“They’re Your Legs.”

A few weeks ago, I was at Valvoline getting an oil change.

It was a busy day—full bays, a strong shop lead keeping things moving, and a small crew working fast. Watching them coordinate, I was impressed. I was enjoying the moment so much that I even agreed to buy an air filter replacement—something I usually do myself.

My car was due for a tire rotation, so I stepped out while they lifted it.

The manager helped the younger mechanics stabilize the lift, ensuring it was locked in place before moving to the next car.

Everything looked good.

And then—I saw it.

One of the mechanics sat cross-legged under the rear axle.

?? My dad’s voice hit me before I even realized I was moving. ??

I was through the door. “Hey, don’t cross bones. Don’t trust that jack.”

The young mechanic looked up. “I’m okay,” he said.

I just shrugged. “Okay. They’re your legs.”

And he moved back.

A Team Owns Its Own Safety

Once they were done, I spoke with two of the younger mechanics—a young man who had been working on my car and a young woman who had been listening in as she finished her task.

I reminded them about their buddy—the one who hand-waved his safety, the one who thought he’d be fine under the axle.

I told them:

? Kneeling might be uncomfortable.

?? But it’s a lot more comfortable than getting crushed.

And more importantly—his safety is their problem, too.

If he gets pinned, it won’t just be his crisis. It’ll be theirs. It’ll be them trying to save him. It’ll be them listening to the screams.

Because a team isn’t just responsible for their own safety. They’re responsible for making sure everyone makes it home.

I Grew Up in a Shop. I Know What Happens When You Get It Wrong.

I grew up in a shop. My father was a lead diesel mechanic and later an owner-operator. Keeping him on the road was priority number one.

By 13, I was breaking down truck tires, armed with nothing but a breaker bar and the will to get it done.

By my late teens, I was running the yard while my dad was on the road. When he came back, he’d tell me what needed to be done, then go to sleep so he could get back on the highway.

That meant I had to work alone—late at night, in a steel building, with machines that didn’t care if I lived or died.

There was no room for mistakes.

?? I had to know how to be safe—because no one was there to save me if I wasn’t.

?? I had to respect the work—because there’s no such thing as "I’ll fix it later" when you’re under 80,000 pounds of steel.

My dad drilled it into me:

? Never trust a jack. Always block and chock.

? Assume everything is heavier, sharper, and more dangerous than it looks.

? Know the difference between discomfort and disaster. A little discomfort today beats a lifetime of regret.

? Never rush safety. You’ll never get back the time you lose if you get it wrong.

The lesson was clear:

?? The best way to learn safety isn’t through experience—it’s through listening to those who already have it.

This Moment Meant Something.

As I got into my car, I called out— “Hey, stay safe.”

And he hollered back— “I will.”

That moment stuck with me.

I was raised to be independent. To survive. But when it comes to safety, no one is truly alone—it’s always a shared responsibility.

Today, I’m not the kid in the shop anymore. I’m older. A professional software engineer. My world today is almost unimaginable to that younger version of me.

But when I see someone who reminds me of the kid I used to be?

I can’t walk away without making sure they know what I know.

Because sometimes, that’s the difference between walking away from the job at the end of the day— And not walking at all.