For a long time, I believed impaired driving was something distant; tragic, yes, but rare and tied mostly to people making obviously reckless choices like drinking before getting behind the wheel. I thought it was the kind of thing responsible families never had to worry about. To me now, “impaired driving” means any moment when a driver’s attention or ability is weakened, by alcohol, drugs, phones, fatigue, or even emotions. It’s misunderstood because many drivers assume impairment only counts if they physically feel out of control, like stumbling or slurring. Even people who’ve passed driver’s education can leave with the false belief that they’re “good enough” to multitask or fight sleep. That confidence, that tiny bit of arrogance is what makes impairment so dangerous.

I learned that the hard way when my younger brother Foster was rear-ended by a distracted driver while sitting at a stoplight. He was completely stopped, waiting patiently for the light to turn green, doing everything right. The man behind him wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t high. He wasn’t even speeding. He was just looking at his phone, one moment of distraction that carried the weight of a life-or-death decision.

The other car, a Dodge Charger, slammed into the back of his Scion so hard that the trunk caved in and the hatch became permanently sealed shut. The Charger’s front end folded like paper. The only reason my brother walked away from the crash was because the hitch on the back of his car absorbed most of the blow. I remember imagining what would have happened without that extra steel. That was the first time I felt that deep, crushing fear of almost losing someone who means everything to me.

My brother has grown up around machines, dirt bikes, four-wheelers, snowmobiles and he has always driven them with respect and awareness. I never worried about him. I thought caution was enough. But now I understand: the danger isn’t just the road; it’s the people who forget the responsibility that comes with driving.

Impairment today often looks deceptively harmless. Phones buzz. Notifications feel urgent. People convince themselves they’re just glancing away for a second. Fatigue builds slowly, and drivers tell themselves they can push through. Stress and emotional overload cloud judgement. And yes, alcohol and drugs still remain huge contributors to crashes, slowing reaction times and making drivers confident when they should be cautious. Any one of these impairments can turn a car into a weapon.

My perspective changed forever that day. Now, before I even turn the key, I ask myself: Would I trust someone else to drive like me right now? If I’m tired or upset or tempted to check my phone, I make different choices. The fear of almost losing my brother keeps me responsible, but more importantly, it keeps me aware that other lives are in my hands too.

Driver’s education programs can play a major role in changing how young drivers think about impairment. Instead of only memorizing rules and road signs, students need real-world context. They should hear stories like my brother’s, stories that make you feel something. When teens understand that tragedies often happen in the simplest, most ordinary moments, attitudes shift. Programs that show the science, like how texting delays reaction times just as much as being legally drunk, make the message impossible to ignore. And hands-on experiences, such as simulators that recreate distracted or impaired driving, help the lessons stick long after the class ends.

Information is important, but emotion is what changes behavior.

My role now is to speak up. Too many people shrug off the risks and tell themselves they’re “fine.” I call out distractions when I’m in the passenger seat. I remind younger siblings and friends to silence their phones. I choose caution even when it’s inconvenient. And when I eventually take more advanced training or defensive driving courses, I’ll use what I learn to help others make safer choices too.

We all share the road. We all share responsibility.

Thinking back to that day, my brother standing there shaken but alive, I realized how thin the line between normal, and catastrophe really is. My brother wasn’t saved by luck. He was saved by a tow hitch someone once decided was a good idea. That tiny decision protected his future and our family’s happiness.

Not every family gets that chance.

I can’t control every driver around me, but I can control how seriously I take the privilege of driving. I can spread awareness. I can set an example. I can help others understand that impaired driving isn’t always dramatic, sometimes it’s as simple as a glance at a phone… that becomes the last glance someone ever takes.

If the fear I felt that day can help someone’s sibling make it home safe, then sharing our story is worth everything.