I lost my driver’s licence for a year. Everything went uphill from there

< warm>This number one someone tower is written by Vivienne sir richrd steele, who lives in Whitehorse. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ.

I was on an epic solo adventure vacation in Morocco two years ago when I had a seizure on a hot air balloon ride. Despite the public and scary nature of the experience, I was able to call my doctor, get the meds I needed and continue on the trip with friends. 

But when I got home to Whitehorse, life had changed drastically.  In Canada, if you experience a seizure or have a change in your medication, you will typically have your driver’s licence suspended for anywhere between six months and two years. My physician was required to report the change in my health to Transport Canada, and that meant a one year suspension of my licence — and access to my beloved car. 

It was a process I was unfortunately familiar with. 

My licence has been previously suspended in 2016 when I had my first seizure and was treated for an arteriovenous malformation at age 24. At that time, I was in grad school in Guelph, Ont., and got around primarily by public transit and bicycle. The licence suspension didn't make much of a difference. 

But a couple of years later, I bought a Honda CRV (dubbed “Gina”) in 2022 after I moved to Whitehorse for work. The car felt like freedom to me: driving along open roads flanked by fireweed and glorious mountains, planning solo camping trips, and blasting a playlist to drown out my terrible singing. It felt like the perfect way to enter my 30s. 

Losing my licence again at 32 in Whitehorse — a place built around cars and a city in which I owned a car — was different. I would have to experience Whitehorse without access to a car. 

I’d gotten used to the freedom of picking up groceries on a whim, meeting a friend across town or showing up without calculating how long by bus, bike or on foot. I  would have to re-learn how slow life becomes when you can’t drive. 

That loss of freedom hit me hard. 

In Whitehorse, I live at the top of Two Mile Hill, which is exactly what it sounds like — a long and steep slog, exposed to wind and big vehicles crossing the Alaska Highway. In the winter, it’s darker more than light, and I remember walking up the hill with groceries in the dark on one particularly frigid afternoon. I was chewing a cheese bun and felt it freeze mid-bite as cars passed me by. I felt pretty sorry for myself. 

One February morning, I passed an older man using a walker and  realized how much harder this city must be to navigate for people who have more significant mobility issues than mine. Crosswalk timers that were too short, curb cuts that dropped too steeply and intersections built for cars all became objects of my scrutiny. Walking in -30 C darkness changed how I saw Whitehorse and I became a reluctant urban critic, noticing every poorly lit crosswalk and icy sidewalk. 

Taking the bus brought different lessons. I learned the bus routes and had to time my schedule around the bus. I watched young kids and teens waiting for the bus and thought about myself when I was their age — when my biggest worries were what outfit to wear and who to sit next to. I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I had paused to reflect on the little things in life instead of stressing about the next deadline.

Staring out of foggy windows I was reminded of riding public transit to university and marveling at how much bigger my world had become. Why couldn't I take a minute to be grateful for how my education has led me to work opportunities, to travel and to meaningful connections in my life? 

Biking in the dark, cold mornings can sometimes be a stressful experience, especially navigating snow and ice, limited visibility and nearby motorists.

But when I spot another cyclist, bundled in winter gear and hands jammed into handlebar pogies, I feel a sense of solidarity.  After a teacher was killed while cycling, the city shut down streets for a memorial ride. It was moving but it also made me wonder why conversations about safety typically only come after a tragedy.

Kindness found me in unexpected places, with folks going out of their way to help me get around. 

One morning after playing hockey at Takhini Arena, I stood outside unsure how to get home. There were no buses, and I’d already taken an expensive cab to get there. I valued my independence and asking for help was harder than I wanted to admit. Then an opponent from the winning team walked out, saw me and asked if I needed a lift. She didn’t know where I lived. She didn’t make it a big deal. 

That simple offer meant more than she probably realized. It reminded me that accepting help isn’t failure.

Once the snow melted that year, I bought an e-bike and fashioned it with a basket for grocery shopping. My friends were happy to help me with the setup and shared my enthusiasm over my new ride. I could get up Two Mile Hill easily using the electric assist feature, sometimes even passing by cars stuck in traffic.

The past 11 months of asking for rides, biking, bussing and walking made me realize my city has a long way to go before it's truly accessible. It also reminded me of the value of slowing down, taking out my headphones and putting a pause on my overthinking long enough to be grateful for what I do have: I am healthy enough to be able to get to work, I have a job that allows me to live how I want and I have my independence. 

Before I lost my licence, community to me meant friends to play sports with or people to meet for beers. Now I think it’s much more ordinary and much more serious. It’s noticing who isn’t there. Who can’t get there. Who’s walking in the dark because the bus doesn’t run early enough. When I helped plan a local ultimate frisbee tournament, I found myself thinking of logistics beyond the event itself. Would people be able to get there without a car? Should we organize rides? 

I got my licence back in December 2024, a month earlier than I expected. I had been fantasizing about what I would do when I got it back. Turns out, it was to go buy milk and a big stack of toilet paper for my roomies. 

And it brought me more joy than I could have imagined. 

I thought losing my licence would make me more dependent on others. Instead, it taught me about interdependence. I can drive again now, or opt to walk or bike. But what if I couldn’t? Who would help me up the hill? And, who can I help?

Community to me is no longer about standing on top of the hill alone. It’s making sure no one has to climb it alone.

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Freelance contributor

Vivienne Steele is an epidemiologist living in Whitehorse.

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