There was a story my dad posted a few months ago about me wrecking my car. At the time, it wasn’t actually wrecked… but it definitely is now.
January 20, 2026, started like any other Tuesday. I was on my way to work, following the same routine I’d done countless times before. Nothing felt different.
My alarms started going off at 6:00 a.m. and kept ringing until I finally found the motivation to get out of bed fifteen minutes later, still half asleep. I threw on a pair of black pants and a new sweater my boyfriend’s mom had just gifted me. By 6:30, I was out the door.
I didn’t have to be at work until 7:00, but like any girl in her early twenties, I usually made time for a morning coffee run. That day, though, I decided to make one at home instead. I’d set up my Moka Pot the night before and was excited to use my new gingerbread man mug from HomeGoods.
Let me tell you—it was the best latte I’ve ever made. The perfect shade of brown, just the right amount of ice, caramel drizzle, vanilla syrup… exactly the way I like it.
By then, I was running a little behind—as usual. I kissed my boyfriend goodbye, grabbed my coffee, got into my car, and headed to work.
Since it was still winter, I turned on my soft indie playlist and started singing my way down Blondo Street toward 156th.
Halfway there, I decided to make one quick stop at Hy-Vee Fast & Fresh for a protein bar and a Gatorade. I paid, got back in my car, and officially started the last stretch of my drive. I went down 156th Street, turned left onto Ida—the same turn I’d made nearly every weekday since I started working at Legacy School the year before.
I was only a few blocks away when I noticed a gold Lexus SUV coming out of a neighborhood on my right a little too fast. She had a stop sign. I was on a continuous two-way street.
She slowed down just enough that I thought she’d seen me.
Then, for reasons I’ll never understand, she hit the gas and tried to make a left turn in front of me.
I laid on the horn of my tiny Nissan Juke and slammed on my brakes.
It wasn’t enough.
BAM.
Everything stopped.
My windshield wipers suddenly turned on. My ears were ringing. For a few seconds, I don’t remember much at all. I think my brain was trying to protect me from what had just happened.
What I do remember is looking into my rearview mirror and seeing blood dripping from my nose. My glasses were gone. Before I even knew what was happening, someone had opened my car door. A woman was already on the phone with 911.
Because my family uses Life360, the app detected the crash almost immediately. My phone had flown underneath the car seat, and the nonstop buzzing was the only reason I was able to find it.
The first person I called wasn’t my mom, my dad, or even my boyfriend.
It was my boss—who also happens to be my boyfriend’s mom—to tell her that I’d just been in an accident and probably wouldn’t be making it to work that day.
Then I called my mom.
I just know I gave her a heart attack.
She yelled for my dad in a voice I’d never heard before, and within minutes he was on his way. By then, it was only 6:52 a.m. Somehow, in what felt like both an instant and an eternity, the police had arrived, a witness was giving their statement, my dad was there, and my boyfriend had already called to make sure I was okay.
The crash was ruled not my fault. The other driver had failed to yield after running the stop sign.
As my dad helped me move my things from my car into his, we gathered my work tote, my water bottle, and everything else I could salvage.
Everything except my coffee.
My gingerbread man mug had shattered on impact.
This was my first car accident, and I thank the universe every day that I’m still here. If it hadn’t been for the thick winter coat I was wearing, I truly believe my injuries would’ve been worse. I walked away with a busted knee the size of a Nerf football and a gash to match, a bruised sternum, and one nasty seatbelt bruise.
The four hours my mom and I spent in the ER weren’t fun, but I’m incredibly grateful that nothing more serious happened.
Even now, I have terrible road anxiety. My “vehicular Spidey senses,” as my dad likes to call them, are on high alert every time I get behind the wheel.
I don’t think about the crash every day anymore.
But I do think about that morning.
How ordinary it felt.
How I almost stopped for coffee but decided to make one at home instead.
How excited I was to use that little gingerbread man mug.
It’s funny the things our minds choose to hold onto. The totaled car is gone. The bruises faded. Life eventually moved forward.
But every once in a while, I’ll remember that latte sitting in the cup holder, exactly the way I liked it.
And the gingerbread man mug that never made it home.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
