I was in a car wreck and realized I’m (fascinatingly) different now.

Part I: 2018

On a gorgeous sunny afternoon in July of 2018 a car nearly t-boned my driver’s side when he ran a red light going over 35 in a residential area. Instinctively, I slammed on my gas barely missing what, most likely, would have been my own death. 

Adrenaline fills you in those moments. Our bodies have these amazing automatic responses to danger. I pulled over as soon as I made it through the intersection to collect myself. I almost died. I. Almost. Died. That man almost killed me. Does he know? Does he care? Was he running from something? Would me no longer existing be worth it for him? My head was reeling, I could feel tears forming, not aware of feeling any need or desire to cry but it was like my body felt so wired it didn’t know how to release the built up energy, and crying was the most obvious and natural response. My skin was tingling from adrenaline and my mind was just about to begin a shame spiral of how idiotic it is to be tearing up when I am perfectly safe in my perfectly unscathed vehicle when a gentle tap on my window brings me back to the present moment. 

I didn’t even notice him walk up. As I roll down my window, a concerned man in his late 40s asks if I’m okay. “Holy shit. I just saw that. Are you okay?” I’m trying not to cry explaining. “Yea. I am totally fine.” Despite the fact that my whole eye-water-sinus things has decided without my consent that CRYING NEEDS TO OCCUR. I cry easily. It’s something I’ve carried shame about for as long as I can remember. I reassure the stranger I’m fine despite my tears, my voice is calm.

I almost died. The strange thing was, I looked the same. I wasn’t actually in a car wreck. I had no injuries, I was–just fine. I was perfectly fine, but the adrenaline felt like it took forever to fully wear off. That incident stuck with me for days in a fresh way “Holy shit, Carly. You almost fucking died yesterday”, and in the following weeks it lingered, “Life is just chaos, all the time. And we have to live day to day and be functional humans and act like it isn’t insane that life is just chaos. All the time.” My mind would wander through the unhelpful, irrelevant, and macabre what-ifs. I almost died. Just like that. Gone. And my date would have assumed I stood him up. My parents would have to deal with all my shit. And my poor dog! I guess she might be a comfort to my parents after I passed? But they sure don’t need another weirdo cat.

I was 34. I almost died. And I had nothing to show for it, except this weird haunting lingering sensation of–you almost died. And, are you doing this–humaning, life, existing right? How close do we come to death at any moment, and not even know? It’s for the best that we don’t know. We don’t need extra anxiety about the ultimately unknowable unfolding of time. 

Part II: 2022

On a sunny mid-morning in May 2022, I was t-boned by a car who sped through a stop sign as I drove through an intersection in the same Saint Paul neighborhood where I was nearly hit four years earlier. Luckily, the car was coming from my right so my rear passenger side took the bulk of the impact, immediately triggering the side airbags. The force and sudden shift of weight popped the opposite rear tire and spun my vehicle 180 degrees. I’d again slammed my gas in an attempt to clear the intersection before impact. 

I remember feeling and hearing the impact, realizing I’d been struck–and then just sort of momentarily existing in a pink dusty haze until I regained my bearings. My side (pink-colored) airbags deployed immediately, dusty dry soil from three small planters in my passenger seat launched around the car, some porcelain shards landed in my lap, soil and debris tumbled out of my driver’s side door when I opened. I had come to a stop somehow. I don’t know if I hit the break, although spinning out on the dead tire presumably kills a decent amount of momentum. The car that struck me had an entirely smashed hood, and was now resting snugly against the curb after having struck the corner of a brand new truck. 

I immediately looked for the passengers of the other car. A scared and slightly panicking gal quickly moved away from the car and started pacing, soon she’s joined by her passenger (who I later learn is her younger sister). I check that they are alright. I’m calm. I’m telling her, I’m okay, they are okay–that is the most important thing. I’m not upset, I’m not angry, this is okay. We will get this sorted. We can all breathe. We are all safe. I’m surprised by how calm I actually am. I’m breathing and taking in my surroundings. I’m not spiraling into anxiety that my reliable, beloved 2012 Subaru is very likely totaled and what that will entail. I’m not worried about disappointing coworkers. I wasn’t freaking out about how to get my car taken care of now that it is this slightly mangled metal mess of air bags and spilled potting soil. 

I’d never been in a serious car wreck before. Unexpectedly, my mind didn’t go to the what if’s, admonishing myself for being too uncomfortable talking to other people to ask that question about the bee bath. If I had only been braver then I wouldn’t be here, I’d have crossed this intersection moments after her. I’d be able to go to my appointment the next morning. I’d still have my reliable car. But I knew it was all irrelevant. Because the reality of this moment was that a young woman has caused an accident and she is experiencing trauma. I’m okay. I will be okay. So this was an opportunity to be a positive force for another being who is struggling, by simply being kind.

Snake plant was replanted and is thriving despite a few mangled leaves. He’s my little car-wreck buddy.

A decade from now, I have no idea where this young gal, her sister, or their lovely mother will be. But I know, if she ever reflects on that car crash she had just after her term finished in 2022, she’ll be grateful I wasn’t someone selfish looking to scam medical expenses, or some angry business man who JUST DIDN’T NEED THIS TODAY! Or some racist asshole who would have seen their burkas and told them to “go back to their own country” or some other inappropriate comment. Instead they got me. A tall tattooed middle-aged white woman, who is too uncomfortable to ask a sales person about bee baths but was first concerned with their safety, who didn’t yell, get angry, or frustrated. I met her mistake with compassion. I eased her difficulty and fear as much as I could.

I thought the calm was maybe shock. My eyes watered a little as the reality sank in and I was hauling out all the last of my personal belongings (a snake plant that appropriately looked like it had been in a car accident) before the tow-truck could take my car to the impound lot.

Part III: I’m different now.

But I never cried or anxiety spiraled. I never lost my composure–but I gave myself the space to. I let myself have a slow afternoon for when the adrenaline died down and any bruising or pain set in. But I didn’t break down at the reality that a split second sooner of impact would have had her slamming into my front passenger door and I’d likely been seriously injured or worse. I didn’t feel consumed with the fact I could have died, because I didn’t. Interestingly, who I’ve evolved into over the past four years, is a woman who knows her value, purpose, and strengths. I don’t fear death anymore, and I’ve learned to trust myself in the present.

The truth is, in reality, we are no closer to or further from a random death. We’re each just existing, interconnected, surrounded by chaos, trying to figure out how to best human at any moment in whatever circumstance.

In August I did get a new car sorted. I named her Gerdy. She just looks like Gertrude.

The contrast in my mental and emotional response to—actually having been hit by another car versus nearly getting hit deeply struck me. We all live within ourselves. Subtle changes occur and take form, however, since we’re there the whole time. It takes challenges, conflict, or difficulties for us to see the depth of our growth and the beautiful strength of the person we’re evolving into. When we allow exploration and reflection of our discomfort, we grow. I’ve changed, not from this incident. This incident demonstrates to me how much I’ve truly grown and changed.