It’s July 9, 2024, and the phone rings. I’d only ever had nightmares about situations like this. The picture of his car flipped over in a ditch is forever stained in my brain. The most painful part of it all is that had CJ not driven drunk that day, he would still be here. I miss him every day. I didn’t get behind the wheel for 15 months after CJ died, and when I did, I was terrified. I remember sitting in the driver’s seat for the first time again, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles were white, trying to calm the panic attack I could anticipate coming on. The same open road that once symbolized freedom now felt dangerous. 

Losing CJ changed my relationship with driving forever. Before his death, driving was fun and convenient. Afterward, I understood that driving is a great responsibility. Every decision we make behind the wheel can have life-altering consequences, not only for ourselves, but for our community members. The reality is that CJ’s choice to drink that night ended three lives including his, destroying families, and causing lifelong pain that rippled beyond our community. 

The days after CJ’s death were full of grief, anger, and confusion. He was 18. He wanted to go to college, he wanted to travel the world. He wanted to get married and have kids one day. He had his whole life ahead of him. I don’t think he was a bad person, I think he was a teenager who made a bad decision. We often think that tragedies like this happen to other people, because it’s so easy to depersonalize events like these until they happen to you. CJ’s death showed me that you never know when you’ll be front row at the funeral, but it also taught me that drinking and driving related deaths are preventable. Behind every statistic is a story, a person, and a community forever changed. 

In the months that followed, I observed my high school community’s response to this loss, and came to better understand how driving impaired can impact communities, and relationships. Counselors visited classrooms, my peers started talking openly about their experiences with addiction, and memorials were made for him in our local skateboard park. For the first time, I saw how one person’s actions behind the wheel could unite an entire community in grief, but also in determination to do better. Losing CJ shaped how I view responsibility, awareness, and prevention. I realized that when people understand the risks and consequences of their actions, they make safer choices. I want to be part of that change. 

Eventually, I started driving again. I taught my brother to drive, emphasizing safety on every trip. We talk openly about what happened to CJ, not because I want to scare him, but because I want him to understand that choices matter. At this time, I also started volunteering with a local organization that supports people battling addiction and houselessness, which were both experiences CJ had toward the end of his life. At first, I was doing it to honor his memory, but I stayed because I was learning about resilience and the importance of second chances from the people involved with this organization. Listening to their stories reminds me of CJ’s struggles, but they also offer hope that awareness, compassion, and education can save lives. 

Speaking openly and vulnerably about that night wasn’t just healing for me, it became a method of helping others to make safer decisions. I’ve learned that conversations about drinking, driving, and responsibility have to come from understanding, not judgement. When I share CJ’s story, people listen because it’s real, and personal. It serves as a reminder that a single decision can cause unimaginable ripples in others’ lives. 

When I got behind the wheel again, I promised myself that I would never take the privilege of driving for granted. I’ve also made it a point to be a reliable designated driver for my friends to ensure their safety. I’ve become the friend who speaks up, whether it means calling a ride, taking someone’s keys, or making an uncomfortable call. I vowed to intervene if anyone I knew ever planned to drive after drinking, because I would rather have an awkward conversation than lose someone I love again. 

CJ’s death will always weigh on me, but it has also given me purpose. It taught me the value of accountability, compassion, and prevention. I want to study psychology and work in community health education, focusing on prevention and behavioral change. I believe that if people understand why they take risks and the motivations behind their behavior, they can make better choices. One of my long term goals is to design prevention programs that blend education, empathy, and communication, especially for young people who are just learning how to drive. 

The Driver Education Initiative Award represents more than just financial support, it represents my commitment to honoring CJ’s memory by advocating for mindful drivers, and safe roads. It stands for awareness, responsibility, and community care. If I can help even one person to avoid making the same mistake CJ did that night, and if one person can be spared the phone call I got that night, then something good will have come out of the devastation. 

Every time I drive, I think of CJ. I check my mirrors, I slow down, I breathe. The road feels different, but so do I. What once symbolized fear now represents growth, purpose, and the chance to make a difference, one safe choice at a time.