Wrong place. Wrong time. That’s exactly how it felt that morning.
My parents picked me up at 6:30 a.m., and I couldn’t remember the last time it had just been the three of us. With four kids at home, moments alone with my own mom and dad are rare. Usually, conversations are interrupted, attention divided, and the chaos of family life takes over.
But this weekend was different. We were headed to Florida for an adults-only getaway to celebrate my cousin’s wedding. I was excited to see family I hadn’t hugged since before the pandemic, to feel that warmth and connection, and to just soak in time with people I love.
Just five minutes into the trip, we were stopped at a red light. It was still dark outside, and suddenly I knew—before seeing anything—that something had gone horribly wrong. Our car was struck from the rear passenger side—right where I was sitting—without warning.
The impact was shocking. My parents screamed—my mom in sheer fear, my dad in pain—as I tried to make sense of what had happened and make sure help was on the way. I sat frozen, surrounded by shattered glass, trying to remain calm. A Good Samaritan doctor stopped at the scene, and his calm presence was a lifeline. He reassured us that my dad, despite his pain, would get the help he needed. He promised us that we would be okay, and for the first time since the crash, I allowed myself a breath.
I couldn’t exit the car until EMTs helped my dad out. He was rushed to the hospital, along with the drivers of the other vehicles involved. When I finally stepped out, I saw the full damage: my door was crushed, a hole ripped through it, and the entire side of the car where I had been sitting was mangled. Standing there, surveying the destruction, I could hardly believe I had walked away.
My husband arrived to pick me up. My kids, still in pajamas, stared wide-eyed from their car seats. We hugged tightly, carefully unloaded everything from my parents’ car, and brushed shards of glass from our suitcases filled with wedding attire we would never get to wear. Later that day, I unpacked from a trip that never really happened.
As the details emerged, my anger and frustration grew. The driver who hit us had a revoked license—his fourth offense. He claimed he fell asleep, though his history of reckless driving and prior drug convictions made that story hard to believe. Testing wasn’t done, and the fact that his home was less than a minute from the crash site made the whole situation even more infuriating.
According to his version, he got in his car, turned out of his parking lot, and somehow fell asleep, accelerating up an incline at 70 mph, causing a four-car accident that totaled three vehicles. It defies logic, and yet the consequences were very real: my dad injured, our weekend destroyed, and anxiety and fear left in the wreckage. My parents both began physical therapy. Weeks later, my dad is still taking it day by day, enduring severe back pain and working through recovery.
After weeks of replaying the accident in my mind, I realized something important: I cannot change what happened. I cannot undo the reckless choice someone made to drive illegally. I cannot fix the four-car accident or erase the fear and disruption it caused. I cannot control the fact that the driver lives five minutes from me or that I pass the crash site daily on the way to take my kids to school.
But I can change my mindset. I can focus on what I can control. My parents and I have made all the calls we can, asked every question we could, and now we wait for the legal process to unfold. And I can choose joy where I can find it. Instead of letting a beautiful dress and new earrings sit unused, I wore them on date night, did my hair and makeup as planned, and even if I was overdressed for Mexican food, it made me happy.
I am grateful to have walked away from an accident that could have been fatal. Wrong place. Wrong time. Yes—but I am alive, and that is what I choose to focus on.
This experience has taught me that life is often unfair, full of disappointment and unexpected challenges. And that it’s okay to feel those emotions fully, to grieve what was lost. But then, you pick yourself up, focus on what you can change, and let go of what you cannot. That’s what I do now, and I hope you will too.
