Independence as Headspace

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What technology would you be better off without, why?

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When we talk about technology we could live without, many people think of screens or apps. But the technology I would be better off without is much more familiar.

A car.

I didn’t always think this way. Like most people, I inherited the assumption that a car is essential for freedom, adulthood, mobility, identity. You get one, you keep one, you upgrade it. It’s just what people do.

But lately I’ve been asking a different question: What kind of life do I want, and what technologies actually serve that life?

A few years ago, just before COVID, someone told me that their petrol car would be their last. Every car from now on would be electric. It was a bold prediction at the time; EVs weren’t really a thing in Australia yet. Their statement stayed with me—not because I agreed, but because it made me think about my own trajectory.

And gradually, an unexpected conclusion emerged: My current car will be the last car I ever own.

Right now I keep it for one reason: my parents’ declining health. Having a car helps me respond quickly when they need support. That’s a gift in this season, and I’m grateful for it. But when this season ends, something else begins—and I find myself imagining what that might look like.

What if I lived without a car?
I imagine walking more—not as an inconvenience, but as a rhythm, a settling of the mind.

I imagine catching trains and buses, reading on the move, letting my thoughts stretch out rather than folding them tightly between destinations.

I imagine rideshare and carshare when necessary—brief borrowings rather than a permanent fixture in my life.

I imagine days shaped by the pace of my own body: legs moving, lungs working, mind wandering, spirit settling.

I imagine independence as headspace— the freedom to think, the capacity to notice, the kind of quiet that does not exist when everything moves at 70 kilometres an hour.

For decades, I assumed that owning a car was the default, the way to stay capable and connected. But I don’t have children to drop off. My work is not built on commuting. The things that matter most to me—thinking, reading, writing, reflecting—are nourished by the slow unfurling of attention, not by acceleration.

Walking gives me something a car never has: internal spaciousness.
Public transport gives me something else: time to think, uninterrupted.
Letting go of ownership gives me a third gift: simplicity.

It’s not a rejection of modernity. It’s simply a choice for a different rhythm—one that aligns with the kind of life I want to live as the next season opens up.

So the technology I’d be better off without isn’t perched on my desk or held in my hand. It’s sitting in my driveway. And one day soon, I think I’ll hand over the keys, take a breath, and begin walking into the future I’ve been imagining.