When I think about “impaired driving,” my mind doesn’t go straight to the typical textbook definition. Instead, it goes to the complicated relationship I have with driving; a relationship shaped by epilepsy, medical restrictions, and a constant awareness that my brain is not always predictable. For me, impaired driving means more than making a reckless choice. It means understanding the responsibility of controlling a machine that can change lives in an instant. It means recognizing that impairment isn’t always intentional and that sometimes it comes from conditions completely outside a person’s control. Because of my seizures, I’ve always had to navigate driving with a level of caution that many people take for granted, and that perspective has made me hyperaware of what driving should require from all of us: honesty, responsibility, and respect for the lives around us.

I think impaired driving is misunderstood partly because people tend to narrow it down to just “drunk driving.” Even drivers who have completed driver’s education or sat through traffic school often believe impairment is only a problem when someone is heavily intoxicated or blatantly breaking the law. But impairment is much broader—it includes anything that limits your ability to react, think clearly, or safely operate a vehicle. For many people, impairment feels like something that happens to “other drivers,” especially ones who make obviously bad decisions. But in reality, impairment can creep in quietly: a buzzing phone, a restless night of sleep, a new medication, or even strong emotions. Because it isn’t always dramatic, people underestimate it. They forget that it doesn’t matter why you’re impaired, only that the impairment exists and can affect your ability to drive safely.

Among today’s drivers, the most common types of impairment are alcohol, drugs (including prescription and recreational), texting and other forms of distraction, and fatigue. Alcohol and drugs slow reaction times, weaken judgment, and create a dangerous sense of confidence. Texting pulls attention away from the road for long stretches of time. Fun fact, five seconds on your phone is enough time to travel the length of a football field without actually looking. Fatigue is equally dangerous, although people rarely treat it like a real risk. Drowsy driving can mimic the slowed reflexes of drunk driving, and in some cases, people even fall asleep at the wheel without realizing how exhausted they are. All of these impairments weaken a driver’s ability to process information quickly, make safe decisions, or respond to sudden changes—conditions that can easily lead to crashes, injuries, and deaths.

A story that shifted my perspective wasn’t just one I heard, it was my own. Living with epilepsy means I’ve gone through periods where driving wasn’t an option. Especially being diagnosed at 16; the prime age of which children learn to drive and navigate the road. When you have seizures, even the possibility of losing consciousness behind the wheel is terrifying. There’s this constant awareness that if something happened while driving, it wouldn’t just affect me—it could hurt someone else who had nothing to do with my condition. That reality changed the way I think about impaired driving forever. It made me realize how powerful—and fragile—the privilege of driving really is. When I get cleared to drive again after periods in which new drugs, episodes, and other factors make it unsafe to drive, I don't treat it lightly. I become the person who double-checks my sleep schedule, who avoids driving if I feel “off,” and who knows the responsibility that comes with being fully aware and in control. These experiences also make me less judgmental of certain impairments and more firm against preventable ones. I didn’t choose epilepsy, but someone can choose not to text, drink, or drive high. There’s a difference between uncontrollable impairment and reckless negligence.

Driver’s education and traffic school courses play a huge role in shifting attitudes about impaired driving because they expose students to information, scenarios, and consequences that most people don’t naturally think about. They emphasize real stories, statistics, and demonstrations, such as  reaction-time tests or videos of distracted driving crashes, that stick with people far longer than simple warnings do. Effective programmes help students recognize themselves in the examples. They move beyond “don’t drink and drive” lectures and into the emotional and psychological elements of driving: how overconfidence affects young drivers, how multitasking is a myth, and why even good people make dangerous choices. When training connects the risk to your own life, your own family, your own future, it becomes real.

Personally, I think I have a very clear role in preventing impaired driving because my situation forces me to think about safety differently. I know what it feels like to worry about losing control, and that makes me more intentional behind the wheel. My experiences allow me to speak openly about why it matters to only drive when you’re truly able. I can remind people that being impaired isn’t always dramatic; sometimes it’s subtle, and that’s exactly why it’s dangerous. Whether it’s encouraging friends to put their phones away, offering to drive when someone is tired, or being honest about my own limits, I can influence the people around me simply by modeling cautious, responsible behavior. Sharing my story also helps others understand that driving is not a right—it’s a privilege, one that can be taken away in an instant if it puts other people at risk.

Ultimately, impaired driving isn’t just a traffic issue—it’s a human responsibility. And my own experience with seizures has taught me that responsibility begins long before anyone starts the engine.