Accidental Success by Wittman

Accidental Success by Wittman - February 2026 Scholarship Essay

It was just an ordinary morning heading to school. My brother was driving and I was the passenger. Taking our usual left turn toward the school building and now only a few hundred yards to the entrance on a straightway, we felt no cause for concern. A pickup truck was coming toward us in the opposite lane, but we didn’t really pay much attention--at first. Suddenly, his hood flies up onto his windshield, completely blocking his view. He never sees us. With a ditch to his right and knowing a gas station entrance is nearby on his left, he has to make a split-second decision. He turns left, straight into us--ripping the back axle free from the main body.

The impact is strong, loud, and confusing. Our truck spins completely around, flips, lands on my side, and slides down the road. It feels fast and yet, slow-motion at the same time. Glass is everywhere and we’re sitting sideways, thankful for our seatbelts. Shaken and bruised, we unbuckle. We climb up and out through the driver’s side window and are grateful to be alive. While I knew my external injuries would heal, I wasn’t expecting the internal, mental injuries that were to come.

In the weeks following, the obvious physical injuries faded and to the outside world, life looked normal again. But internally, I felt off: less steady. My sense of control started to dwindle. I hesitated more and questioned my instincts. I didn’t fully trust my own body. Things that were once routine now felt fragile, like it could all fall apart at any moment.

That’s the part I wasn’t expecting and then I finally realized injuries aren’t just physical. Mental injuries change how you think and how safe you feel. Long after the body heals, your mind can still be catching up. I struggled with focus and patience. I carried a constant awareness that everything could change in seconds.

I had a decision to make: let the accident hold me back or intentionally build myself back up.

I chose intention.

That choice first showed up in my early mornings. Even now, almost two years later, my alarm still goes off at 5:00 A.M. I get up, put on my shoes, and spend some time drinking coffee and talking with my parents. After that, Dad and I go to the basement to lift weights. At first, weightlifting was just a way to take some control and become physically stronger. It quickly turned into something more as the structure of the mornings helped ground me. It gave my thoughts somewhere to focus when everything else felt sporadic.
While building physical muscle was what originally mattered to me, rebuilding the mental trust in my body really mattered more. I began to trust my ability to keep showing up. Some days were filled with progress and others were discouraging. I had to learn that there were times to push myself and times to rest, not just physically, but mentally as well. Finding that balance wasn’t easy and sometimes I’d get it wrong, but eventually I began to trust that weakness is not failure. Weakness is actually part of what can help make you stronger.

I was realizing that my body and mind were recovering in conjunction with each other. As I got physically stronger, my mental focus improved. My confidence began returning. When I focused on lifting weights, my mind stopped being so scattered and I felt more in control. I was finally understanding that healing was not about returning to who I was before the accident. It was about becoming more patient, more aware, and more flexible than before.

That mindset carried into my schoolwork, as well. Motivation isn’t reliable, so I stuck with habits and routine. Show up, do the work; repeat. Whether I’m taking advanced classes or studying for standardized tests, the approach is the same. Some days are going to be productive; others will be frustrating, but consistency is what matters--not how I feel in the moment. This approach has helped me earn the rank of fourth in my class, not because school is easy, but because I learned how to keep going even when everything feels overwhelming.

My leadership also changed. As head Drum Major, I set the tone for the entire marching band. People notice how I respond under pressure. After experiencing uncertainty, myself, I became more aware of how stress might affect others. Now, I lead with more patience and try to stay steady, especially when things are difficult. I’ve learned that growth isn’t loud; it’s silent behind-the-scenes work that appears before anyone really notices it’s happening.

At home, recovery showed up in practical ways. Becoming physically stronger allowed me to help my dad more with our family’s tree service. I can haul brush, drag logs, and do work that once felt intimidating. Outdoor labor is not my passion, but it pushed me in ways I needed. Furthermore, it reinforced the lesson that perseverance means respecting my limits, while still moving forward.

My entire understanding of recovery has changed. Injuries don’t end when physical pain fades. They can affect confidence, focus, and even identity. Real recovery has to include mental adaptability, structure, routine, rest, and patience. Healing isn’t quick or clean, and recovery isn’t about returning to normal. It’s about growing stronger in new ways, even when the process is tremendously difficult.