Things happen.

I don't much like writing of serious things. No, that's not quite right. I like the serious things, but I do not enjoy writing of the things that make my hands shake, my heart beat a little faster, make my eyes sting with tears I would rather hold back. But I suppose that sometimes in life, hard things happen. Things that in retrospect cause a slight case of post-traumatic stress disorder. Things that I wish never would have happened.

Several weeks ago now, I was very headstrong. Headstrong just as I have been my whole life, but with an extra measure one Friday night in February. I needed to get out of St. Johns that night. I felt fitful and anxious being at home, and needed to ease the claustrophobia I often feel of late. Against my parents' better judgment I tossed my suitcase into my blue Honda Civic and left on the road for Flagstaff despite the threat of an impending snowstorm.

The first twenty minutes of my drive were as uneventful as any other drive between St. Johns and Holbrook. I felt at ease as I listened to General Conference with my headphones plugged into my iPhone. Nothing was out of the ordinary until I realized that out of the two pairs of headlights that had just crested the hill before me, that one was not in their lane, but rather in mine and headed straight for me. I knew the driver hadn't realized I was there and would not realize it until our vehicles met in a sickening and surely deadly crash. In the few spare seconds I had, I veered toward the shoulder of the road thus preventing a head-on collision but not able to escape an accident entirely.

I gripped my steering wheel as hard as I could and closed my eyes in preparation for impact. In those inexplicably agonizing moments before I was hit, I briefly contemplated death. Was I ready to go? Now? When I had made my parents so frustrated only minutes before? When I still had so much to do in my life? The other car smashed into my side, pushing me around in a circle and off the road entirely. The crunch was sickening, and my windows shattered and disintegrated into a fine powdery dust which settled into my clothes, hair, eyes, and mouth. I kept waiting for the car to roll, for pain to fill my body as my bones broke, or as the airbag deployed. None of those things happened. When my car came to a shuddering halt, I opened my eyes to a cracked windshield and a demolished car, but I was okay by some miracle. I felt no pain and could only feel blood from my face caused from the splintered glass of the windows. My hands too were cut from the glass, but only minimally. Believe it or not, my second thought after assessing my physical damage was a great sense of relief because I had not lost control of my bodily functions. Yes, I was relieved that I had not wet myself. If I was going to be in a car accident, I was at least going to face it with my dignity still intact.

My thoughts then instantly turned to my parents: They were right. Again. And again. And again. I thought of how disappointed they would be. Would they be mad about the car? My hands shook violently and I began to sob inconsolably from shock and fear. Was I really okay? I could see the headlights of the other car in the distance, but I didn't know if they were alive or dead. I unbuckled and tried to open my door, but was stuck inside the car. A couple cars passed by on the road, not bothering to stop and I prayed and prayed that someone would stop to help me. I needed to find my phone. The force of the crash had whipped my headphones out of my ears and flung my phone somewhere among the glass. Panicking, I fumbled through the glass desperately searching for the object which I found completely unscathed. My trembling hands tapped "Home" in my contacts and when that familiar voice answer, all I could get out was a cracked, "Mom" before I began to cry harder and harder. My mom dragged information out of me. Where was I? What happened? Was I okay? "Will you come get me?" I sobbed feeling like a lost, little girl.

I saw a truck stop at the other vehicle, and I prayed they would come for me. Eventually they did and attempted to keep me calm as I cried, clutching my bleeding hands to my chest to stop them from shaking. The driver of the other vehicle came to check on me and to apologize, his hands were wrapped in a blood-soaked rag. An officer transporting an inmate to St. Johns stopped and got me out of my car just as my parents arrived. My dad held me and we cried, and I clung to my mom until I was bustled between giving reports to cops and being assessed by the team of paramedics. All the while, I shook and spit glass from my mouth, and tried to make jokes which were poorly received by all involved.

My mom suggested taking pictures of the car, and I moved from one side of the car to the other snapping pictures. When the flash illuminated the driver's side I gasped and began to cry anew. I hadn't seen the damage yet, and my mind couldn't fathom how I wasn't dead or at the very least injured in some way. But I was okay and am okay by some miracle of that night. The nights and days following the accident were difficult as I couldn't pull my mind from the memory of the headlights screaming toward me. I now inhale sharply and wince when driving at night and the car in the other lane approaches.

But I was okay and am okay. By some miracle.