There’s a difference between knowing something and understanding it.
I knew that distracted driving was dangerous. My mom made sure of that. From the very first time I sat behind the wheel, she enforced strict rules: phone out of sight, hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. She didn’t just tell me—she made sure I followed through. My phone stayed tucked in the center console, and she even refused to let me glance at the big touchscreen on my dashboard. “I can skip the song for you, but the road doesn’t pause when you do,” she would tell me in stern Portuguese, her voice calm but firm.
At first, I followed the rules because she was there. It was easier to obey than to argue. But as I got more comfortable behind the wheel, I started to believe I had things under control. After all, I had been driving for months without issue. I had my white 2024 Subaru Impreza Rs, a car I was endlessly excited to have, and I had earned my license in May 2024—a year & a month after turning sixteen. I felt responsible, capable, and safe.
Then, one small decision shattered that illusion.
It was an ordinary afternoon, and I was driving on York Road, familiar as I had to take it every day to and from school. A red light told me unyieldingly to stop, a pause in motion. My phone buzzed. Without thinking, I reached for it. Just a quick glance—I figured I could quickly read the message, answer, and then go about my drive. But, in those few seconds, the light turned green and the driver behind me gave an impatient little “beep!” for me to go. I glanced up, then back down, my foot pressing the gas absentmindedly. My attention was only half on the road.
And then my car veered.
It happened so fast yet so slowly at the same time. One moment, I was moving forward as I always had; the next, I felt the pull to the right. My tires scraped the edge of the lane, and before I fully registered what was happening, I was dangerously close to another car. A split second later, I dropped my phone and yanked the wheel, my heart hammering in my chest as I forced my car back into place.
The other driver honked, a sharp, scolding sound that sent a wave of shame through me that didn’t come as deeply when I was stopped for too long at the light. But worse than the embarrassment was the realization that If I had been looking down for just a second longer, I could have crashed. I could have hurt myself. I could have hurt someone else. My insurance would go up like crazy.
After a little while longer of driving in silence, I pulled into the parking lot of the USPS I was headed to and sat for a moment, just breathing. My phone was still where I dropped it on the passenger seat, wormed into the crease and an inanimate witness to my mistake. I stared at it, breathing hard, feeling the weight of what had almost happened press down on me.
As she usually is, my mom had been right.
From that moment on, I vowed to never touch my phone while driving again. It wasn’t just about following the rules anymore—I understood the risk. The road is unpredictable, and distractions don’t come with warnings. A single second of inattention can change everything.
Now, when I drive, my phone stays in my bag, out of reach. I don’t even let myself glance at notifications. My focus is on the road, on the cars around me, on the responsibility that comes with being behind the wheel. And when my friends joke about texting at stoplights or scrolling at long red lights, I tell them what happened to me. Not to scare them, but to remind them that none of us are immune to distraction.
Driver education isn’t just about passing a test or knowing the rules—it’s about developing habits that keep us safe. It’s about realizing that no message, no notification, no moment of curiosity is worth the risk. My mom taught me that, and my own mistake reinforced it.
I was lucky. I got a second chance to learn the lesson without the consequence of a crash. But not everyone gets that second chance. And that’s why I keep my phone out of sight. That’s why I remind my friends. That’s why I drive with both hands on the wheel, sitting fully upright, and my full attention on the road.
Because I know better now. And because I never want to learn that lesson the hard way again.