I thought I was invincible. Not in a "jump off a roof" kind of way, but a "I can totally change songs while turning left through traffic at 5:15 PM" kind of way. I got my license at 16 like everyone else, took the little class, did some parallel parking practice in a rectangle made of cones, and automatically felt like I had it all figured out. I did not drive recklessly, just confidently. Maybe too confidently. I went up to the road as I went up to everything else in life: with a kind of artificial calmness, like it would all be fine if only I seemed cool enough.

And then I almost hit someone.

Not glamorous. No trip to the hospital, no screeching tires, no flipped cars. I was leaving the parking lot from drumline rehearsal, fiddling with my water bottle and half-aware of the exit. I was scanning for automobiles, not individuals. There was a student—one of those freshmen I had not yet met—running through the crosswalk, earbuds in his ears, hood up. I did not see him until I had already started rolling. He had to jump back. I hit the brakes hard. Our eyes locked for a half second—his wide open, mine likely wider—and then he just continued jogging.

I just sat there for a bit.

That incident unsettled me more than I would have anticipated. I didn't even move toward him, but the sight of him jumping out of the way stuck in my mind for days. I pictured having to tell someone why I'd injured someone—because I was being efficient, because I overestimated my ability to multitask, because I never thought it would occur to me. It scared me, not because I was afraid of getting myself into trouble, but because all of a sudden I understood that defensive driving wasn't a set of rules. It was an attitude. One that I had not had.

That shift stuck. It changed the way I looked at driving, definitely—but also the way I looked at being in charge of other human beings in general.

Driving, for some reason, is the first time in most teenagers' lives when you really have power over something so strong. A vehicle can take you to Sonic at 11:30 PM or to a college visit three hours away. It can ruin lives in less than one second. I once thought of driving as a ticket to freedom, and it is—but it's also a reminder that I don't live alone. My choices matter. They have consequences. That little boy sprinting through the crosswalk likely forgot he'd done so the next day, but I didn't. I couldn't. Because in that moment, my distraction nearly became his burden.

Since then, I've become a sort of safe driving evangelist, which is totally uncool but right. I will not allow my friends to drive quickly through neighborhood streets. I say to them, "Wait, just complete the text later," more times than anyone cares to hear. I'm the one who gets the music playing before we head out for our drive, and I have my phone set to Do Not Disturb for the amount of time that I'm behind the wheel.

This isn't because I am afraid 24/7. It's because I am conscious. There's a difference. Being conscious doesn't mean I believe something awful is going to happen at any moment—it simply means I am finally acknowledging that it might.

And I want my decisions to reflect that.

Defensive driving doesn't look cool. It doesn't earn you an award or get you likes. No one applauds because you waited for three seconds at the stop sign. But it's still important—maybe because no one is watching. It's about doing the right thing even when it is boring, even when you're late, even when you're going to "just check real fast really quick." It's about being someone who values someone else's life more than your own convenience. And, to be honest, that is the kind of person I wish to be, in the vehicle and out of the vehicle.

I think about that day in the parking lot every now and then. Not to scare myself, but to remind myself. I didn't cause a tragedy—but I could have. And the fact that "might" is enough to get me to do things differently now.

Because safe driving is not about fear.

It's about being kind.

Even when no one else is paying attention.