Impaired driving to me means so much more than just a simple definition from a driver’s manual. Like ambulance lights, a memory flashes, causing a tightening in my chest — a reminder of the phone call no family ever wants to receive. It means a driver made a decision without their full mind, full heart or without the empathy of others it means alcohol, drugs, distractions, even lip gloss or worst the feeling of exhaustion taking over the wheel instead of responsibility and care but as a young Black woman, I have also learned that impaired driving carries a different weight in my community. It is not just a statistic or a thought that people often push to the back of their minds; it’s a story we know too well. This story steals innocent lives, interrupts dreams, and leaves families grieving in a way that doesn’t fade, but sustains.

People misunderstand impaired driving because they treat it like a lesson they only need to pass once. Even after driver’s education, some drivers believe, “I’m okay,” or “I’ve only had a little,” or “I need to answer this super quick” They convince themselves that nothing bad will happen, and that those driving around them will know to be “more careful” as if tragedy doesn’t strike quickly and visits careless people behind the wheel but in Black families, the reality often looks so much different. We grow up hearing stories of cousins, classmates, and neighbors whose lives ended because someone underestimated their impairment or overestimated their driving ability. We must be careful in ways the world doesn’t always teach everyone else, because danger finds us more often and people forgive us more slowly. Alcohol remains one of the biggest causes of impairment reaction time, affecting vision and control but most of all judgment. Drugs, whether recreational or misused medications, can distort thinking and slow down movement. Texting while driving has become its own epidemic, we always hear the phrase “don’t text and drive” until your boyfriend is telling you exciting news about his new job. Phones light up, music skips, group chats go crazy, and teens feel like they must respond instantly. Exhaustion can make a driver just as impaired as if they had been drinking. It is especially common in Black families where parents work multiple jobs, teenagers help care for siblings, and everyone pushes through fatigue because rest sometimes feels like a luxury rather than a given, but none of those facts prepared me for losing my cousin.

There is a moment I will never forget — it when someone told me he was gone. It was like the whole world paused and tilted and death knocked on my door and left not a single trace. He wasn’t just “a victim of impaired driving.” He was my cousin, someone who laughed loud, loved playing piano and spending time with his family and friends. He didn’t deserve to have his life ended because someone else made a thoughtless choice. It didn’t feel real at first, and it didn’t make much sense. Then the grief settled in, heavy and sharp, reminding us with every family gathering that his chair would always be empty Losing him changed me it changed my family it changed the way we move, the way we pray, the way we look at each other before someone gets in a car because we are Black, the pain carried history stories of young Black men taken too soon, families forced to grieve while trying to stay strong for one another. That loss didn’t just shape how I think about impaired driving; it shaped who I am. It made safety feel less like a suggestion and more like a responsibility I owe to everyone who loves me. That is why driver’s education matters so much, but not the kind where someone just reads a booklet or watches a video. The most effective programs are the ones that touch you emotionally. The ones who don’t shy away from the truth. The ones that show real families like mine who have lived through the aftermath. Programs that include stories, speakers, and simulations create a level of awareness that simple instruction cannot. They help young drivers understand that cars are not just machines; they hold lives inside them. They help students imagine the consequences before they ever face them in real life. When instructors tell the full story including how impaired driving affects communities of color, creates cycles of trauma, and destroys futures—it hits differently. It becomes personal. It becomes urgent. And it becomes unforgettable.

My role in preventing impaired driving begins with the story I carry. I have seen what impaired driving steals, and I refuse to be silent about it. When others make risky choices, I speak up, even if it feels uncomfortable. I will not accept rides from drivers who appear tired, distracted, or impaired. I encourage my friends to make safe plans to call for a ride, to stay where they are, to give up the keys instead of taking a chance. It’s important that young people understand that protecting their life is strength, not fear. As a young Black woman, I know that the world is already full of risks I cannot control. But impaired driving is one danger we can prevent—by choosing better, by caring harder, and by valuing each other’s lives enough to speak up. My cousin’s story will always be a part of me. I choose to use it as fuel to protect the surrounding people.

Impaired driving is preventable. Education can open eyes and change hearts and  I will play my part—not just for myself, but for my family, for my community, and for the cousin whose story did not have to end the way it did.