Last updated on November 13, 2025
I woke up the next day both surprised and relieved to find two bullets lodged in my car. One in the driver’s side door, one in the dash, as if it had entered through the back window.
For a long moment I just stared at them. The sun was coming up, my head was pounding, and it took a while before the memory of the night before began to rearrange itself into something I could face.
At the time, I was a teenager filled with anger that had nowhere to go. My father had walked out on us. My mother, my anchor, had been killed suddenly in a car crash about year earlier. That combination left me hollowed out and furious at a world that didn’t seem to care. People tried to look out for me, and I suppose I should have been grateful. But I wasn’t. I didn’t give a damn. Recklessness felt like freedom; danger, a form of control.
So when I went to that nightclub, I wasn’t there to dance or to fit in. I was there to forget. I remember getting drunk, how drunk, I couldn’t tell you but I remember the heat of confrontation. Two guys said something. I said something back. It escalated the way things do when pain looks for a target.
I don’t remember being thrown out or walking out. I just remember the cool air, the echo of adrenaline, and the taste of rage. I wanted a fight. I wanted someone else to hurt the way I hurt.
I got in my car, started it up, and tore through the parking lot. Somewhere between foolishness and fury, I turned the car around and drove straight toward them. Maybe I thought I could scare them. Maybe I thought I was invincible. What I know now is that I was reckless enough to believe the rules didn’t apply to me, not life, not death, not consequence.
Then the gunfire started.
It’s strange how sound can slow down time. The pops were sharp, almost distant, like firecrackers muffled by shock. I ducked instinctively, flooring the gas, weaving through the lot until I was back on the street and gone. I don’t remember thinking. I don’t remember fear. I remember nothing but the roar of the engine and the faint ringing in my ears.
That night could have ended everything. I could have died, or perhaps even worse I could have killed someone else. But instead, I woke up with a hangover and two bullet holes that told a story no one else knew.
And that’s when the shame set in.
Not the kind that fades after a few days, but the deep kind, the kind that gnaws at you because you know you’ve been spared, and you don’t know why.
That morning, I realized how close I had come to disappearing. And for the first time in a long time, I wanted to live. Not just exist. Not just fight. But live.
It wasn’t an overnight transformation. Anger doesn’t dissolve on command. But that day marked the beginning of something quieter inside me, a seed of humility. I began to see that the same fire that could destroy me could also light the path forward, if I could learn to control it.
Looking back, I don’t remember the names or the faces of the men who pulled the trigger. I remember the lesson.
Sometimes life spares you not because you deserve it, but because you still have something left to do.
Fool’s Reflection
When anger blinds reason, even survival can feel accidental. But every narrow escape is an invitation to choose differently.
What moment in your life reminded you that surviving isn’t the same as living?
About the Author
David Vega is the author of Fool for Thought: Reflections on Life, Identity, and Open-Mindedness and the CEO of Rockwall Capital Group, which owns The Rockwall Times. His weekly Life Happens column explores perseverance, leadership, and purpose, drawing on his journey from humble beginnings to executive leadership. Active in the Rockwall community, David serves on several nonprofit boards and believes deeply in giving back to the place he calls home with his wife and children.
To read more of his essays and reflections, visit http://www.foolforthought.life
