Tuesday, July 7, 2026
Today has been 13 days since my accident.
On the day of my accident, I went to jail. My charges were DWI (first offense), driving without a seatbelt, no proof of insurance, reckless driving, and disorderly conduct.
I walked into the detention center in handcuffs. The detention officer told me to follow her. Then I had to get completely naked in front of a woman I didn’t know, had never met, and honestly hope I never see again. She saw me on the worst day of my life, in my birthday suit.
I am a very private woman. I don’t wear revealing clothes, and I certainly don’t walk around naked in front of anyone. Standing there, completely exposed, I felt ashamed that I had allowed myself to get to that point.
After changing into the detention clothing—a one-piece button-up jumpsuit—I quickly realized how little privacy there was. If you needed to use the bathroom, you had to unbutton the top half of the suit just to sit on the toilet. There is no privacy in jail. Regardless of why you’re there, your freedom and many of your basic comforts are stripped away.
After being fingerprinted and signing paperwork related to my charges, I was handed a six-foot-long, six-inch-thick mattress pad and a blanket. Then I was escorted into a cell with five other women.
It was the middle of summer, and the cell was unbearably hot. I was still coming down from all the alcohol, so when they brought supper trays around, I had no interest in eating the food they served.
I laid down on my mattress, my arm throbbing from the airbag burns and my leg aching from slamming into the dashboard beneath the steering wheel. At that point I still hadn’t seen what my leg looked like. I could only feel the constant, throbbing pain.
For hours I just lay there, sweating. The only water available came from the same sink that sat next to the toilet.
Time seemed to stand still.
I barely slept that night. Other inmates yelled, screamed, and carried on throughout the night. I just stared into the darkness, thinking about the mess I had made of my life and wondering how Miles could ever forgive me.
A couple of the detention officers kindly let me try to call him, but for some reason our phone service wouldn’t allow the calls to go through. The last time I had spoken to him was at the hospital while I was still intoxicated, and only a few words had been exchanged.
Deep down, I believed he would bail me out. But I also knew he had every reason to be angry. As the hours passed, I couldn’t help but wonder if he would leave me there for a few days to think about what I had done.
Finally, around 10:30 Friday morning, it was time for my bail hearing. Along with many others, I was escorted into the courtroom. I happened to be one of the first people called before the judge.
After hearing my case, the judge set my bond at $1,000. That meant Miles would have to pay roughly $180 to a bondsman to get me released that day.
Because I was one of the first people to see the judge, I was escorted back to my cell while everyone else’s hearings continued.
So I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Not knowing if I would be going home that day.
Looking back now, those hours felt much longer than they actually were. When you’ve lost your freedom, time moves differently. Every minute gives you another opportunity to think about the choices that brought you there, and every minute makes you wish you could go back and change them.
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