Driving.

I got rear-ended yesterday. It’s ironic, really. A new driver getting rear-ended. I hate driving. Everyone says it offers you freedom and, while I understand the sentiment, I can’t shake the fear.

My sophomore year of college, a former student dean was killed in a car accident. She was driving home, turning into an intersection, and a truckdriver ran into her. He never saw her coming. She did everything right.

Two months later, my roommate got in an accident. She was driving back to the dorm; the roads were icy. She was taken to the hospital with whiplash and a concussion. One of the passengers went home early that semester because her brain injury was so horrific that it messed with her memory. She did everything right.

Isn’t that so scary? You can do everything right and still end up hurt. I remember mining my memories for months after the breakup, trying to figure out what I did wrong. At what point was I not enough? Should I have given him more of myself? Held onto my values less? Relinquished control of my mind, body, and emotions to be molded into his dream girl? How much smaller would I have had to make myself to make things work? Was my authenticity a mistake?

Months. I spent months asking these questions. Months wondering if I should have been quieter, softer, less intellectual, more domestic. It took months to realize that my authenticity was not a mistake. My only mistake was giving him the space—the power—to make me ask these questions.