Blinker in the Dark: How a Near‑Miss, a Miley Cyrus Concert, and a Minivan Full of Family Turned Me Into a Safer Driver Advocate

I was twelve the night we left Columbus, Ohio, after the only concert I’ve ever been to still to this day, Miley Cyrus, neon lights, scratchy merch T‑shirts, my voice shot from singing. My nana’s old minivan was stuffed with my cousins still in our costumes and snack wrappers as we headed back to Pikeville, Kentucky. It was late, highway dark. I remember the soft thump of tires, someone half‑asleep humming, and then a sudden change in the air, grown‑up voices snapping from relaxed to panicked. Headlights were sliding across the center line toward us. An eighteen‑wheeler was drifting into our lane. I didn’t yet understand lane positioning or closing speeds, but fear has a sound, and I heard it in every adult in that van. Nana yanked the wheel; we missed the truck. The van went quiet except for the blinker ticking way too fast. I didn’t sleep the rest of the ride. That was the night I learned that driving is unforgiving, and that paying attention saves lives.

The Driver Education Initiative Award, In the Driver’s Seat annual scholarship asks us to talk about teen driver safety and the role education can play. I’m glad it does, because where I’m from, driving isn’t optional. In rural Eastern Kentucky, if you want to get to school, work, church, or the grocery store, you drive winding two‑lane roads carved into hillsides. When something goes wrong out there, help can be a long way off. Motor vehicle crashes are consistently one of the leading causes of death for teenagers in the United States, and each life lost is not just a statistic, it’s an empty seat in a classroom, a jersey never worn again, a family forever changed. That makes teen driver safety a public health issue, not just a personal one. Communities carry the costs: emergency response time, medical bills, rehab, mental health strain, lost futures.

So where does driver’s education fit in? A real driver’s ed program does more than teach how to parallel park. It builds a mindset: I am responsible for my passengers, for people in other vehicles, for the kid chasing a basketball into the road. Good programs pair classroom learning with supervised miles, hazard recognition practice, and honest conversation about risk. In states with graduated licensing, driver’s ed can help families actually follow the permit‑to‑provisional steps instead of rushing to “full freedom.” I’d love to see rural‑specific content added, blind hills, narrow shoulders, farm equipment, big coal and logging trucks with wide swing turns, and the fog that settles in the hollers at dawn.

The hardest part, though, is what happens once teens are out there without an instructor. The biggest challenges I see fall into a handful of buckets. First, distractions, phones pinging, music scrolling, someone filming a TikTok in the passenger seat. It only takes a second of looking away, and that semi becomes our semi. Second, peer pressure. Nobody wants to be “the boring driver,” so people speed, roll through stops, or skip the seat belt because their friends did. Third, inexperience. A brand‑new driver hasn’t yet felt what black ice does or how fast a curve tightens on a mountain road. Fourth, fatigue. Between school, sports, jobs, and (being honest) late‑night scrolling, a lot of teens drive exhausted, and tired brains miss cues. Finally, old cars with fewer safety features are common in rural, lower‑income areas; teens often inherit the family vehicle least equipped to forgive mistakes.

How do we beat those? Practice and planning help. Phones go in the console or glove box before shifting into drive. Set music and navigation while parked. Make a pre‑drive rule: “If you ride with me, you buckle before I move.” Build driving time in all weathers with a trusted adult while you still have a permit. Rotate who drives after late events so no one is always behind the wheel sleepy. And speak up, embarrassing a friend for unsafe behavior is better than attending their funeral.

My own habits grew from two places: that near‑miss with the semi and my current job as a nurse assistant in an ICU. I’ve stood beside beds where crash survivors fight ventilators, watched families grip the rails, and heard the questions that start with “What happened?” and end with “We only looked away for a second.” Those rooms replay the sound of my nana’s blinker in my head. Now, when I drive younger cousins, we do what I call the “Click‑Check”: no one’s phone in hand, everyone buckled, eyes on the road. If I’m tired, I pull over. If a friend’s been drinking, I take the keys or call a ride. I’d rather be annoying than absent.

We teens can lead the change. Start group chats where friends brag about safe‑mile streaks instead of risky snaps. Post “I’m driving, text you later” auto‑responses. Trade keys if you’re too tired. Schools can double down by weaving real local crash stories into health class, hosting parent‑teen driving nights, and inviting trauma nurses, law enforcement, and truck drivers to talk about what they see. Give students-controlled environment practice, skid car demos, impaired‑driving goggles, even low‑tech obstacle courses in the school lot. Communities can back this up with well‑marked rural roads, rumble strips on high‑crash curves, enforcement of nighttime and passenger limits for new drivers, and free safety check events to help families keep older cars roadworthy. Positive reinforcement works too: local police handing out “caught you buckled” coupons for free pizza travels fast through a high school.

I think often about the version of my life where my nana didn’t react in time. No college, no chance to become the physician I hope to be for my hometown, no future scholarship essays. One tired truck driver and one distracted moment could have erased all of it. That’s why teen driver safety matters to me. If sharing my story keeps even one teen from picking up their phone at 60 miles an hour, it’s worth every word.

Let’s keep our blinkers clicking toward home, every passenger singing, every seat belt clicked, every future still wide open.