Fairytales never captured my imagination, not the way they did for other girls. While they dreamed of princes and castles, I was drawn to something else entirely. It wasn’t glass slippers or magic wands that lit up my world—it was the deep, guttural sound of a roaring engine and the unmistakable scent of burning rubber on pavement. That’s the kind of story I live for every single day.

When I hear an engine rev, my pulse quickens. It’s like a symphony meant just for me, each note pulling me closer to the edge of excitement. There’s a power in that sound, something raw and untamed, and it sparks something in me that no fairytale ever could. I don’t need rescuing, and I certainly don’t need a prince—I just need the hum of a finely tuned engine and the road beneath my tires.

The smell of burning rubber is my reminder that I’m alive, that I’m pushing limits and leaving something behind. It’s the scent of a moment that can never be taken back—a corner taken just a little too fast, a stretch of road where I pushed just a little harder. Those moments aren’t mistakes; they’re the chapters of my story.

I’ve always believed in stories, but mine isn’t written with golden pens or bound in leather. It’s written in tire marks on empty highways, in the grit under my fingernails after a long day working on my car, and in the way my heart races when I push the pedal to the floor.

This isn’t about rebellion or recklessness. It’s about passion. It’s about choosing to live a story where I am the driver, the hero, and the dreamer all at once. And every day, I can’t wait to write the next chapter.