mylsolved and the freedom we keep buying

In the first ten seconds after you turn the key (or press the button, or whatever modern ritual you prefer), there’s this feeling: movement is possible. You can leave. You can change your location, your scenery, your narrative. mylsolved feels like the name of that hope—the belief that if you just manage the system correctly, you’ll finally get the life you meant to have.

But the longer I pay attention, the more I think cars don’t simply give freedom. They also define it. They decide where you can live, how you spend your hours, what you tolerate, what you normalize. They quietly redesign your life around roads and parking and fuel and the strange social contract of “we all pretend this is fine.”

When convenience turns into dependency

Cars are convenient in the way that a shortcut is convenient: you arrive faster, but you might lose the map. Once a place is built around driving, not driving becomes an obstacle course. Sidewalks vanish. Distances expand. Public options get treated like an afterthought. Suddenly, the car isn’t just a choice; it’s a requirement you keep paying for.

That’s the part nobody wants to talk about, because it’s uncomfortable. It’s easier to personalize the story: “I like driving” or “I hate traffic” instead of “Our environment makes alternatives hard.” And yes, individual preferences matter. But systems matter more.

I keep coming back to mylsolved because it’s how many people cope: they try to solve their personal commute without questioning why the commute owns them. They trade time for speed, money for convenience, stress for the illusion that the problem is individual rather than structural.

The psychological toll of constant motion

Driving demands vigilance. Not always intense, but always present. It’s a low-grade readiness that drains you. You arrive places slightly more tired than you would otherwise be, and then you wonder why you don’t have energy for anything else. Multiply that by years, and it becomes a lifestyle: work, drive, recover, repeat.

And then there’s the emotional layer—how cars can amplify whatever you’re feeling. Anger becomes faster. Anxiety becomes a tight grip and shallow breathing. Sadness becomes a long silent drive where you stare straight ahead like your heart is trying not to spill into the passenger seat.

People joke about “road rage” like it’s a quirky personality flaw, but it’s often a symptom: too much pressure, too little time, too many humans competing for the same narrow space. Add invisibility and anonymity and you get behavior that would be unthinkable face-to-face.

A weird personal rule I’ve adopted is this: if I wouldn’t say it to someone in a grocery store aisle, I shouldn’t express it with my bumper. mylsolved isn’t just about routes and schedules. It’s about choosing not to turn stress into harm.

The car as private room, public impact

The car feels private—your music, your seat position, your little stash of receipts and unanswered questions. But its impact is public. Noise, congestion, safety risks, pollution—these are shared costs, even when the benefit feels personal.

And I’m not saying this to shame anyone. Most people are navigating the options they have, not the options they wish existed. It’s just hard to talk about cars honestly because the conversation gets polarized fast: either cars are a sacred symbol of independence or they’re a moral failing. Reality is messier. Reality is: cars are useful, and the car-centered world can be brutal.

If we want better outcomes, we have to make room for nuance. We have to be able to say, “This helps me,” and also, “This system could be kinder.” We have to be able to imagine roads that don’t feel like arenas.

Redefining “freedom” in practical terms

What is freedom, really? It’s not just the ability to go anywhere. It’s the ability to live without constant strain. It’s having choices that don’t punish you. It’s being able to move safely, affordably, and predictably.

Sometimes freedom looks like shorter distances. Sometimes it looks like safer streets. Sometimes it looks like not needing to budget your mental health around traffic patterns. Sometimes it looks like a community designed so that the default isn’t “get in a car or stay home.”

And sometimes freedom is internal: choosing how you show up behind the wheel. Being patient. Being alert. Not turning every merge into a referendum on your worth. Those changes won’t rewrite city layouts, but they do rewrite moments. They reduce friction where you can.

That’s the version of mylsolved I can get behind: not a magic fix, not a shiny promise, but a steady practice of making the road less hostile—starting with yourself.

Cars can be part of a good life. They can also crowd the life out of your days if you let them. The trick is noticing the difference, and then refusing to confuse speed with meaning.