Fear of Breaking Down While Traveling Alone: When Independence Meets Vulnerability

There is a particular fear that comes with living in a wheelchair and traveling by yourself. It does not matter how confident you look or how many times you have made the trip. It does not matter how much planning you did ahead of time. There is always this quiet fear inside that whispers, “What if something breaks down today?”

Not my emotions.

Not my resolve.

I am talking about my equipment. My vehicle. The things that I absolutely depend on in order to move through life.

Most people think independence is this picture of someone who does everything alone. They imagine strength, capability, and a sort of untouchable courage. But disabled independence looks nothing like that. Mine looks like double-checking my ramp, making sure the van sounds right, hoping the battery on my lift stays strong, and praying that nothing jams or malfunctions in a parking lot somewhere.

And here is the truth that sits underneath this fear. The root emotion is the sense of being abandoned.

Not because anyone has intentionally abandoned me. But because one malfunction can leave me sitting alone in a place I cannot get out of. The ache of realizing that I truly do not have backup in certain moments is very real. You feel it in your chest and in your stomach at the same time.

All it takes is one breakdown for your nervous system to remember that feeling forever. One time of being stuck in the cold, or in the heat, or late at night. One time of hearing a strange sound, realizing the lift is not coming down, or discovering the door will not open again. After that, every future trip gets layered with a little more watchfulness.

People see the "brave" version of me.

They see me speaking somewhere.

They see me rolling in with a smile.

They see me showing up.

They see me pushing forward.

What they do not see is the mental load it takes to get there.

The hundreds of tiny thoughts that run quietly in the background.

The little checklist I go through without anyone noticing.

The way my heart beats a little faster when I hear a new noise in the van.

The way I glance at the battery levels on my wheelchair

The way I pray before long trips because I know too well what happens if something goes wrong.

There have been moments where everything was fine one minute and suddenly nothing was fine the next. And there I sat. In the dark. Or in the rain. Or in a parking lot that seemed a lot bigger now that I was stuck in the middle of it. Those moments change you. They settle inside you. They create hypervigilance. Not because you are dramatic, but because you learned the hard way that you cannot always save yourself.

And this is where faith becomes very real. Not poetic. Not sentimental. Very real. There is a kind of prayer that only comes from knowing you cannot get yourself out of a situation. There is a kind of trust that comes from saying, “God, I need You to be my present help right now because I do not have another plan.”

Psalm 46 tells us that God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. That verse means something entirely different when you are stuck somewhere alone and physically unable to move. It becomes less of a comfort verse and more of a lifeline. You lean into it because you feel the truth of it in the moment.

In some ways, this fear has shown me a side of God I might not have known otherwise. When your body has limits, His presence becomes less of an idea and more of a necessity. And you begin to realize that He is not intimidated by your helplessness. He is not frustrated by the places where you cannot do for yourself. He is not distant from the moments that scare you.

People sometimes tell me I am brave. And yes, sometimes independence does look brave. But sometimes it is just me and the Lord sitting there on the side of the road, hoping a mechanic or a friend or a stranger shows up, and trusting that even if no one does right away, I am not actually alone.

I still prepare. I still plan. I still check everything before I leave home. Wisdom matters. Carefulness matters. But there is a deeper rest underneath it all. The kind that says, “Even if something breaks down today, my soul does not have to.”

My equipment might fail.

My van might break.

My lift might jam.

But I am held.

And every time I have found myself waiting for help, I have also found that God was already there before the help arrived. His presence was the thing that kept my fear from swallowing me whole.

I may break down on the road.

But I am not abandoned on the inside.

And that truth has carried me farther than any working piece of equipment ever could.

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Fear Series: 1. Fear of Falling 2. Fear of Humiliation