When I was seven, I believed that driving was magic.

Not the kind with spells or sparkles, but something quieter. Something real. My favourite type of night was when my dad was driving, my mom humming to an old song, and my sister and I tucked into the backseat with our little MP3 players. I’d press my forehead to the window and blur my eyes until the streetlights stretched and shimmered like stars underwater. Every time another car passed us, I’d scream, “Go faster!” convinced we were in some race.

My parents laughed at first, but they were worried. They thought I’d grow up to drive like a maniac. I didn’t.

Now I have my G1. I’ve taken driver’s ed. I’m working toward my G2. And none of it feels like how I imagined it would. There’s no magic, no adrenaline rush. Driving feels quiet. It feels tense in a way that makes me pay attention. My fingers press tighter into the steering wheel than they probably should. My foot hovers over the brake just a second too long. And in those moments, I realize I don’t want to feel fast. I want to feel safe.

I don’t have a crazy movie-esque story for you. I’ve never been in a crash. I’ve never had a dramatic close call, flipped car, or red-light scare. What I do have is a memory of driving twenty kilometres an hour in the Cineplex parking lot while my dad sat in the passenger seat. He looked at me, smiled a little, and said, “You know you can go faster.” But I couldn’t. My heart was beating like I was in the final lap of a race.

That’s the part no one tells you about driving. You expect it to feel like a milestone, something exciting. But sometimes, it simply feels like a weight you don’t want to drop.

Every time I see a headline: “Teen dies in crash, Seventeen-year-old killed in rollover,” I stop. I read the article. I picture their name. Their car. The road. Their family. Then, I picture myself. I picture someone I love. Because it could be us. And the fact that it hasn’t been doesn’t make me feel powerful. It makes me feel lucky.

Driver’s ed was where I started to understand what being behind the wheel actually meant. It wasn’t the signs or the turns or the blind spot checks that stayed with me. It was the mindset. My instructor said that the best drivers aren’t the boldest ones. They’re the careful ones. The ones who expect that the car beside them might swerve. The ones who leave room for what they can’t control. That stuck with me. Driving is not about fear, but it is about respect. Respect for the road. For the people on it. For the fact that one second of distraction can change a hundred lives.

For many, being a teen driver means learning all this while pretending you already know what you’re doing. You sit in the driver’s seat while your friend laughs too loudly in the back, the music skips or your phone buzzes, and you’re expected to keep it all together. You don’t want to seem nervous. You don’t want to admit you’re still learning. But we are.

The truth is, we don’t need more lectures. We need space. Space to ask questions that feel obvious. Space to say, “Actually, this scares me a little.” And not be laughed at for it.

We need conversations that sound like us. Workshops that feel like hangouts. Stories that come from other teens, not just adults in uniforms. Because when we hear each other talk honestly about the little things, the parking lot moments, the too-tight grip on the wheel, the lessons stick.

And maybe most of all, we need to look out for each other. It’s easy to stay quiet when someone drives too fast. To not say anything when a ride doesn’t feel safe. But silence is not the same as safety. Saying something might feel awkward, but regret always feels worse.

Now, when I drive, I do not hear “Go faster.” I hear nothing. Just the road. Just my breath. Just this quiet reminder that getting there is enough. I don’t need to prove anything. I just need to pay attention.

It is not a race. It is a responsibility. And I am ready to carry it.