Sometimes the Hardest Decisions Save Us

Not every story from our past is lighthearted or easy to share. Some carry weight. Some remind us how quickly life can turn and how the decisions we make as teenagers can echo long into adulthood.

I was only sixteen when this happened. Just a kid really, out on a Friday night with my bros, cruising around in the little Honda City. Nothing big. Just a loop through town, music playing, windows down.

We stopped at Mobil for gas. While I was paying, I heard my name.

“Tyrone, can I get a lift back to Ahipara?”

It was my cousin. And like any sixteen year old who wants to be there for family, I didn’t think twice. “Yeah bro, all good.”

We jumped back in the car. Before heading home, I said, “Let’s do one more loop through town.” Just one more.

But that loop changed everything.

As we passed the town clock on Commerce Street, I saw them, a group of guys leaning on a V8 Holden. My eyes met one of theirs, then his eyes locked onto my cousin.

My cousin’s voice cracked with panic. “Drive.”

I didn’t ask questions. At sixteen, you read fear instantly, and his was real. I floored it. In the rear-view, I saw them scrambling into their car. Tyres screaming. Bottles flying. Lights flashing. The chase was on.

We tore through the streets of Kaitaia. The Honda was tiny, 1300cc against the full grunt of a V8. On the straights, they’d eat us alive, so I tried to use the corners. Jamieson. Williams. Matthews. I threw that car harder than I ever should have, trying to outthink them, not outrun them.

Fear filled the car. My mates shouting. My cousin panicking. My own hands shaking on the wheel.

And then it hit me.

They weren’t chasing us.
They were chasing him.

That realisation was like ice in my chest. If I kept running, we’d all get dragged down. If we kept that chase up, sooner or later we’d crash, and at sixteen years old, I knew one bad corner could mean none of us made it home.

So I made the hardest decision of my 16-year-old life. Near Kaitaia Intermediate, I pulled into a driveway, slammed the brakes, and reached across my cousin. “Bro, you gotta go.”

I pushed him out. He hit the ground running. I pulled back onto the road, and in the mirror I saw the Holden swing in after him.

Silence filled the car. The kind of silence that makes your ears ring. Nobody spoke as I dropped the bros off. That night, I lay awake, replaying every turn, every smash of a bottle, every second I thought might be my last.

The next day, he was gone. The day after, still nothing. A week passed, and the weight of that choice sat heavy. Then one afternoon, I stepped off the bus in Ahipara and there he was, walking like nothing had happened.

“You all good, bro?” I asked.
“Yeah bro,” he said.

And that was that.

Looking back now, I see it clearer. Sometimes the hardest decisions don’t feel like victories. They feel heavy. They feel lonely. But they save lives.

At P&P Flooring, we often say “Every home has a story.” The same is true for every person. Some stories are light, some are heavy, but all of them teach us something. This one taught me that courage isn’t always about holding on. Sometimes it’s about letting go.

He taonga nui te tūpato.