Every trip we took as a family started with the sound of car doors closing. Even the long ones—twelve hours, sometimes more. We packed everything we needed and drove off. At the end of every trip, we packed it all again and came home. It was simple. Reliable. I never felt not safe in cars. They were a constant, a small world that moved with me.
When I was a baby, my father would drive me to my grandmother’s every morning. Sometimes I’d fall asleep on the way. Other times, I’d wave at people in the car behind us through the rear window while singing. I must have looked so full of life. A nearly-toddler, smiling at strangers without a trace of fear in her chest.
I always sat in the front seat, right next to my father. I had even perfected my sleeping position.
The family car wasn’t just a vehicle. It was a container of memory, silence, music, and most importantly, safety. In that seat, I was protected by someone who always had control. I never once questioned it.
When he died, that feeling collapsed.
For about three months, I experienced motion sickness for the first time in my life. It felt sinister as if my body reacted to something my mind couldn’t process fast enough. I wasn’t afraid of crashing; I was afraid of the void. Afraid of the absence of his hands on the wheel. Afraid that no one would ever know the route like he did.
Eventually, the nausea faded. But something else stayed.
Now, I sit in cars stiff as a statue. My back is tense. My shoulders stay raised. My eyes lock onto the road, not with trust, but with suspicion—like I might need to jump out at any second. As if escape is the only way to survive now. Grief has curled into my spine. It had been hiding in my muscles for years now.
I don’t feel safe in cars anymore. Not because I’m afraid of a crash, but because the person who made them feel like home is gone.
My body remembers something my brain doesn’t want to: safety is not a structure, it’s a person.
╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ˚ ╴╴╴╴╴⊹˚ ╴╴╴╴˚ೃ ╴╴
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