In the haze of the afternoon, I felt my eyelids flutter. I had traveled from Italy to Corfu, Greece by boat the previous day and was exhausted. Still, I was excited to be back in my motherland. I ignited my ATV and its low-toned hum joined a larger chorus of ten other four-wheelers whose riders mostly consisted of study abroad students.

It seemed that we had explored every inch of the island. My eyes were immune to the sea and rolling hills. I gazed straight ahead, focused on nothing, but my mind was thinking of everything. After a stressful year I couldn’t help but thank God aloud for allowing me to be back in my favorite country, Greece.

To turn an ATV, you must physically move your entire body towards the desired direction. The problem is when you are limp and it feels as if your muscles are giving into gravity, the simple ability to round corners becomes a serious challenge.

I made a right turn too short and ended driving up a curve. I quickly braked and my chest flung against the steering wheel. My gripped hands left the accelerator and in an instant extended forward, ripping off a side view mirror. Kosta, one of the ATV tour leaders, stopped next to me.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

“Yes,” I nonchalantly responded as I attempted to cover the broken mirror and chipped paint.

Aware of my current state I decided to take the rest of the ride slow, even though everyone else was a mile ahead.

I heard a car horn behind me. It blared again… and again. I was riding on the edge of the road, not obstructing the driver’s view or his path.

Why the hell won’t it stop, I thought to myself.

The alarm pierced through my head. Minutes seemed to drag into hours, until I could no longer suppress my urges.

I whipped around, ready to curse the driver off with the few Greek words I know, but I never got the chance.

I lost control of the ATV and it veered to the right. My brain, temporarily disabled, forgot breaks exist. I lifted my hands surrendering and said aloud, “Shit, God save me.”

My ATV slammed into a tree and I was propelled forward. I don’t remember flying off a 10 ft cliff, but apparently I did.

“Holy shit, holy shit. What do I do? Can you get up? What should I do?” said a frantic Kosta, who had run to the end of the street and then down a flight of stairs to reach me.

“Get help,” I managed to mutter. I tried gasping for air but instead only swallowed blood. I can’t die like this, I thought. He sprinted away, desperately searching for assistance, and I laid there alone, thinking only of staying alive.

I believed with my entire being I was taking my last breaths. My top teeth had pierced through my bottom gums, filling my mouth with blood and making it impossible for me to breathe or speak properly. My parents are going to be furious their only daughter died a pointless death in a self-sustained ATV accident, I thought.

I knew I needed to keep my head still until the ambulance arrived. I closed my eyes and when I opened them again I saw a homeless man with a gaping hole in the front of his pants watching me helplessly lay on the ground. A typical yiayia (Greek grandmother), dressed entirely in black, also came to see what the commotion was all about. Before I knew it a crowd of people formed before me. I remember thinking, watching a girl fly through the air is probably the most exciting thing this quaint village ever experienced. The thought made me smile, but when my lips began to turn upward sharp pains pierced my mouth, extending down the right side of my neck.

Kosta returned with the other tour leader and my fellow drivers. My two friends, Ivy and Erin, ran towards me.

They did not need to say anything—the drop of their jaws and enlargement of their eyes said it all.

“Give me your sunglasses Erin,” I demanded. She reluctantly handed me them. I placed my bloodstained hand behind the lenses and looked at my reflection. I held back tears.

My face was destroyed. Where skin should have been there was instead debris. Any surviving skin had been raised with blood bubbles. I glared at my teeth, practically growling at the sunglasses, but still was unable to feel them.

“Are my teeth there?” I asked the lingering crowd.

“Yes, yes they are. You still look beautiful,” someone answered.

“Where are my teeth?” I repeated.

No response.

I motioned to take my jacket off.

“She’s clearly hot. What can we do to help you?” Kosta asked.

“I’m fine. I want to work on my tan, since I am about to be in the hospital for the rest of the day,” I replied.

Everyone exchanged nervous glances; confused whether or not I was serious.

Eventually, the ambulance came and took me to the hospital. Hours later I walked out sore, but with only cuts and bruises. A miracle.

During my entire study abroad experience I would literally chant, “you are not living until you are almost dying.” I said it before I jumped out of a helicopter in the Swiss Alps, and again off a boat in the Amalfi Coast. I believed this mantra with my entire being.

I was fearless.

I was living...

Until I almost wasn’t.

Everyone encourages living limitlessly, and while I conceit to a degree it is liberating, in actuality living a life in which you have no regard for consequences is a form of self-destruction. It took me almost dying for me to realize that I deserve to live.

When you believe with every fiber of your being you have reached the end you appreciate the moments when your mom advised you against a bad decision. Or the simple moments: reading a book by a fireplace, driving to church Sunday mornings, people watching at a cafe, or laughing uncontrollably with friends—those I have found are the most fulfilling moments.