Breaking Cycles: The Night I Shouldn’t Have Made It Out Alive

 

I was sixteen — wild, reckless, and untouchable.

Or at least, I thought I was.

The first of my friends to get my license, I swore that freedom was found in the hum of an engine and the sound of music blasting through open windows. That little plastic card felt like wings. I could go anywhere, be anyone, and leave behind everything that made me feel trapped.

Every weekend, my world came alive under the streetlights. Friday and Saturday nights were sacred — two nights to escape reality and pretend we had it all figured out. My partner-in-chaos was a girl named J. She was the kind of friend who understood the rush — the need to be seen, to be free, to be wild. We didn’t just chase fun; we chased the edge.

We’d cruise around town, passing the mall where everyone gathered like moths to a neon flame. It was the kind of place where you didn’t need an invite — you just showed up, and someone always knew where the next party was. A caravan of teenage rebellion would follow the loudest music and the faintest promise of a good time. We called it living. Looking back, it was closer to surviving.

That night, the air smelled like smoke and cheap perfume. The sky was bruised purple — the kind of night that feels electric, like anything could happen. And it did.

J and I hopped into a car that wasn’t ours, filled with people we barely knew. They promised to drop us back at my truck when the night was over. I didn’t think twice. That was how we lived — trusting strangers, chasing chaos, and pretending the rules didn’t apply to us.

We hit three parties that night. Three.
At each one, the music got louder, the lights dimmer, the drinks stronger. We passed bottles like they were secrets, like courage came in liquid form. I couldn’t tell you how much we drank, only that it was more than any sixteen-year-old body should hold. But we were young. Our bodies bounced back. No hangovers, no guilt. Just blurry mornings that faded into school days we barely remembered.

But this night — this one — carved itself into my memory like a scar.

By the time the third party got shut down, word spread fast that everyone was heading to a hill overlooking the city. A hundred kids or more showed up, headlights painting the dirt road like stars had fallen from the sky. Music blasted from cars, people laughed too loud, drank too much, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world belonged to us.

Until it didn’t.

The danger didn’t announce itself. It crept in quietly — a shift in energy, a wrong glance, the wrong kind of smile. J and I noticed a group of older guys hovering too close, eyes sharp, words slurred but heavy. At first, it seemed harmless — just another group joining the chaos. But when they offered us a ride “home,” something inside me hesitated.

They got angry when we said no. The kind of anger that simmers before it explodes.
One of them grabbed my arm. Another tried to pull J toward the car. We didn’t know them — not really — but they acted like they owned us. Like we were just part of the night they paid for.

And in that moment, everything that felt invincible turned fragile.

I remember yelling. I remember the blur of headlights and the sound of tires spinning in the dirt. I remember shoving someone off me, the taste of fear in my mouth, metallic like blood. J was screaming. Someone shouted, “Run!” and that was all it took. We ran like our lives depended on it — because they did.

We hid behind a car until we saw our chance to escape. I grabbed J hand, and we sprinted into the darkness, praying we wouldn’t trip. When we finally made it back to my truck, I was shaking so hard I could barely put the keys in the ignition. The road home felt endless. Every shadow felt alive.

I don’t remember what we said. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

When I got home that night, I sat in my driveway with the engine off, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My mascara was smeared, my hands smelled like smoke, and my heart felt like it had been cracked open. I realized then how close I had come to not making it home at all.

That night could have ended so differently.

And the truth is, it wasn’t the only close call. There were others. So many others. But that was the one that left a mark. The one that whispered — You got lucky. Don’t waste it.

I didn’t listen right away. I still drank. Still partied. Still chased the edge. But deep down, something had changed. A seed was planted — a quiet knowing that I was running from myself, and one day, I’d have to stop.

Years later, when I finally got sober, that memory came rushing back. Not as shame, but as gratitude. Because somehow, through all the danger and darkness, I survived what should have destroyed me.

Now I see that sixteen-year-old girl differently.
She wasn’t evil. She wasn’t hopeless.
She was just lost — searching for freedom in all the wrong places.

And maybe that’s what breaking cycles really looks like. It’s not clean. It’s messy, it’s loud, and sometimes, it’s terrifying. But it’s real. It’s the moment you realize you’re not invincible, but you’re still here. And being here — being alive — is the start of everything.

That night taught me what it meant to be chosen, not cursed.
Chosen to live. Chosen to learn. Chosen to change.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve ever had a night that almost ended you — know this: you’re still here for a reason. There’s purpose in your survival. There’s light waiting on the other side of every dark road you took.

If my story spoke to a part of you — the part that’s still fighting, still healing, still learning how to be free — don’t let it end here. Share this post with someone who needs to be reminded that survival is strength.

Follow @ROSE.UNCHAINED for more raw stories, mindset shifts, and real reminders that you were never cursed and there is always hope. 🌹⛓💥