Beyond Survival: The Responsibility of Driving

The first time I drove a car, I wasn’t supposed to. It wasn’t part of a structured lesson or driver’s ed class—it was a necessity. At the time, my family was in survival mode. My mother had moved out when I was 14, leaving my sister and me to navigate life on our own, without the safety net of adults to guide us. We tried to hold things together, finding jobs to cover rent, but eventually, we couldn’t keep up. We became homeless, bouncing between places to sleep, never certain of what came next. When you don’t have stability, you do what you must to get by. For my family, that included driving—whether or not we had the proper training or a license.

My sister was given a car before she had a license, and my family didn’t hesitate to let me drive, either. No one thought much about it. It wasn’t that we didn’t care about safety—it was that survival came first. Having a car meant getting to work, getting to school, running errands, and making life a little easier. The details—licenses, insurance, formal training—were secondary. The weight of responsibility was rarely discussed. When I moved in with my godparents to gain more stability, that mindset shifted. One weekend, they caught me driving without a license, and for the first time, I realized just how much I had taken for granted.

Unlike my family, they saw driving as a privilege, a serious responsibility—one that had life-and-death consequences. Instead of simply punishing me, they made me understand. They enrolled me in driver safety courses and victim impact sessions, experiences that completely shifted my perspective. Sitting in a room with people who had lost loved ones to car accidents made me realize something painful: I had never truly thought about the consequences of driving before. I had been conditioned to believe that driving was just something people in my family did—not a skill requiring serious responsibility. I listened to mothers, fathers, and siblings talk about the empty chairs at their dinner tables. I learned about distracted driving, reaction times, and how a moment of overconfidence could end in tragedy.

The scariest part? I saw myself in their stories. I had driven while scrolling for a song. I had driven without understanding how braking distances change in bad weather. I had driven without thinking about what a car, at full speed, could do to a human body. For the first time, I understood that driving isn’t just a convenience—it’s a responsibility that can mean the difference between life and death.

Before my driver’s education courses, I assumed that safe driving was just about following the rules—staying under the speed limit, using turn signals, stopping at red lights. But I quickly realized that education is what fills in the gaps that experience alone cannot. I learned about the science of reaction time and how even a one-second delay can be deadly. I understood why new drivers, even those who feel confident, are at the highest risk of making critical errors. And I grasped the importance of defensive driving—anticipating other people’s mistakes before they happen. Driver education isn’t just useful—it’s life-saving. Without these lessons, I would have continued making the same careless mistakes, unaware of the real danger.

Even though I love being on my phone, I now realize that there is no message, no song, no notification worth a life. I’ve changed the way I drive, relying on hands-free technology when absolutely necessary and making sure my focus stays on the road. But beyond my own habits, I feel a responsibility to change the culture of driving in my family. When I see my sister or friends driving while distracted, I call it out. I remind them of the stories I heard in my victim impact sessions. I don’t just tell them to drive safer—I explain why it matters.

I also want to advocate for wider accessibility to driver education. Many communities, especially low-income ones, don’t have the same level of access to formal driving instruction. In addition, many low-income families, like mine, don’t prioritize formal driver’s education because it’s expensive or inaccessible. If I had never been caught driving without a license, I might never have received proper training. That’s a systemic issue, not just a personal one. Education is the most effective tool we have to reduce traffic-related deaths, but it’s not just about making driver’s education available—it’s about making it more accessible, engaging, and mandatory for all new drivers. Providing free classes in underserved communities would ensure that everyone has the same foundation of knowledge before getting behind the wheel. In addition, hearing real stories about car accidents changed my perspective, and I believe every new driver should have to listen to survivors and their families. It would humanize the risks of reckless driving in a way statistics alone never could.

There is also an opportunity to leverage technology to prevent distracted driving. I now use hands-free voice commands and focus mode to reduce distractions. Schools and driving programs should encourage safe driving apps that block notifications and auto-respond to texts while driving. More importantly, unsafe driving habits often start at home. If parents and older siblings model reckless behavior, younger drivers will mimic them. Communities need more programs that engage entire families in conversations about safe driving.

For too long, I saw driving as just another skill to pick up—not as a responsibility that can change lives in an instant. Driver education changed that for me, and I believe it’s the key to making roads safer for everyone. The truth is, we will never eliminate every risk. But by making sure every driver is properly educated, aware of their blind spots, and willing to take driving seriously, we can drastically reduce accidents and prevent tragedies before they happen.

I used to drive because I needed to. Now, I drive because I’m ready.