The first car I ever drove was my dad’s 1969 Chevy Charger, sitting in his lap steering the wheel whenever he was home from his overseas Navy tours. Strangely, the last car I drove in Illinois was my ex-boyfriend’s Chevy truck. But six years later, I never expected to end up abused, homeless, stricken with multiple injuries and debilitating autoimmune disorder, stranded 800 miles from my son in NJ. I only survived without money, car and just what I could carry because of the help of strangers- an elderly Uber driver who took me to a domestic violence emergency shelter for nine months. Now, I live in transitional housing, work part-time and am slowly rebuilding. I still walk five miles anywhere everywhere, I sleep in downtown train stations after working late shifts at Soldier Field. Owning a vehicle changes everything. I could get groceries from the food pantry, get to work safe, continue physical therapy and counseling. Mostly, I could rejoin my family and teach my son to drive on his birthday and move home!