In the Quiet After the Crash

Sammy and I at State Meet

A few weeks ago, I was driving home from watching the sunset at the refuge—just me and Miss Winnie, my little shadow of a dog who goes everywhere with me. It was peaceful. Beautiful. One of those moments you tuck away because it feels like a deep breath for the soul.

And then everything changed.

I don’t remember much right before the wreck, but I know I hit a tree head-on. I know my car flipped onto its side. And I know I woke up, still in the driver’s seat, there was no shattered glass , but just me blankly staring out the window sideways like I was in some kind of dream that turned into a nightmare.

At first, I was just frozen. My body wouldn’t move, and my brain couldn’t catch up. I remember thinking someone is going to help me, I’m not going to be alone, someone is going to help me. And somehow, through the panic and pain, 911 had already been called—by my car, by my phone, by people who found me.

But none of that mattered at the moment. Because when I turned around in the car, Winnie was gone.

I didn’t see her. I didn’t hear her. She wasn’t answering when I called her name. And I lost it. Completely. I was screaming, sobbing, thrashing in my seat even while strangers told me not to move in case I was hurt. But all I could think was where is she? Where is Winnie?

I thought she’d been ejected or killed. And in that moment, the guilt washed over me like a tidal wave. If she dies because of this, I’ll never forgive myself.

But even scarier? I kept thinking—what if it wasn’t just her? What if someone else had been in the passenger seat? What if it had been one of my friends? A sibling? That guilt... it’s still sitting heavy in my chest.

Eventually, someone found Winnie. Alive. Safe. Tucked in a place I still don’t understand—because to this day, I swear God lifted her up and gently placed her back down.

Walking out of that car was one of the most surreal, sacred moments of my life. My body was sore, my head was spinning, but I was alive. So was she. And I realized, in that moment, how loved I truly am. Friends showed up. My mom and dad were on the phone and drove 2 hours to be at the hospital with me. People who didn’t owe me anything stayed with me and cried with me. My friends took care of my car and still made it to the hospital to be with me. While other friends took Winnie to the emergency vet and stayed with her. Friends were calling me and texting me asking if they needed to come to the hospital. Other friends were leaving work having someone cover for them. While others weren't there physically they were texting me checking up on me and making known they cared. I felt it—how deeply I’m loved and cared for.

But it’s hard sometimes to think about the incident. It’s hard to think about how it could have been over—just like that. I could have been gone, and nothing could have changed that. Right after the wreck, I don’t think I fully realized how lucky or blessed I was to walk away with just a few bruises and what they thought might be a broken nose. I didn’t realize how serious it really was until I saw pictures of the car a couple of days later.

That opened my eyes.

But it wasn’t until I heard about Sammy—on Saturday, driving home from Easter with my family—that it truly sank in. That’s when I realized just how close I came. How blessed I am to still be here.

Because just a few days after my wreck, Heaven gained one of the brightest lights I’ve ever known.

Sammy was one of the first kids I ever coached at the gym who I felt really trusted me, and for the past three years, I had the privilege of watching her grow—not just as an athlete, but as a beautiful, kind, and radiant person. She had just turned 17 a day or so before the accident, with her whole world ahead of her.

Sammy had this way of lighting up a room the second she walked in. Her laugh was contagious, her heart was golden, and no matter what kind of day I was having, she could always put a smile on my face. She was the type of person who never wanted others to worry about her—even when she was hurting. The type to make fun of herself just to lift someone else up. The type to include everyone and make sure no one ever felt left out.

I was so proud of the young woman she was becoming, and I’m even prouder to have been a small part of her journey.

For days after Sammy’s accident, I haven’t felt right. I’ve felt a huge guilt hanging over my body. I know I don’t get to decide the future, and I’m not saying in any way that I’m not grateful to be here—because I am. But in so many ways, I think daily about why I got to live and she didn’t. I wonder how someone as flawed as I am can deserve to live, go free, and continue this life, when her story was cut so short. I think about how she will never graduate high school, never go to college, never get married or have kids. I think about her family and how much pain they must be going through, and I feel the immense pain of guilt hit every time I think about how such a beautiful soul could be taken from us so soon.

Her passing shook me in a way I still can’t explain. And I’ve carried this heavy, painful guilt ever since. That I survived. That she didn’t. That life can be so unfair and fragile and random, and I don’t get to make sense of it.

But the reason it’s weighed on me even more is because of what coaching really is. When you coach a kid every day—whether it’s for a year or for three—you’re not just teaching them skills. You’re watching them grow up. You’re hearing about what’s going on in their world: their school drama, their family vacations, their highs and heartbreaks. You’re a constant in their life, and in return, they become a major part of yours.

Sammy wasn’t just one of my athletes. She was someone I saw nearly every day. I coached her, I coached her little sister. I saw them at weekend meets, at football games, at school events. Even when I wasn’t her main coach anymore, I was still there—watching her beam after a good routine, listening to her stories, being part of the rhythm of her life.

And that connection doesn’t end just because someone moves away.

Her family had relocated this year, but I still kept up with them. I loved seeing her mom’s updates on social media. I loved seeing Sammy stepping into new experiences with the same joy and light she always carried. And now... to know she’s gone—it breaks my heart in a different kind of way.

Because when you lose someone like that, it doesn’t matter that they weren’t “yours” by blood. These kids become family. You carry a responsibility to them. A loyalty. A love that doesn't go away, even with distance or time.

They become your little sisters. Your sunshine on hard days. Your reminder of why you do what you do.

So when one of them is gone, it feels like someone took a piece of your heart you didn’t know could be taken.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is… life is fragile. It’s terrifying and beautiful and confusing and heartbreaking, all at once. One second you’re watching the sunset with your dog, and the next, you're screaming for help, unsure if you’ll ever get to see another one. One moment you're scrolling through photos of a kid you love, and the next, you’re reading messages that she’s gone.

But I’m still here. And I don’t take that lightly.

I still don’t have all the answers. I still cry. I still feel guilt. But I’m learning that it’s okay to hold all of that at once. It’s okay to feel broken and still be thankful. It’s okay to grieve and still move forward. It’s okay to miss someone and still find ways to carry their light with you.

Sammy’s light doesn’t go out just because she’s no longer here.

It’s in every laugh I hear at the gym. It’s in every kid who feels seen, heard, and loved. It’s in every moment I remind myself to be present, to be kind, and to love my people a little harder—because she would’ve done the same.

So I’ll keep showing up. For the kids I coach. For the people I love. For the life I get to keep living.

And I’ll carry Sammy with me, always.

In the routines. In the sidelines. In the sunsets.

This is for her.

—B 💛