Every parent's worst nightmare is probably the period of time between childhood and adulthood; in other words, the teenage years. The typical teen was known to dabble with drugs, attend parties in order to get stone drunk, and commit other sorts of heinous offenses that damaged the overall integrity of the community. On television shows and in novels, teens would go against the wishes of their guardians. Maybe they drank at a party and the cops came to arrest them for underage drinking. Or perhaps they had their first experience with pre-marital sex. They possibly may have even attempted suicide in the form of Tylenol overdoses. Whatever the crime, though, the media would always have the teens see the error of their ways at the end, and realize that their parents were right all along, despite their initial beliefs that all adults were clueless to the workings of the teen mind.

I used to think that I was an exemplary daughter. I was a straight-A student, pursued nothing illegal, and didn't have pointless arguments with my parents. I never needed to have my parents tell me to do my homework; I would start it the moment my backpack hit the floor of my room after school. My parents never had to worry about my being irresponsible, and rarely had to deal with incessant begging over new clothes every month or frequent trips to the nail salon. I held little interest in material items, and longed for very few possessions. I just needed enough clothes to get by, a few CDs, books, and, of course, necessary items such as food and school supplies. Other friends of my parents told them that they were lucky to have such a great daughter who seemed to have a bright future ahead of her.

Then I turned sixteen. It was the pivotal year for various reasons. I would be a junior in high school, entering my most important year. Standardized tests and AP classes loomed ahead ominously. I would also be able to obtain a learner's permit and get a license. Being able to drive a car opened so many possibilities. No longer did I have to pester my mom to drive me to the bookstore downtown and wait for me while I perused new fiction for hours. No longer did my mom have to drive me back and forth to my school, thirty minutes away from home, constantly. I would be able to lug myself around to places. I always felt like a burden to my parents, anyway, whenever I needed them to drive me somewhere. Now, with my license, I would no longer have to trouble them with my need for rides to early morning cross-country practices and meets that began before the run had even risen. I would be the one in control.

At first, driving was going fairly well. I was in control of the car for the most part, except I did have trouble with making smooth turns at times. I was terrified of merging on the highway, which was a problem because, in order to get to school, I had no choice but to take the highway where cars zoomed by, going at least twenty miles per hour over the speed limit.

My parents, especially my dad, were still very much against the idea of my commuting to school every single day, two-way trip, in my senior year. They wanted me to drive to the bus stop and take the bus instead, but I pointedly refused. Everyone in my grade would be driving to school by then, and I'd be the only one in such a juvenile mode of transportation. Plus, I could already imagine the smirks upon the faces of the underclassmen with whom I would have to share the bus. "God, you're still taking the bus?" they would most likely ask in condescending tones.

However, just when my parents seemed to be reluctantly giving in, a situation had to happen in order to change their minds. Which, of course, was just my luck, really.

It was the first day of cross-country pre-season practice. My mom allowed me to drive on the highway to school. Although I had been on the highway a good number of times, this time was different. It was early Monday morning, where it seemed as though every inch of space was taken up by a car. Before, I'd only driven on the highway in the early morning of the weekend, where most people were still snoozing, making up for sleepless weekday nights. Needless to say, I was a bit more nervous than usual. My mom, as well, had decided to pick that day to chastise me constantly: "Stop at the stop sign…no, don't go yet, can't you see the other car? …Pay attention, that car was coming out…For goodness' sake, stay calm or you'll cause an accident."

By the time we arrived at school, my nerves were already on the verge of breaking down. As we cruised down to the parking lot on the furthest side, dubbed "Siberia" due to its isolation from the rest of campus, I turned my wheel left, pulling into a space. Then, seeing that the car was still crooked to one side, I tried to fix it. However, I stepped on the accelerator instead of the break, and the car went crashing into the wire fence in front, going through the fence halfway. My mom started screaming, and I finally realized what had just occurred and stopped the car. Then I looked down. An area of woods, with a small river, was right below us. If I had gone any further, my mom and I would have both been goners.

Thankfully, one of the maintenance staff came to help us. The car was eventually tolled away, and I went to practice as if nothing unusual had happened. But as I look back upon the event, the reality of it still startles me as if it had just taken place the day before. I understood why my parents didn't want me driving to school. There was a reason why accidents were called accidents—they weren't meant to happen, but did anyway. One more inch further, and I would have fallen into that ditch below. Most likely, I would have died instantaneously from the impact. The fact that I had been on the edge between life and death terrifies me to this day. Now I finally knew what it felt like to truly cherish life. Many people experienced it, coming back from illnesses or a traumatic event, such as a shooting or a car crash. I was one of the lucky ones. Not everyone came out alive from situations like mine. Not every teen has a chance at redemption after an event gone wrong. Some teens never make it.

I used to resent my parents sometimes for being aberrations of the norm. They never seemed to care about my activities like other parents. My mom catered me around to different events, but my dad would always stay home, refusing to budge. He claimed that the various activities I participated in throughout my life, such as orchestra concerts and track meets, were pointless. I never really minded their behavior, but I was offended by the fact that my parents didn't want me driving to school—it was too dangerous for a mere child to be commuting like an adult. It was completely unnecessary. Other families allowed their children to drive in order to save money or to get rid of the kid because they weren't too fond of their offspring. Neither situation applied in my family. My parents were fiercely overprotective, and I grew weary…until now.

Now, instead of seeing my parents' requests as disagreeable, I see them as caring, truly concerned for my welfare. They were never against me from the beginning. I was against them. I didn't know better, despite my initial beliefs. I was still just a child, despite the fact that I was going to be a legal adult in two years. I was no different from those who drank and drove, experimented with drugs, or attempted to put an end to their lives. Our situations were different, but it all came down to the same idea that we were still young, stumbling over mistakes and trying to make amends. We wanted to be adults but have not yet learned from the greatest teacher of all: experience. Despite what we thought, we were far from being mature. Adulthood, though, was not far away. Soon enough, we would all cross that line, leaving our adolescence behind, the years of rebellion and discovery. Then we would pass on the wisdom that we learned to the next generation. They would go through the same turmoil we did, struggling to comprehend the ways of the world. Then, one day, they would know. They would know the secrets that have been passed down from generation to generation. Experience would educate them, and the cycle would continue.

It wasn't as though I now agreed with every request of my parents. However, every time I feel that their demands are too much, too limiting, too unfair, I remember the day that I almost stepped over the line, to the other side of life. My mom's car has souvenirs of the day, with scratches in the front and windshield of the vehicle. I see them, and I remember. They are almost like war wounds, really. They fade with age, can be fixed up, but are always there, reminders of painful events. I re-examine my parents' motives for everything they tell me, ask of me. They know better. I do not…yet. But I will. Someday, I will become them, and I will have children. I will tell them my story. Most of all, I will live and laugh and love, because I remember that not everyone is lucky like me, to come back. Not every teen comes back. Those who do, though, will hopefully be like me, willing to share their tale. Every story is different, yet the same. We make mistakes; we fall and stumble. Yet, we place our hands on the earth and pull ourselves up again and again. We repeat the process until we are ready to cross the line. Then, we know.

AN: This is a true story. Really. It actually just happened to me about two weeks ago and I felt a need to get it out. Um, please, no flames. If you hate it, please tell me why. There's always room for improvement!