I am a Survivor
I am a survivor. But before that word belonged to me, I was just a woman on a Monday. I was a mother with a toddler in the backseat and a second daughter dreaming beneath my heart. We were full of lunch and easy music, and my mind was already three aisles deep into Hobby Lobby, picking out colors for a future I thought was guaranteed.
Then, the world narrowed down to the frame of a passenger window. I saw the car.
I reached for my husband’s shoulder—a desperate, silent bridge I tried to build in a split second—but the distance was too great. I felt the impact, a roar of steel that swallowed our music whole. Instinct took over. I covered my ears, I closed my eyes, and I tried to fold the world away to create a small, dark sanctuary for the life inside me.
Then, we began to spin. People talk about time stopping, but in that car, time stretched. It felt like forever. It was a universe tilted off its axis, rotating through a storm of glass and gravity. And when it finally stopped, the silence was heavier than the noise.
I opened my eyes to the smell of burning. I saw the blood on my husband’s arm. I heard my daughter’s screams from the back—a terrifying, beautiful proof of life—but beneath my heart, there was only stillness. Our second daughter wasn't moving.
I remember the chaos that followed. The strobe of sirens. The strangers asking if I was okay while I could only whisper, "I'm pregnant. Please, I’m pregnant." I remember a nurse—a stranger off-shift—reaching into the wreckage to take my daughter to safety.
And then, as smoke began to curl from what seemed to be from all over, the most terrifying thing happened. I was alone. In that smoking car, with my hands shaking and my mind racing, I realized that being a survivor isn't a title you choose. It’s a miracle you fight for. It’s the moment you realize that everything you love can be taken in the time it takes to turn a corner, and yet, you are still breathing.
I watched them cut my husband’s door off. I watched them wheel him away.
I found myself repeating it over and over, a desperate prayer to anyone who would listen: "We need to get out. We need to GET out. There's smoke. We need to get out.” Yet not being able to move my legs.
I am a survivor. I know this because the smoke eventually cleared. The silence eventually broke. And that stillness beneath my heart eventually turned back into movement.
We were heading to a craft store to start a project, but we walked away with a masterpiece: Life. Every breath I take now tastes like copper and miracle. Because I know that even when the world is on fire, even when you are trapped and alone in the smoke—you never, ever stop reaching for the light. I am a survivor.
