It only takes a second. One glance at a phone. One decision to push a yellow light. One time choosing music over mirrors. I’ve seen what those seconds can do.

When I was thirteen, I was in the backseat of my mother’s car when we were hit by a driver who was in a hurry to get to work. The impact wasn’t just metal against metal, it was trauma against memory. I still remember the screech, the vibrations of the glass, the silence after the sound. No one died, thankfully. But that moment changed everything for me. It was the day I realized that driving isn’t just a way to get somewhere, it’s a responsibility you owe to everyone around you.

A couple of years after that, two of my cousins were in a car accident. The cousin who was driving had just gotten his license. The other sat beside him, unconscious after the crash. I remember the moment we got the call. My heart dropped into a kind of stillness that I’ve never felt before. They were both rushed to the hospital, and the hours that followed were flled with a kind of fear I didn’t know I could carry, a fear that I wouldn’t get the chance to see them again, play with them again, gossip with them again. A fear that a moment of inexperience or distraction had shattered something forever. Thankfully, they survived. But the what-ifs still echo in my chest, my beating heart. That experience didn’t just remind me how fragile life is. It made me realize how quickly someone else’s mistake, or even their lack of readiness, can become someone else’s pain.


And it wasn’t just one incident. I began noticing how often I saw stories like this, on the news, in conversations, in hospital waiting rooms. Sometimes the person behind the wheel is young, overconfdent, and underprepared. Sometimes they’re tired after a long shift, or just one sip too far gone. But the result is always the same: someone hurts. Someone loses. Someone doesn't make it home. That pattern is not random. It’s preventable.


That’s why I believe driver education isn’t just important, it’s essential. It’s not about memorizing street signs. It’s about internalizing respect for the road, for others, and for human life. A quality driver’s ed program doesn’t just create licensed drivers. It creates people who care. People who care enough to know what it means to check a blind spot because they understand that a precious life could be hiding there. It teaches patience, presence, and above all, humility. Driving is not about control. It’s about the awareness of your actions, your surroundings, the people whose lives are aected by your decisions, and the consequences that can come about from them.
The truth is, we don’t talk enough about how personal driving is. We treat it like a rite of passage when really, it’s a test of character. Every time someone speeds through a school zone, checks a text while in motion, or drives under the infuence, they are gambling with someone else’s world. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve sat beside friends who’ve taken stupid risks and then watched the same friends swerve without a signal like they were the only ones on the road. And every time, I felt this silent panic: what if this is it? What if this is the one moment where everything goes wrong?

Driving is not just about you. It’s about the mother walking her toddler across a crosswalk. The elderly man making his way through an intersection. The teenager in the next lane trying to get home from practice. It’s about recognizing that behind every car is a story, and behind every wheel is someone’s child, someone’s parent, someone who deserves to make it safely to where they’re going. It’s about driving with the awareness that we are all temporary, and the road does not forgive carelessness.

To reduce deaths from driving, we need cultural change. We need peer accountability.

We need conversations in classrooms and households that say: “You’re not just a driver.

You’re a person with the power to save and prevent the loss of lives.”

For me, the frst step is leading by example. I commit to being the kind of driver I’d want behind the wheel if my little sister was crossing the street. I commit to speaking up when friends drive distracted. I commit to educating younger students about driving safely, because fear doesn’t teach, but stories do. And I have one. A story stitched together with glass shards, sirens, and silence, and the overwhelming relief of getting to say “they made it.”


This scholarship isn’t just money toward college. It’s a microphone. It’s a chance to share the message that safe driving isn’t optional, it’s personal. It's not about getting somewhere faster. It’s about making sure everyone gets there at all.

Because behind every wheel is a life. And I intend to protect it, with both hands, ten and two.