The chances of dying in a car crash are one in 103, according to the National Safety Council.
The chances of dying in a parachuting accident are one in 100,000.
Even though jumping from a plane is understandably terrifying, it’s not an everyday risk you’re forced to take — but driving is.
I started driving at 15 in an abandoned parking lot with fragile grass growing through the cracks. I started slowly at 15 mph, then sped up to 25 until I accidentally slammed on the brakes in a panic. The driving lessons came from my mom, so needless to say it was an experience that belongs in nightmares.
A few months later, during the driver’s license exam, I barely eased between the cones. I drove painstakingly slow during the three-point-turn. Honestly, I could barely drive, but I still received my driver’s license.
I drove myself to work every day from the age of 16. My mom forced me to pick a bulky gold Dodge Journey that she thought would keep me the safest. It kept me safe all right, but it also kept me at an average of three re-parking attempts to stay within the lines.
Driving around my small town was easy. I would go to class, work and occasionally stop by the Chick-Fil-A drive-thru. The other drivers on the road didn’t make things difficult when they were mostly retired grandparents who disappeared into their homes after it got dark.
That’s where my driving progress ended. I’m not sure why, but the thought of accidentally merging onto the highway made my heart race like a horse. It felt like a trap of certain death, so I was encouraged to drive as little as possible.
“Let them pick you up,” my mom would say, so I would.
This became a problem. My underlying fear of driving — which I always covered up as a distaste for driving — trapped me in my small town. If my friends made plans in another city, my gut would twist at the thought of asking for a ride, or worse, having my mom drop me off.
The fear transformed into insecurity, and then into incompetence. I developed a hateful vengeance towards every person that had shown doubt in my driving ability. Perhaps it was years of hearing “women are bad drivers” jokes.
My hands refused to turn the wheel towards the highway for several years, but suddenly, I was 20. I was now a college student who had traveled the world and even lived in Paris for four months. I spoke three languages. I could type up a 3,000 word essay in an hour. I could draw a decent wing with my eyeliner.
But I couldn’t drive on the highway.
In January of 2020, I decided it was time to break the stupid, mental barrier that kept me from cool parties, tasty restaurants and independent adventuring, so I forced my brother to then force me onto the highway.
The first merge was just as terrifying as I had imagined. Cars raced past, and for some reason, modern technology has yet to develop a system that can say, “OK, your turn.”
A kind grey Nissan sped up to give me the gap I needed to turn on my turn signal and awkwardly jolt to the left. Still, I stayed in the right lane. My hands clutched the steering wheel as trucks rocked my car, and other cars had the audacity to honk at me while I drove the speed limit.
When we finally reached our exit, my lungs were grateful to take adequate breaths of air. My white knuckles stayed gripped on the steering wheel so no one could see my hands shaking.
Now, a year after that first merge, I recently drove to Orlando. On I-4. All by myself.
Even though driving doesn’t seem like a legitimate fear to most people, it was a real fear for me.
It took me five years to convince myself I was capable enough. I don’t know whether it was my doubt or some patriarchal system, but I’m proud of myself for not letting either win.
One in 103 is just as real now as it was the day I got my driver’s license. But, unlike skydiving, driving isn’t a choice in the geographically lengthy state of Florida.
The moral of the story? If you really need to do something, you can, even if it takes five years and a hot boyfriend that needs you to pick him up from the airport.