Five thousand, four hundred seventy-eight days—or 15 years ago—a driver, impaired with nearly three times the legal alcohol blood concentration in Arizona, runs no less than two red lights before slamming his white Dodge Ram into the driver’s side of my husband’s two-month-old black Honda Civic. Each August, on this day, I relive those memories, snapshots strung together that recount our story: Police ring my doorbell to deliver the news. My 12-year-old daughter and I arrive at the Level 1 trauma hospital where my husband undergoes emergency surgery and spends the next 59 days reclaiming his life. Over time, our family learns to navigate a new normal amidst the deficits resulting from a diffuse TBI, crushed hip and other myriad physical, emotional and mental trauma. Heartaches and highlights serve as milestones that color our collective journey from victims to victors. And it’s on the anniversary of my husband’s “death” and “re-birthday,” that I once again implore readers to make the right choice: don’t drink and drive.