself small and manageable so I can move through the world without being stared at or pitied or accused of faking it.

But it doesn’t mean it’s not there. My nervous system is doing overtime every single day. And one rogue tic, one invisible surge, is the reason I can’t legally drive. And I get it. I do. I wouldn’t trust me behind the wheel either. But it’s hard to sit with the truth that my life is so limited by something most people will never notice.

So I share this not for sympathy. Not even for awareness, really. I share it because I want us all to start giving people more grace. More understanding. More imagination. Just because someone looks fine doesn’t mean they’re not fighting a battle you can’t see. And if someone says they need help? Believe them.

Because sometimes, they’re not allowed. And sometimes, they’re just doing their bloody best.

We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why we need to stop clapping for basic decency. You know the script. A man texts back within twenty-four hours and we're screenshotting it to the group chat. A man plans a date more than three hours in advance and we call him a unicorn. A man manages to listen, pay attention, and behave like a fully formed adult, and our nervous systems short-circuit because we genuinely don't know how to receive it.Here's the truth nobody is saying out loud. The bar has been dragged so low that Satan himself needs a chiropractor after a competitive round of limbo. We've been culturally trained to be grateful for behaviour that should not require gratitude. We've been told these things are bonuses when they're actually the entry requirement. And in the meantime, women have been quietly doing the basic decency thing forever, without applause, while men get standing ovations for outputs we generated for them.Today we're talking about why a great man is genuinely just an average woman, who benefits when the bar stays low, the invisible labour women have been performing for free for centuries, and the friend-test that cuts straight through every excuse we've ever made for mediocre men. Let's get into it.For more visit BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG @BryJaimea

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