Four Pepperdine students were killed on the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu when a 22-year-old, reportedly speeding and driving recklessly, lost control and struck them while they stood near parked cars. It was a well-publicized case, but for those who loved them, it wasn’t a headline; it was heartbreak. They were my age. They were supposed to come home for Thanksgiving. I still remember the shock of hearing the news. It made me rethink every time I grabbed my keys. That crash didn’t just take their lives; it changed mine.

To me, impaired driving means getting behind the wheel when your mind, body, or emotions aren’t fully in control. It’s not just about alcohol or drugs. It’s about distraction, fatigue, stress, overconfidence, and ignorance. It’s about those quiet, everyday decisions, the “I’m fine” or “It’s just a short drive” moments, that can turn a car into something deadly. What makes impaired driving so dangerous is that it often feels harmless in the moment. That false confidence is what turns a normal drive into a life-changing tragedy.

Even people who have completed driver’s education or traffic school can misunderstand impairment. They may think it only applies to drunk driving or illegal substances. But impairment can come from a quick glance at a text, a sleepless night, emotional distress, or misplaced confidence. I’ve watched friends convince themselves they’re okay to drive when their reactions are clearly slowed, or their minds are distracted by stress. More than once, a quick “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” has made a friend hand over the keys. That’s why I’ve made it a habit to check in on people before they drive. A simple question can stop a dangerous decision.

The most common types of impairment today—alcohol, drugs, texting, and fatigue—are all dangerous in their own ways. Alcohol and drugs dull the senses and slow reaction time. Texting takes your eyes, hands, and mind off the road. Fatigue mimics intoxication, making drivers drift between lanes or miss warning signs. I’ve seen these risks firsthand, and they’ve pushed me to practice defensive driving: reviewing routes ahead of time, keeping a wide buffer between cars, and expecting the unexpected. Safe driving isn’t just about what I do; it’s about anticipating what impaired or distracted drivers around me might do.

My commitment to preventing impaired driving isn’t theoretical. It’s something I practice every day. I’m the friend who plans designated drivers before group outings, who offers rides without hesitation, and who speaks up when someone reaches for their keys after a long night or a long shift. It’s awkward sometimes. I’ve gotten eye rolls when I tell a friend not to drive. But I’d rather deal with that than stay silent because silence can be deadly. I’ve had conversations that felt uncomfortable in the moment but prevented a risky drive that could have ended in tragedy. Taking initiative matters, and I’ve learned that leadership often looks like stepping in when others hesitate.

I’ve worked hard to become a role model in my community, not just through personal habits, but through tangible, measurable action. As a member of my high school’s Principal’s Advisory Board, I led the initiative to install vape sensors across campus. More than enforcing rules, this program was about reducing substance use that could lead to impaired decision-making, both on and off the road. Classmates who once struggled with vaping have told me that the sensors and the conversations around them helped them make safer choices before getting behind the wheel. That’s why I’m proud of it.

I also teach e-bike safety classes through Emerald Keepers, a nonprofit in my hometown of Coronado, California. With e-bikes becoming the dominant mode of transportation for many teens, I saw the rising pattern of unsafe behavior: speeding through intersections, riding distracted, ignoring signs, and acting as if riding a motorized bike doesn’t require responsibility. To me, these behaviors mirror impaired driving. Shifting young riders’ perceptions now, before they earn a driver’s license, is critical. After class, students have told me things like, “I never thought about stop signs on my e-bike before.” Those moments show me the lessons stick, not just for bikes, but for driving too.

That’s why I’ve made safe driving part of my everyday life. Whether it’s planning designated drivers, checking in on friends, offering rides, or teaching safety, I try to reduce unsafe behavior long before the ignition turns on. I believe driver’s education and traffic school can expand this impact even further. The best programs don’t rely on memorizing rules; they use real stories, hands-on demonstrations, and honest conversations to shift attitudes. They help young drivers recognize impairment in themselves and others, plan, and understand that safe driving is a community responsibility, not just an individual one.

I’ve taken those lessons to heart. When friends joke about driving tired or try to brush off distraction, I intervene. I’ve shared the Pepperdine story during school assemblies and on social media, not to frighten, but to humanize the consequences of impaired driving. A single reckless moment can ripple through families and communities forever. I don’t want any of my peers to learn that the hard way.

Being “in the driver’s seat” means more than steering a car. It means taking control of your choices, your safety, and your impact on others. It means knowing when not to drive. It means speaking up, even when it’s uncomfortable. It means honoring those we’ve lost by doing better.

I can’t bring the Pepperdine students back, but I can make sure their story isn’t just another statistic. I can be the driver and leader who helps others make safer decisions, and I look forward to effectuating that change now and in the future.