The sound of tires screeching isn’t something you forget. It’s sharp, unnatural, the kind that makes your chest tighten before your mind can catch up. I was twelve when I heard it outside our house one summer evening. A driver had drifted across the yellow line, distracted by a phone. He was lucky; no one was hurt. But that moment stuck with me, the realization that a split second of distraction could change everything.

To me, impaired driving means any time a driver’s judgment, focus, or reaction time is compromised by alcohol, drugs, exhaustion, or even a glance at a buzzing phone. It’s not just about being over the legal limit. It’s about being under the influence of anything that pulls your attention from the road. The danger is that many people, especially young drivers, don’t recognize those smaller forms of impairment as serious. They think, “I’m fine, it’s just a text.” But that overconfidence is often what causes the most harm.

Even among drivers who have completed education courses, impaired driving is still misunderstood because the lessons often stop at statistics. We hear, “Don’t drink and drive,” but rarely, “Don’t drive when you’re emotionally drained, when your eyes burn from studying, or when your group chat won’t stop lighting up.” Impairment isn’t just physical; it’s mental. Driver’s ed teaches rules of the road, it needs to teach the mindset of responsibility.

Today, distraction is the most common impairment I see among my peers. Phones, music, notifications, we live in a world that rewards divided attention. But behind the wheel, divided attention kills. Fatigue, too, is underestimated. Teen drivers especially try to “push through,” unaware that being awake for 18 hours can affect reaction time as much as alcohol. And of course, drugs and alcohol remain devastatingly common. Substances distort judgment, blur focus, and convince people they’re still in control when they’re not.

The near-miss outside my house years ago made me pay attention, but what truly changed my awareness came later, when I started coaching kids. I run a basketball training business called PelegHoops, and when I’m with my players, I’m responsible for their safety. If I’m tired, distracted, or even mentally somewhere else, they notice. Once, after a long day of school and work, I drove to practice exhausted. I caught myself zoning out at a light, the kind of moment that reminded me how easy it is to lose focus. That realization hit harder than any statistic; if I could slip, so could anyone.

Since then, I’ve been intentional about how I drive and how I talk about driving with others. I remind my teammates and friends that the most dangerous thing isn’t the long drive home after a party; it’s the short one, the one where you think, “I’m fine.” Because impaired driving doesn’t just end lives, it destroys trust, families, and futures.

Driver’s education and traffic safety programs can play a huge role in changing that culture. The most effective ones I’ve seen use more than lectures — they use stories, simulations, and emotion. A video of a crash victim’s family or a hands-on distracted-driving simulator sticks with students far longer than a quiz ever will. When education connects emotionally, it becomes memory, not just material.

These programs should also be ongoing, not one-time courses. Imagine if schools partnered with local police or hospitals once a year for real conversations, not punishments. Or if every student had to reflect — in writing or discussion — on how they’ve seen impairment affect their community. When students feel ownership over the issue, behavior starts to change.

As for me, my role in prevention starts small but matters. I refuse to drive distracted or tired, even if it means being late. I speak up when others reach for their phone or shrug off a “quick text.” I offer rides when someone shouldn’t drive, and I make it clear that safety isn’t negotiable. I also use what I’ve learned as a coach — lead by example. Younger kids watch what older ones do. When they see responsibility modeled, they internalize it.

Every time I drive, I remind myself of something simple: the road doesn’t belong to me alone. Every pedestrian, every driver, every kid in the backseat, they’re trusting me with their safety. That’s not pressure. It’s purpose.

If one person I know pauses before checking their phone at a stoplight or decides to hand over the keys after a party because of something I said, that’s one life potentially saved. And that’s worth everything.

Impaired driving isn’t just a headline or a statistic. It’s a chain reaction that starts with a single bad decision — and one that each of us has the power to stop.