Accidents

Describe one of your favorite moments.

Yesterday, before dawn had fully broken, I overslept—and in that fog of extra sleep, the same dream struck me twice like a warning bell. In both dreams, I crashed. Not just into any vehicle, but into white cars—stark, ghostlike, almost symbolic. In the dream, I pleaded with myself: “This isn’t real. It can’t be. I need this car—I depend on it to survive, to earn, to live better.” But the crash kept repeating, like an echo trying to tell me something.

The second time, I jolted awake. My heart thudded. I said to myself aloud, “This didn’t happen. I can change this dream. I can delete it.” I believed it. I needed to believe it.

But as the day unfolded, real life whispered its eerie connection. I was driving down a sloping hill, careful, alert. Just before reaching a T-junction, I slowed. That’s when I saw him—a grandfather, reversing his car with his little grandson inside. He wasn’t looking. He didn’t notice me. His world seemed paused in his own view, blind to mine. He just kept reversing.

I waited. I held my breath. Inches. That’s all there was between my new car and the crunch of metal that never came. He finally looked back and saw me. The realization dawned in his eyes — but too late to undo what could have been, only early enough to prevent it.

That moment wasn’t luck. It wasn’t “just in time.” It was an accident that didn’t happen — because I was there, aware, and watching. A danger silently bypassed.

And now I know: that dream was no random fear. It was a reflection. A warning. A memory retold by my subconscious. A lesson wrapped in fear and replayed in sleep.

I am learning — not just to drive, but to listen.