Two Failed Driving Tests and the Truth About Why Learning Feels Hard
The problem isn't that you can't learn. It's that you're judging yourself with the wrong measuring stick.
I passed my driving test last week.
I’m 31.
And yeah, I know what you’re thinking.
“How the fuck does someone not have their license by 31?”
I’ve got reasons.
Living in Ireland means the whole process takes years, not months.
COVID shut down testing centers for over a year.
Then there was a nine-month backlog just to book a slot.
Then car trouble.
Then life.
But that’s not actually what this is about.
This is about the two times I failed before I passed.
The two times I sat in that examiner’s car, hands sweating on the wheel, convinced I was an idiot because I couldn’t do something millions of teenagers manage to do on their first try.
The two times I walked away thinking there must be something fundamentally broken in my brain.
Because that’s the story I told myself.
That I should have figured this out years ago.
That I was behind.
That everyone else found this easy and I was the one struggling with something basic.
And then I had a conversation with my AI assistant Claws that changed how I see not just driving, but every skill I’ve ever beaten myself up for not mastering fast enough.
The Way You’ve Always Learned
I’m fast at learning most things.
Give me a YouTube tutorial on a software tool, and I’ll have it figured out in a day.
Show me how to build something on a computer, and I’ll be running with it by tomorrow.
Hand me written instructions for anything technical, and my brain just... gets it.
This has been my superpower for as long as I can remember.
See the information
Read the steps
Do the thing
Move on
It works for vibecoding.
It works for design software.
It works for marketing.
It works for systems and processes and basically anything that can be broken down into logical steps that I can absorb visually and then execute.
I’ve built my entire career on this ability.
When people ask how I learned to do something, I shrug and say “I just watched a few videos” or “I just downloaded the tool and started using it.”
It feels natural.
Effortless, even.
Which made failing my driving test feel like a personal failure of catastrophic proportions.
Because if I can learn how to vibecode a SaaS with 400 users in an afternoon, why the hell couldn’t I learn to drive in a few months?
Turns out, I was asking the wrong question entirely.
The Brain Doesn’t Give a Shit About Fair
Driving isn’t knowledge-based learning.
You can watch every YouTube video about proper clutch control.
You can read every manual about mirror checks and road positioning.
You can understand intellectually exactly what you’re supposed to do at every moment.
And your body will still fuck it up.
Because driving is procedural learning.
Muscle memory.
The kind of skill that requires your brain to build entirely different neural pathways than the ones you use when you’re reading instructions or watching tutorials.
Researchers call this the difference between explicit learning and implicit learning.
Explicit learning is conscious.
Declarative.
It’s when you actively pay attention, test hypotheses, build knowledge you can verbalize.
“To do X, I need to follow steps A, B, and C.”
Your brain is engaged, processing information through working memory and attention systems in your prefrontal cortex.
Implicit learning is unconscious.
Procedural.
It happens through repeated exposure and practice, building skills you can’t always explain.
Your basal ganglia and cerebellum take over, automating movements and responses without conscious thought.
When I’m learning software, I’m using explicit learning.
I can tell you exactly why I’m clicking this button or typing that command.
I understand the logic, and that understanding translates directly into ability.
When I’m learning to drive, I’m using implicit learning.
My brain needs to practice the physical motion of releasing the clutch while applying gas hundreds of times before it becomes automatic.
No amount of understanding the theory makes my foot move smoothly.
They’re two completely different systems.
And I was judging my performance in one system using the standards from the other.
Why You Think You’re Stupid When You’re Not
This is where most of us fuck up.
We have a learning style that works for us in most situations.
Maybe you’re like me - visual, tutorial-based, quick to absorb information.
Maybe you’re different - you learn by doing, by experimenting, by trial and error.
Whatever your style, it’s gotten you through life successfully enough that you’ve internalized it as “how I learn things.”
Then you encounter a skill that requires a completely different learning approach.
And instead of recognizing that you’re trying to use the wrong tool for the job, you assume the problem is you.
You think you’re stupid.
You think you’re failing.
You think everyone else has some natural ability that you lack.
But what’s actually happening is that you’re trying to use explicit learning strategies on an implicit learning task, or vice versa.
You’re expecting your brain to process information through pathways that aren’t built for that type of information.
It’s like trying to hammer a nail with a screwdriver and concluding you must be terrible at construction.
Studies on skill acquisition show that people who practice self-compassion during learning make faster progress than those who engage in self-criticism.
When you beat yourself up for not picking something up quickly, your brain shifts into a state of self-inhibition.
You start approaching the task from a place of avoiding failure rather than pursuing mastery.
You create exactly the conditions that make learning harder.
Dr. Kelly McGonigal’s research at Stanford found that people who criticized themselves more showed slower progress toward their goals across every domain studied - weight loss, academics, relationships, everything.
I want you to read these next lines slowly and truly absorb them.
Self-criticism doesn’t motivate you to improve.
It motivates you to protect yourself from the pain of feeling inadequate.
Which usually means avoiding the thing you’re struggling with.
The Patience You Don’t Give Yourself
Think about the last time someone came to you struggling with a skill you already have.
Maybe a friend learning to cook.
A colleague picking up a new software tool.
A family member trying to get comfortable with technology.
What did you tell them?
Probably something like “Don’t worry about it, it takes time. You’ll get it. Just keep practicing and it’ll click eventually.”
