Are the Hands Holding the Steering Wheel of Your Life Actually Yours?

I was sitting in an auto rickshaw, heading back to my flat after work. Earphones in. Favorite song playing. Stuck in traffic, like always. Then, suddenly, the battery dies.

Silence.

“HOOOOOOONK!!!” A horn shatters the quiet. It jolts something in me.

And just like that, a thought I hadn’t let in for months forces its way through.

I’ve been on autopilot.

For the past two months, every day looks the same: Wake up. Get ready. Commute. Work. Call home during lunch. Work some more. Go back. Eat. Code a bit without purpose. Sleep. Repeat.

No thought. No intention. Just routine. I’m not living—I’m running a script.

I used to think for myself. Make decisions. Ask questions. Get excited about things. Now, I’m just trying to get through the day with the least resistance possible.

Somewhere along the way, I gave up control. Not all at once. Bit by bit. I stopped noticing when things stopped feeling like mine.

The scary part? Nothing forced this. No villain. No big crash. Just the slow, quiet erosion of choice.

And when the music stopped, when the outside noise got loud enough, I realized: I’m not in the driver’s seat. I’ve been sitting in the back, watching the days go by.

What happened to the version of me who wanted more? Who wanted to build something? Take risks? Try, fail, grow?

That version is still in here. Just muted. Waiting.

So now I’m asking: Are the hands holding the steering wheel of my life actually mine?

Because if not—then whose are they? And what am I waiting for?

The road’s still there. I just need to grab the wheel.