Because No One Stopped

The scent is what I remember most—burnt rubber, the sickening white puff of an airbag, and something like metal melting in the sun. On a hot day in July 2022, just weeks before I started college, a distracted driver turned left into my path. I had the green light. I was going straight. I T-boned them at full speed. Both cars were totaled. My phone was dead, no one stopped to help, and the other driver—despite being at fault—yelled at me and tried to shift the blame. It was terrifying. Camera footage later proved I wasn’t at fault, and they were cited for failing to yield and for issues with their registration. But even after the legal part was over, the fear lingered. It still does.

That accident changed the way I think about driving. Before, I saw it as just another task. Now, I see every car as a potential weapon, every drive as a series of life-or-death choices. And I’m not alone. Working in an emergency room and serving as an EMT, I’ve seen the consequences of distracted and impaired driving up close—more often than I ever expected. I’ve watched bodies broken, lives cut short, and families shattered over mistakes that could have been prevented.

Driver education is often treated like a box to check, but it should be so much more than that. It’s a chance to form habits that literally save lives. The way we teach new drivers can and should reduce the number of lives lost on the road. We need education that goes beyond the basics—beyond turn signals and parallel parking—and focuses on the neuroscience of distraction, the physics of impact, the psychology of risk. We need emotional, memorable lessons that stick with people longer than a written test.

I believe real change begins with storytelling. No one forgets the crunch of metal or the smell of an airbag. Those sensory memories are hardwired in. I still remember the fear that consumed me as I stood in the middle of a five-lane intersection—cars driving by like nothing had happened, weaving around the wreckage like I was invisible. For six agonizing minutes, no one stopped. Then, finally, one kind man pulled over. He offered me water, let me use his phone to call 911, and stayed with me while I shook. That moment of human kindness stood out against a wave of indifference. When we share those stories—real stories—we change the stakes for others. We make the consequences visible. I talk about it often now. Not to relive the trauma, but to teach.

Just weeks after moving into my college house in August 2024, another crash shook my life. A drunk driver in a large truck sped 40 miles per hour down a narrow alleyway and slammed into our garage, destroying three parked cars in the process. When the firefighters finally towed the vehicles away, the entire garage collapsed—reduced to nothing but cinder blocks and crushed metal. My roommates and I were in shock. The individuals in the truck fled the scene and had no insurance. We couldn’t use the garage for months. Even without physical injuries, the psychological toll was immense. For a long time afterward, every screech of tires sent a jolt through us. We were constantly bracing for the next crash.

The truth is: car crashes are not “accidents.” They are often predictable outcomes of bad choices. Every time someone texts behind the wheel, speeds through a light, or drives under the influence, they’re gambling with their life and the lives of others. And when you work in emergency medicine, you learn quickly how high the stakes really are. The higher the speed, the more devastating the injuries. I’ve seen organs rupture from sudden stops, bones shattered beyond repair, and people flattened against steering wheels, trees, and walls. The brain is like jello—it doesn’t take much to cause permanent, irreversible damage. It’s horrifying. And it never gets easier to witness.

So how do we reduce these deaths? We start by changing the conversation. Driver education must be immersive, realistic, and trauma-informed. We should include videos from ER doctors and EMTs, testimony from survivors, and data about how substances like alcohol and cannabis impair reaction time. Simulators that show what it feels like to crash—or even lose control—could help build that emotional memory before it becomes real.

We also need to make it easier for people to do the right thing. More public transit options. More walkable cities. More accessible rideshare services, especially late at night. And policies that hold drivers accountable—steeper penalties for texting and driving, mandatory retesting after DUIs, insurance incentives for clean driving records. These steps won’t eliminate crashes overnight, but they can shift a culture.

As for me, I carry my experiences into every shift as an EMT and every drive I take. I always check my mirrors twice. I wait a second before entering an intersection, even when the light is green. I keep my phone out of sight and on Do Not Disturb. And I talk. I talk to my friends, my peers, my residents—especially now that I’m a Resident Advisor at Ohio State. When I hear someone joke about driving tipsy or trying to “beat the yellow,” I don’t stay quiet. I tell them what it looks like when a crash isn’t a punchline. I tell them what it sounds like.

To help others be safer, I lead by example. I use my platform—through leadership roles, EMT work, and everyday conversations—to shift the norm. I show what responsibility looks like behind the wheel. And I advocate for reform, especially in communities like mine where driving is the only option, but public awareness is low.

Being a safe driver isn’t about paranoia—it’s about respect. For your life, and for everyone else’s. I learned that the hard way. But maybe, just maybe, if we teach the next generation with more urgency, more realism, and more compassion, they won’t have to.