You were patient.
Understanding.
You remembered your own learning curve and gave them space to have their own.
Now think about the last time you struggled with something.
Did you give yourself that same patience?
Or did you immediately jump to “Why can’t I do this? Why is this taking so long? What’s wrong with me?”
We extend compassion to others that we completely withhold from ourselves.
We understand intellectually that different skills have different learning curves.
That some things require time and repetition.
That everyone moves at their own pace.
But when it comes to our own learning, we expect ourselves to be instant experts.
We judge our day two against someone else’s year two and conclude we’re failing.
This is particularly brutal when you’re naturally good at learning in one domain.
Because you’ve internalized quick learning as part of your identity.
When something doesn’t come quickly, it feels like a fundamental threat to who you are.
I’m someone who learns fast.
Therefore, if I’m not learning this fast, I must not actually be someone who learns fast.
Which means I’m not as capable as I thought.
Which means maybe I’ve been fooling myself about my abilities all along.
See how quickly that spiral happens?
One slow learning curve becomes evidence of total inadequacy.
The Method Matters More Than You Think
When I finally passed my driving test, it wasn’t because I suddenly got smarter.
It was because I stopped expecting myself to learn driving the same way I learn everything else.
I stopped trying to intellectually understand every aspect before getting in the car.
I stopped analyzing why my clutch control wasn’t perfect.
I stopped beating myself up every time I stalled or made a mistake.
I just... drove.
Again and again and again.
I gave my brain permission to learn slowly.
To build the muscle memory through repetition instead of comprehension.
To trust that the implicit learning system would do its job if I stopped interfering with it.
And it did.
The skills that felt impossibly difficult six months ago are now automatic.
I don’t think about mirror checks or clutch control anymore.
My body just does them.
But that only happened when I accepted that this skill required a different learning method.
And that needing a different method didn’t mean there was something wrong with me.
Different types of learning activate completely different brain systems.
Implicit learning engages evolutionarily older, unconscious processes.
It shows less variability between people and less correlation with IQ.
It’s more robust under pressure and less vulnerable to fatigue.
Explicit learning is newer, more flexible, more dependent on conscious attention and working memory.
It’s vulnerable to stress and overthinking.
Neither one is better.
They’re tools for different jobs.
When you’re trying to learn something and it’s not clicking the way you expect, the question isn’t “What’s wrong with me?”
The question is “Am I using the right learning method for this type of skill?”
And then - this is the hard part - “Am I giving myself the time and space this method actually requires?”
What This Means for Everything Else You’re Struggling With
You’re probably beating yourself up about something right now.
Something you think you should have figured out already.
Something that comes easily to other people but feels impossibly hard for you.
Something that makes you question whether you’re as capable as you thought.
Maybe it’s a physical skill.
Maybe it’s a social skill.
Maybe it’s creative work that requires a different part of your brain than your day job uses.
Whatever it is, there’s a decent chance the problem isn’t you.
The problem is that you’re judging yourself by the wrong standard.
You’re comparing your learning speed in one domain to your learning speed in a completely different domain that requires a completely different approach.
You’re expecting mastery on a timeline that doesn’t account for the actual method this skill requires.
And you’re being cruel to yourself in ways you would never be cruel to someone else.
So here’s what I want you to try.
Next time you catch yourself thinking “I should be better at this by now” or “Why can’t I figure this out?”
STOP.
Ask yourself:
What learning method does this skill actually require?
If it’s procedural - something physical, something that needs to become automatic - is it possible you just need more repetition?
More time for your brain to build those unconscious pathways?
If it’s conceptual - something that requires understanding systems or frameworks - is it possible you need a different way of encountering the information?
A different teacher, a different format, a different angle of approach?
Then ask yourself:
“If my best friend was struggling with this exact skill, what would I tell them?”
Would you tell them they’re stupid?
That they should have figured it out already?
That there must be something wrong with them?
Or would you tell them to be patient?
That learning takes time?
That everyone has different strengths and that’s okay?
Whatever you’d tell them, tell yourself that instead.
Because the voice in your head that says you’re not good enough?
The one that compares you to everyone else and finds you lacking?
That voice is not telling you the truth.
It’s just telling you that you’re using the wrong measuring stick.
The License I Finally Got
I have my license now.
It took five years from when I first started trying.
It took two failures.
It took countless hours of practice and frustration and moments of wanting to give up entirely.
And you know what I learned?
Not how to drive.
I mean, yes, I learned that too.
But the more important thing I learned was this.
The speed at which you acquire a skill says absolutely nothing about your intelligence, your worth, or your capability.
It just says something about whether the required learning method aligns with your natural strengths.
Some skills you’ll pick up in days because they match how your brain likes to process information.
Other skills will take months or years because they require building entirely different neural pathways.
Neither one makes you smart or stupid.
They just make you human.
So whatever you’re struggling with right now - give yourself a fucking break.
Stop judging yourself by standards that don’t apply.
Stop comparing your chapter one to someone else’s chapter twenty.
Stop treating yourself worse than you’d treat a stranger.
You’re not failing.
You’re not slow.
You’re not inadequate.
You’re just learning something that requires a different approach than you’re used to.
And that’s okay.
Actually, it’s more than okay.
It means you’re expanding.
Growing.
Becoming more than you were.
Even if it’s taking longer than you think it should.
Especially if it’s taking longer than you think it should.