He reached into his console for his cigarettes. That one choice, to lean down at the wrong time, would take his life and give one of his daughters permanent brain damage. That daughter, freshly forty-three years old, is my mom. 

When I started driving at 15, my mother always reminded me: any choice you make while driving could be the one to kill you. Whether it be to stay on the road while fatigued, glance at my friend in the passenger seat, or eat my Double Decker from Taco Bell. 

It isn’t uncommon for me to see a man stubbing a cigarette out of the window of his car, flickers of light fading into ash. Even if he didn’t reach down into his console to get it, there’s still a danger: long-term nicotine use slows reaction times, increases feelings of invincibility, and decreases one’s ability to concentrate. One time, I pointed it out to a friend. She laughed at me: “He’s just smoking, it’s not that bad.” That’s what most people don’t realize about driving. The energy spent holding a cigarette, even just lifting it to his mouth, is energy taken from his focus on the road. 

Furthermore, it’s not the typical drugs we’re warned about, like nicotine or cannabis or alcohol -- it’s dopamine. Most kids in my classes listen to music while they work or even watch movies. Our society is so fast-paced that almost nothing we do is singular: we’re always multi-tasking or task-switching. It’s become so normalized that scientists have found that task-switching now gives us short-term dopamine hits. And the more often we do it, the more we get addicted, letting that short hit control every aspect of our lives. So when we drive, we find other actions to take: drinking, day-dreaming, texting -- if only to light up a neuron connector in our brains. Each time a student picks up their phone, even just to check the notifications on their home screen, they get that hit: a hit they’ll chase again, over and over again. 

The busy nature of our society also empowers risky driving: we think we have to get places fast. So fast, in fact, we might run a red that just turned or speed, both of which increase danger on the road. I live in a rural area, and on backroads where the speed limit is 30, trucks are always bustling by at 60 miles per hour. I’ve seen cars hastily swerve around hogs, narrowly avoiding a crash while I grit my teeth and hit my breaks, more times than I can count. 

When I drive, I think of the scar on my mother’s temple. I think of her chronic headaches, the aphasia that impedes on her ability to verbalize -- and I’m reminded that her father’s action, to reach for his cigarettes, didn’t just affect him, or even just the passengers in his car. The way someone drives can be either an assurance or a threat to everyone on the road. The choices one man makes can transcend generations. 

A week ago, after a hard turn, my phone slipped into the crack between my center console and seat. Instinctively, I reached down. But my hand stopped halfway, because I remembered: “Any choice you make can be the one.” So I clutched the wheel and drove home, where I subsequently dug my phone out once I was parked.

Fundamentally, we need to slow down. To practice patient, focused dedication on tasks -- that pattern of practice helps shift the way we think about and participate in driving. We need to think of safety not as a burden, but as an act of respect to others. My driver’s ed instructor always told our class to think of driving as a job, an obligation, or a duty. Not fulfilling it to complete capacity would get us “fired,” as he put it. Even the way he spoke was measured and deliberate -- setting the pace at which we ought to operate. 

Now, if I’m taking a call from work or my debate coach, I always pull over. I slow down, even when I’d rather just get where I’m going. My mom didn’t choose to be a reminder -- and no one on the road chooses to be a victim of someone else’s actions. My friends call me paranoid -- they say, “It’s just 5 miles over the limit,” and “you’re such a stickler.” But I’ll always think about every choice I make, because a sip, a call, or a text, could change lives, for better or for worse.