Antlers, Airbags, and the Joy of Making it Home Again
There are moments in life when joy feels big and cinematic, like laughing hysterically while trying to wheelchair “slow dance” spoke to spoke as the DJ plays “Perfect,” wearing a new, bolder-than-usual dress that leaves a girlie feeling a type of beautiful she hadn’t felt in a while.
The joy of singing along with the B-52’s at full volume in a crowded room, knocking on that imaginary door with zero shame and even less pitch control. And then there are moments when joy and gratitude collectively become something quieter, sharper, more essential. The kind that shows up not because life is good, but because it could have all ended but didn’t.
Gratitude.
Heading home, we were still enjoying the laughter and the warm light glow of life’s moments, of watching people we love begin a new chapter and reminiscing about our own “I do” day. The night felt light. Easy.
And then…
A full-sized buck lunged into our lane, launching out of the darkness as if shot from a cannon. One second we were talking about the car up ahead of us, long in the distance pumping his brake lights, barely visible. The next, we were colliding head-on at 65 miles an hour, westbound on 395. I recall seeing antlers, a flash of tan fur — THUD. Darkness, airbags, eyes burning, plumes of white, smelly smoke.
The car was upright and running, cocooned in air pillows, claustrophobic and disoriented… were we still in the middle of the freaking highway? The world tilted. Inside the chaos, two wheelchair users sat suspended in nervous disbelief, triaging the situation while also frantically trying to steer to the shoulder.
I have never been so happy to hear my husband’s voice. I cried and fumbled for the nearest phone. Relief so heavy it nearly knocked the wind out of me all over again.
We were both unhurt and… alive.
It’s wild how fast perspective shifts. One minute you’re debating snack options for the ride home while complaining to the GPS voice as if she’s a real person who’s directionally clueless… and the next, you’re coughing from airbag dust, calling your daughter from the back of an ambulance, and awestruck by the unbelievable miracle of it all.
Our joy didn’t disappear in the wreckage; it changed shape. It became the trembling “Are you okay?” we asked each other over and over, secretly fearing the answer might change. It became the steady hands we held while the reality sank in.
There’s a kind of joy that exists only in proximity to what could have been. A joy that’s raw and unfiltered, grounded in gratitude so deep it leaves you shaky. That’s the joy we found on the side of that highway: the kind that whispers, you’re still here.
And as we sat within the curtains of ER room 14, awaiting discharge papers and saline solution, a code blue came over the hospital speaker… the joy, gratitude meld didn’t fade. It multiplied. Tears in my eyes as I buried my face into his arm. I felt sad but still grateful.
Every message from friends. Every “I’m so glad you’re okay.” Every moment of realizing that yes, the car is gone, the night took a sharp turn, and none of this was the plan - but we made it home.
Bruised, rattled, and grateful.
Joy isn’t always confetti and good lighting. Sometimes it’s knowing that the car you left behind did its job to the fullest. Sometimes it’s breathing through the fear with the person you love. Sometimes it’s knowing that the outcome could have been so much worse… but wasn’t.
Joy is what steadied us.
Gratitude is what’s holding us now.