Messy Minded Momma

It’s been nearly six months since I spun out on a gravel road and crashed into a tree.

Six months on the calendar, although it still feels like yesterday.

I can still see it. Still feel it. Sometimes it plays back in real time. Other times, it’s like I’m watching it from above, outside my own body, observing it happen to someone else.

For context, I’m a newer driver.

I’ve only had my license for six years. I didn’t jump at the opportunity to learn when I turned sixteen like most of my peers. My anxiety kept me from getting behind the wheel. I only got my G1 at nineteen so I could use it as ID at the bars. I lived in Toronto. I had buses, streetcars, and subways. I told myself I didn’t need a car and couldn’t afford one anyway. I was content.

Then in 2020, my husband and I bought our first home.

We moved to London, Ontario, about two hours west of Toronto. A subdivision, a driveway, a garage. A life that quietly requires a car. I remember telling my parents we bought a house, and their first response was, “But you don’t drive. How will you get around?” They weren’t wrong. “I’ll get my license,” I said casually. And that’s exactly what I did.

Learning to drive in London during the pandemic was easy. The roads were empty. There was no traffic, no aggressive drivers weaving through lanes. I built confidence quickly. Highways didn’t scare me. Long distances didn’t faze me. My alertness and reaction times made me a good driver. I knew the size of my vehicle and the limit I could take her. We were good for each other.

And then everything changed.

On Tuesday, October 7, 2025, I was driving to work.

I had just dropped my son off at school (thank God), and I was running a little behind. I turned onto a one lane gravel road. The kind that looks harmless but never really is. Loose gravel, open fields, and nothing to block the wind that cuts across those country roads. I got stuck behind a slow-moving oil truck about half a kilometer ahead. It was a long road, and I could feel the anxiety building. My boss micromanages me. Being late is not just being late, it is a conversation. And I could feel that conversation already happening in my head.

So I made a decision. A bad one. I tried to go around the truck.

We were not going fast, but the size of the truck and the looseness of the gravel worked against me. The truck swayed slightly, and I felt a bump against the back right side of my car. And then everything shifted. My car veered left toward the ditch. I overcorrected. And then I was spinning.

The spinning is what stayed with me. It felt like minutes, but it was probably seconds. The wheel would not respond. I took my foot off the gas as my hands were gripping, turning, correcting. Nothing worked. The gravel felt like marbles under the tires. So eventually, I let the wheel go. And when the spinning stopped, I was facing a tree. Right in front of me. Close enough that I did not have time to think. I closed my eyes, “fuck.” And then bang. The airbags exploded.

There was a sharp smell, like burnt dust and chemicals. My ears rang. My chest felt tight from the seatbelt. Coffee had spilled everywhere. White powder floated through the air. There were corn stalks inside my car. I remember thinking, how are there corn stalks in here? The windows were closed. My brain was trying to make sense of something that did not make sense. After a few seconds, I unbuckled my seatbelt, opened the door, and ran. I ran straight to the driver of the oil truck and collapsed into his arms. I was crying, apologizing over and over. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Part of me was scared the car was going to explode. My husband makes me watch too many action movies.

There is something very strange about experiencing an accident fully conscious. It is not just something that happened. It is something you felt.

The spinning, like being stuck on the teacups at Disney World, except you cannot get off.
The sight of the tree appearing out of nowhere.

The sound of impact, loud, final, undeniable.

My body remembers it. Even now.

At the hospital, they told me I had a hematoma in my abdomen. I was bruised, sore, shaken. I went home and slept. My husband handled everything. Insurance, the rental car, a new car seat so we could pick up our son later that day.

And I remember thinking: parents do not stop. Even after a car accident, we still show up. We still drive. We still pick up our kids from school like nothing happened.

Since the accident, my body has changed. Driving makes me nauseous. Gravel roads are completely off the table. Rain used to be just rain. Now it feels like a threat The slightest slip on wet pavement sends my heart racing. Snow, fog, wind on open country roads, all of it tightens something inside me. My body stiffens. My hands grip the wheel. My breath shortens. It is like my nervous system is constantly scanning for danger.

And since that day, I have felt everything.

Grief, for my car, and for the version of me who used to drive without thinking.

Guilt, for the cost, for the inconvenience, for “ruining someone’s day.”

Anger, for my impatience, for not knowing that gravel drives like marbles.

Relief, that my son was not in the car, that it was not worse.

And also resilience.

Ten days later, I drove down that same gravel road again. Not because I wanted to. But because I needed to know I could. I did it once. And that was enough. I can do it. I just choose not to.

I have done physio. I have done therapy. I am still healing, physically and mentally. And maybe that is the hardest part to accept. That healing does not mean forgetting. It does not mean going back to who you were before. It just means learning how to move forward, with a body that remembers.