When you're young, driving seems like a distant dream, a freedom that feels so simple, so easy. We don’t yet understand why we have to wait so long—sixteen in New Jersey, to be exact—to do what our parents only seem to complain about. It seems to be the one thing she insists is a challenge that no one could truly prepare for. I certainly didn’t. I sat in the back of my mom’s "Mom Mobile," a 2015 Dodge Durango, gliding through the streets of our small world, staring out of the window, questioning everything in sight. I’d never been in a serious car accident—just one minor fender bender, where I witnessed a confused older man backing into our car as we were halfway out of the parking spot, a screech of tires followed by a string of words from my mom that would make any sailor blush. But I never thought about the aftermath, the invisible scars left by such moments. The long-term effects that accidents can cause—not only physically but mentally, too.
Fast forward eight years, and now I find myself in driver’s education. Finally out of gym class, a new, less sweaty chapter begins. My teacher shared with us the New Jersey driver's manual and the countless tips he’d accumulated over the years. From the law to his funniest driving stories, we discussed it all. I passed the written driving test, received a blue sheet of paper, permitting me to do my six hours. I didn’t realize the most important lesson was one I’d yet to learn: defensive driving. It was something that we had spoken about in class, but its true value was something undiscovered to me until I hit the road on my own.
Throughout those six hours of practice driving, my family always told me, “It’s not that we don’t trust you; it’s that we don’t trust everyone else.” I was the high-achieving student, the one who excelled academically and thrived in extracurriculars. The thought that my parents didn’t trust me behind the wheel was a hard pill to swallow. But within weeks of driving in New Jersey, I quickly realized why. New Jersey drivers are notoriously aggressive—and, trust me, that’s no myth.
Every day, I step into my white 2021 Honda Civic, or "Princess" for short. I open the door, and it's like entering another world. With the cold air rushing in, I settle into the sleek black leather seats. I press the lock button, and just like that, the unpredictability of the road looms ahead. The drivers around me are as unpredictable as the weather, and I know that uncertainty is the only thing I can count on in New Jersey. I press the brake with my right foot, the push start button with my right hand, and just like that, the car hums to life. In the dead of winter, I turn the heat up high and fire up the seat warmers. I plug my phone into the car, launching Apple CarPlay, as my Spotify loads. The familiar beat of my playlist fills the car, and I’m reminded of how lucky I am to have this freedom. It's a luxury, an experience I’m fortunate to have, but there’s a subtle anxiety that settles within me as the engine roars. In the quiet moments, the reality of what I’m doing settles in: I’m driving a machine capable of taking lives. At seventeen, this knowledge often makes me pause. It’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly, even if it sometimes feels surreal.
I've heard countless news stories shared in hushed tones by friends and family. But the one that stays with me the most is my mom’s. She was about thirteen years old when she and my aunt were riding in the back seat of my grandma’s Volkswagen Jetta. They were hit from behind and then crashed into a pole near a local McDonald's. The driver, distracted by his friends, couldn’t focus—and that moment, that careless decision, changed everything. The damage was immeasurable, but what’s even worse is that the driver walked away without a scratch. My grandma, a fairly new immigrant who barely spoke the language, didn’t press charges. She was too frightened, too unsure of what to do. But my family—my mom, my aunt, and my grandma—suffered the consequences. My grandma lives every day with the trauma of car wrecks and drives extremely cautiously. My mom still lives with permanent back damage, something that has haunted her for decades. I carry that story with me every time I’m behind the wheel, especially when I’m driving my friends around. I check to make sure everyone’s seatbelt is fastened, even if we're screaming out the lyrics to "Only" by Nicki Minaj or jamming to J. Cole’s “Crooked Smile.” I know that in my car, at least, I make it a priority to ensure that I am a safe driver—for my sake, the sake of my passengers, and the sake of everyone I am sharing the road with.
I refuse to become another statistic, another name added to the 34,000 lives claimed each year by distracted driving in the United States. New Jersey is making strides with its requirement of 50 hours of supervised driving, 10 of which must be done at night. But this is just the beginning. The real lesson for young drivers is not just learning the rules in a classroom; it’s in the hands-on practice, the real-life experience of being behind the wheel and learning how to protect ourselves and others.
Together, we can make every journey safer, every moment behind the wheel meaningful. The road is long, but it’s ours to navigate—let’s do so with responsibility, care, and the awareness that every decision, no matter how small, can make all the difference.