Shamefully Still Embarrassed by our Old Car

I'm sitting at Jiffy Lube, waiting for an oil change. If you've ever been, you know the routine: drive up, drop off your keys, and sit in the lobby until they call your name. When they do, the mechanic will run through a list of things your car supposedly needs—or doesn’t need but they’ll try to sell you on anyway.

Today, I really didn’t want to come. I’m driving my husband’s car, a 2007 Toyota Camry in faded apple red. I’ll check the mileage when I leave, but it's around 220,000 miles. The car’s rusty. The seats are stained. The interior lights don’t work and never have. The previous owner rigged some kind of makeshift light on the rearview mirror, so at night, I can press a button for a dim glow when I’m looking for something like my chapstick. Honestly, I’m embarrassed by this car. I hate admitting that. I wish I didn’t care. It runs fine, gets my husband where he needs to go, and it's been reliable. It was cheap when we needed it, and we still need cheap. It's paid off. It does what it’s supposed to do. So why do I feel this way?

I think it goes back to my childhood. My parents couldn’t afford a car for much of my time in elementary and middle school, so we didn’t have one. Our family of five biked or took the bus everywhere. My mom walked to get groceries or occasionally took a taxi. But I was embarrassed. I hated depending on my friends' parents to give us rides. If we wanted to go to the movies, we couldn’t just hop in a car. I hated feeling like a burden. It embarrassed me that my parents couldn’t afford a car, and now, thirty years later, I feel like I’m in the same situation.

The truth is, even if my husband gets a new car, I know it won’t actually make me happier. I get that. I don’t think of myself as a vain person, but his car symbolizes something more. It represents years of financial struggle, of not knowing how we’d pay the bills, of not being able to afford new clothes or go out to eat. It feels embarrassing that we’re in our forties, with five kids, and still struggling.

I don’t know how to wrap this up. I wish I wasn’t embarrassed. I wish I were better than that. But when I think about it, I know none of this actually matters. Who am I trying to impress? My neighbors? My kids’ friends’ parents? My friends? Do I really think they’d like me better if we drove a different car? And if they did, are those the kind of people I even want in my life? Of course not. I’ve always hated when people are judged by material things. It’s a pet peeve of mine. My husband has always said that even if he one day made a ton of money, he’d still be the guy driving the beat-up car because he knows that’s not what defines him. I need to learn from him. I need to grow in this. 

So, here it is—my admission and my promise to do better. I’m not going to pretend this isn’t something I struggle with, but I’m learning that my worth isn’t tied to the car I drive or the money in my bank account. It’s hard to let go of old insecurities, but I know they don’t define me. What matters is how we live, not what we have. And maybe, just maybe, this beat-up car is here to remind me of that every day.