“My friend is dead.” Those are four words I never thought I would have to say at just 16. I was in California, enjoying fall break like any other teen, when I woke up one morning and logged onto Instagram. That’s when I saw it. All my friends were posting about Kyler. Kyler Gatica was his name. He was a smart, bright, and funny student, as well as an incredible friend. We worked together at Nashville Shores; I was a lifeguard, and he was a retail associate. I would see him every morning before our shifts, and we would talk and laugh after work. We also had a class together at school and were getting closer as friends. But on his way back from Florida, Kyler’s life ended in an instant. Another driver, distracted by a phone and going over 80 miles per hour in a traffic standstill, slammed into his family’s car while he was in the backseat. Everything changed that night, for his family, for his friends, and for me.

That is what impaired driving means to me. It is not a phrase you just read and move on from in a driver’s education textbook. It meant I had to sit next to his empty seat in class. Conversations that never finished or even started are still in my head. Now, hearing his voice through the few videos I have of him, and memories of laughter turned into grief. People misinterpret the phrase "impaired driving”, even after taking a driver’s education class, because they think it only refers to drinking or using drugs behind the wheel. I used to think the same thing. Impairment comes in many forms: drinking, doing drugs, texting, tiredness, anything that would distract you from focusing on the road.

 Kyler’s death proved that. I knew the risks of distracted driving way before Kyler’s death. I was involved in two car crashes myself; luckily, neither I nor my parents were injured. The first incident happened when I was five. My mom and I were at a red light when a teenager texting caused a four-car pileup. Fortunately, since we were ahead of the pileup, we were not affected as badly. I can still remember what the teenager looked like in the back of my mind. He could not have been more than about 16 or 17, and I remember seeing his bloody face from hitting it on the steering wheel. Seeing how distracted driving can turn into injuries made a long-lasting impact on me that I still hold onto to this day. The second incident occurred when I was eight, on the way to my brother’s high school graduation. My dad was driving his car with my mom beside him and me sitting in the center of the back seat. Unexpectedly, a woman came flying down a hill and crashed straight into the back of our car when we were at a red light. 

The impact and the fear I felt in that moment stuck with me. The lady checked to make sure I was ok, but I remembered I just stared at her, I was eight. I had no idea what to say to her. My personal experience, and losing Kyler, shifted my view of what I thought impaired driving means. It is not just about putting yourself at risk, it is also about the potential risk factor you cause for others on the road. Alcohol affects your reaction time. Drugs affect your judgement. Fatigue makes you less aware of your surroundings. Texting takes your eyes off the road, even if it is for a split second, and it can cause someone’s death. 

Every impairment causes a driver to make decisions that put everyone’s life at risk, and all of these can be prevented. Driving education and traffic school are designed to address these issues, but they primarily focus on memorizing road signs and avoiding crossing over the yellow lines. You take a quick test, and suddenly you can drive. What can make them more effective is to show the reality of what making bad decisions can look like. Sharing real stories like Kyler, bringing in survivors or their families, or providing students with the ability to demonstrate what driving while impaired feels like safely. These methods could broaden people's perspectives and actually help keep them safe. Facts and laws are implemented, but real stories can increase the chances of people understanding the detrimental impact of this issue, especially among teens who often think they are invincible. 

Each impairment means another driver who cannot make safe choices, which can cause another preventable tragedy. My personal role starts with the choices I make. I pledge not to text and drive, not to let distractions on the road affect me, and not to put my life or the lives of others in danger. I see myself as someone who influences others. If my story about Kyler, or about the crashes I was involved in as a child, makes even one person think twice before picking up their phone while driving, then I have made a difference. Doing the right thing does not always mean making big gestures; sometimes it is about the small decisions that can be the difference between you and others on the road, making it home that day. As I prepare for college and follow my aspiration of becoming a trauma surgeon, I carry these lessons with me. I want to save lives in the hospital, but I also want to save lives from being taken on the road. Kyler’s story, my childhood experiences, and my realization of impaired driving will continue to shape the way I live and to set a good example for others. Kyler may not be here physically, but his memory motivates me to live cautiously and to speak up. Every time I am behind the wheel, I remember Kyler. That is what impaired driving means to me, and I will never let it be misconceived again.