I still remember the sound.
It was the middle of a rainy Tuesday, years ago, when my life cracked into a “before” and “after.” I’d pulled out of my neighborhood like I had a thousand times before, half-listening to a podcast and half-thinking about what to make for dinner. The next moment? A blinding blur of metal and glass.
A car had run the stop sign.
I walked away from the wreck — physically, anyway. Everyone told me how lucky I was. The doctors, the cops, even my friends. “You’re so lucky it wasn’t worse.” I heard that phrase more times than I can count. But no one could see what was happening on the inside.
Every time I got behind the wheel, even months later, my hands would shake. My stomach would twist up. Rainy days were the worst — one drop on the windshield and my chest locked up. I’d avoid driving altogether if I could help it. I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.
The weirdest part? I wasn’t just anxious in the car. The fear bled into other parts of my life, too. I was snapping at people I loved, struggling to sleep, avoiding conversations about the …
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