What I Carry Now

It was 4th grade when I first met Micah. I moved from California to a new relatively large school district in Minnetonka. I struggled to fit in, often resorting to simply skipping lunch or counting the wood chips during recess. It’s funny because I don’t even remember how he had walked into my life now, but one day we had just become friends, my first one. Despite all my ups and down throughout school, Micah was a constant in my life, a ray of light that was always a text away. He loved old music: Springsteen, Fleetwood Mac, The Police, and always had some witty comeback ready. He was the kind of friend you thought you’d have at your wedding one day. The kind that would be by your side on your deathbed as you we laughed about how we used to steal jolly ranchers from our 5th grade classroom. I think he had this rare kind of goodness that made people feel safe around him.

And then I killed him.

I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t reckless. I wasn’t even distracted. I was just behind the wheel when another car ran the red light and struck my car on the passenger’s side.

He died instantly.

The police told me I did everything right: I wasn’t distracted or speeding, nor did I break any laws. But it’s hard to believe that when your best friend is reduced to a funeral slideshow.

Let me tell you something: everyone who causes an accident says the same thing: I didn’t see them. I thought I had time. It was only a second that I looked away, because I’ve heard first hand. The goal of this essay isn’t to blame the driver, but to try to emphasize that it’s not enough to memorize signs or practice parallel parking. We need to teach presence. Accountability. Empathy. Because people don’t understand what’s really at stake. Driver education is often treated like a chore, reduced to a checklist: parallel parking, highway merging, traffic signs. But it should be more than that, because you’re not just learning how to maneuver a vehicle—you’re learning how to protect life, you’re learning how to predict human error, you’re learning how a moment’s distraction could shatter a family’s world. It’s not enough to simply show statistics, to explain the risks, to reduce tragedy to a multiple choice question.

Reducing driving-related deaths require more than 50 hours that teenagers will often sleep through, it requires teaching teenagers that the road does not give second chances. I will admit how to accomplish such a task is tricky. There is no driving test or essay that can suddenly make people realize the importance of safe driving. Public safety campaigns and stricter enforcement help, yes. But true change happens in private moments—when someone decides to call a friend for a ride instead of driving drunk, or when a teen puts their phone in the glovebox because they understand that no text is worth a life, and such moments might be impossible to teach in a classroom environment, but there are real practical steps we can all make.

First, we must slow down. We need to drive like every person on the road is someone we care about, because every person on the road is someone someone cares about. We must make eye contact at intersections, signal our intentions clearly, and let go of momentary anger. We must treat every drive like our life is at stake, because it is. Too often do we glorify the aggressive driver, the culture of speeding, or the supposed coolness of multitasking behind the wheel. We should celebrate the calm driver, the one who yields, who waits, who cares. Second, we must speak up. If a friend is driving distractedly, say something. If a family member shrugs off speeding, challenge them. We’ve all seen friends and family members drive irresponsibly. The quick glance at a text, the rolling stop at a sign, the casual joke about speeding and not getting caught. It might feel awkward at the time, but we must speak up like lives are at stake, because it could save a life. Finally, we must lead by example. Our friends are always watching. The car behind you is always watching. If we model patience, caution, and respect for the road, we can create a ripple effect that extends far beyond our own lives.

As for myself, I want to go beyond just following traffic laws. I’ve been pursuing research in computer vision, a field very applicable to improving car safety systems. Specifically, I’ve looked into using Spiked Neural Networks, a different type of neural network that mimics the human brain that is more precise and accurate, especially in reacting to information as it takes in information with spikes, where saving even a tenth of a second can save a life on the road. I’m currently working on finding a more efficient way to train such networks, particularly with the use of genetic algorithms such as something called HyperNEAT that models natural selection. I hope to further pursue this in college with more resources and guidance.

I think in a lot of ways, behind the wheel, we are all gods with fragile hands. To hold so much power, to be able to take one’s life in a moment, to rip away a human life from this world. Driving isn’t just something you do, it’s something sacred.

I did everything right that night—but someone else didn’t, and now I live with the consequence. And while I know, deep down, that it wasn’t my fault, I will never stop wishing it had been me instead. Grief lives in the quiet. It lives in the passenger seat. It lives in the empty playlists and the routes I don’t drive anymore. But it also lives in purpose. In change. In remembering.

We move through this world so quickly, always rushing, always multitasking. But the road doesn’t care about our hurry. So I ask, I beg, just slow down. Pay attention. Drive without the arrogance of invincibility. Drive like the person beside you is everything to someone else—because they are. Drive like it’s the last trip you’ll ever take, and you want to get everyone home.

Micah didn’t deserve to die. He deserved college, and road trips, and awkward dance moves at his wedding. He deserved to be called “dad” one day. He deserved the mundane parts of life: the taxes, the errands, the slow mornings and the quiet dinners. All of it.

And now I will spend the rest of my life with his memory in my rear view mirror.