September often reminds us to fully experience moments rather than merely commemorate them.
It’s a tranquil Saturday morning on Labor Day weekend. My eldest is nestled in bed with a book, my son is constructing a masterpiece with Legos, and the baby is flipping through her picture books while I sort her laundry. My partner is at the gym, and I’m savoring a warm cup of coffee, sunlight pouring in through the windows. Soft music drifts in the background. In this fleeting instance, everything feels right.
Then, a wave of anxiety washes over me. That sense of perfection triggers my unease—like a well-learned instinct from my younger years. I’ve come to associate moments of joy with the inevitable fall that often follows them. I can’t help but be reminded of the defining tragedies that shape our generations. For those before us, it was the assassinations of JFK, Martin Luther King Jr., and Robert Kennedy. For my generation, it was 9/11.
In that autumn of 2001, I discovered the isolating reality of Manhattan as a literal island. I understood the daunting challenge of seeking help when the world around us felt chaotic. I learned the significance of hope amidst overwhelming despair, realizing that the act of holding onto hope can often outweigh the harsh truths we face. I also grasped that calamities often strike on otherwise beautiful days.
Ask anyone about that fateful Tuesday, and they will likely mention the stunning weather. Even now, a perfect September morning—a flawless blend of warmth and coolness, with just a few clouds in an impossibly blue sky—chills me to the bone. In this way, I will forever equate beauty with foreboding.
I had just moved to Manhattan on September 8, 2001. Just three days later, everything shifted, and a new normal emerged. The rapidity of this transformation makes it hard to pinpoint the moment before it became our reality. Eventually, seeing “missing” posters plastered throughout the subway became commonplace. Those faces—did I recognize any of them? The haunting uncertainty of whether I had crossed paths with them just days before lingers in my mind. I learned that life is filled with inexplicable losses, and the search for those we love often feels futile.
At the time, I was single, living an ordinary New York life in an illegal sublet. Whatever the new normal looked like, it was all I would know going forward. The harsh truth is that life often feels like a collection of moments past. With time, we learn there are no survivors in the relentless march of history.
As both an individual and a future parent, 9/11 imparted crucial lessons. It underscored our shared mortality and the terrifying randomness of existence. Contemplating these truths can often paralyze me, especially when I gaze into the faces of my three eager children, bursting with potential and needs. How can I love them without being haunted by the specter of loss and the uncertainty of what lies ahead?
Yet, this experience also taught me to cherish moments as they come, without overanalyzing their significance. Each moment is unique—not simply the first or last of anything. The only constant is that new normals will inevitably arise, lurking just around the bend. Time moves swiftly, leaving little room for nostalgia. Eventually, the journey and destination become secondary to the people and truths we hold dear today.
As my partner pulls into the driveway, we engage in one of those silent conversations couples often share—a wordless exchange where he senses my anxiety. At times, we need those we love to help us move beyond our worries and embrace the present instead of fixating on what has come before or what may lie ahead. This reminder is vital: it’s less about the quality of our current moment and more about the love that propels us into the next one.
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In summary, life’s unpredictability can be daunting, yet it teaches us to savor each moment. Amidst the chaos, love and connection remain our guiding lights, leading us toward new normals.