The driving test taught me to slow down (without stalling)

Through Immigrant Eyes

Viktoriia Kantseva

In Ukraine, if you wait nine months for something, you’re probably having a baby, not a driving test. In Ireland, it took me a full year.

When I first applied for my Irish driving test, I thought I’d be driving within a few weeks. I had my learner permit, my lessons, my confidence. I even made a playlist for the big day. What I didn’t realise was that waiting for a test slot here can take longer than learning to drive itself.

At first, I kept refreshing the RSA website every morning, like someone checking lottery numbers.

“Maybe today’s the day?”

It never was.

Back home in Ukraine, things move faster — not always fairer, but faster. You could fail your practical test and reapply the next morning. Some people even “knew someone who knew someone,” and the system magically worked.

For those who wanted to pass honestly, though, it was tough.

The theory exam was full of strange mechanical questions: how many axles? What braking distance at 60 km/h? Which gear for a steep hill? You really had to study as if your life depended on it — because in some ways, it did.

In Ireland, the theory felt almost friendly. Logical. Human. It asked about safety and signs, not engine parts or mathematics. I passed the first time and thought, “That’s it, I’m ready for the road.”

A year later, I finally got my practical test date.

The first attempt didn’t go as planned. I didn’t stall once, but I was stiff and nervous. My eyes didn’t move enough for the examiner’s liking, and near the end, I lightly touched the kerb. Just one mistake — but enough to fail.

When the examiner said, “Unfortunately, not this time,” I smiled politely, thanked him and then sat in my car and cried. It wasn’t about the test — it was months of effort, lessons and waiting suddenly crashing down.

Then another girl came out of the test centre, cheerful and calm.

“I had the same examiner,” she said. “He’s lovely!”

At that moment, I wasn’t quite ready to agree.

By the second attempt, I was calmer. Less desperate, more grounded. I knew what to expect. Maybe that’s the Irish way — when you stop forcing life to go faster, it finally starts to move again. That day, I passed.

It made me think that maybe the Irish driving test isn’t just about driving. It’s about patience — something Ukrainians aren’t exactly famous for.

In Ukraine, waiting often feels like losing.

Fairness

In Ireland, waiting is simply part of life. People wait for buses, letters, exams, even sunshine — and they do it with quiet trust that everything will happen when it’s meant to. And I admire that.

Because behind that patience, there’s also fairness. In Ireland, you fail because you make a mistake, not because someone woke up in a bad mood. For many Ukrainians, that kind of fairness still feels almost new.

Of course, even with that fairness, the nerves are real. I had the advantage of taking the theory test in my own language, and for the practical, I could bring a translator to help with the oral part.

That made things easier — because when you’re nervous, even “take the next left” can sound like a riddle.

But that’s what this whole process felt like — translating not only words, but a way of thinking.

In Ukraine, we live on the accelerator. In Ireland, people somehow move forward while staying in neutral.

When I finally held my Irish driving licence, it wasn’t just a piece of plastic. It was proof that I’d learned something bigger: how to slow down without stopping, and how to trust the journey.

Yes, it took me a year. But I learned that sometimes, patience isn’t about standing still — it’s just another way of moving.