Category: Reflections

The Branding of Us

I’ll never forget my first encounter with branding.

I was about 7 years old, plodding around the playground at recess in my Converse High Tops. But all I wanted was a pair of Nikes.

My shoes were comfortable. They were functional. And, in hindsight, they were hip!

(Plus, my mother probably saved a fortune on them at Marshall’s.)

But none of that mattered. My friends had Nikes. MJ sported Nikes. All I wanted were Nikes.

A few years later, I got my coveted pair of Nikes. And, aside from one pair of cross country running shoes, every pair of sneakers I’ve ever owned since then has either had a Swoosh or a Jumpman logo on it.

Branding is real.

***

I’ve harkened back to this playground scene a lot recently. It’s been getting more and more difficult for me to find Nike shoes that meet my fashion standards and fit my wide feet. And when I do, I end up paying a fortune for a product that frankly isn’t worth the extra money.

Yet, I keep coming back, as reliably as Pavlov’s dog.

Despite my knowing better, I’m loyal to Nike. It’s my look — and that makes it my only choice, for better or for worse. When the University of Miami switched apparel providers from Nike to Adidas in 2015, I quietly mourned the decision; I’ve since significantly cut back on the amount of t-shirts I’ve bought from my alma mater.

Nike is part of how I express myself. And — though it loathes me to admit this — Nike matters to me.

***

What keeps me coming back to the Swoosh? I could list any number of marketing psychology terms, but I’ll focus on one aspect — the narrative.

Stories are a powerful component of our lives, and branding is a key part of our personal stories — although not in the way corporate branding executives aim for. (Sorry Nike, I don’t think buying a pair of your cross-trainers will make me run like Usain Bolt.)

No, branding serves as a supporting actor in the feature production that is our lives. The styles we wear, the tech we buy and the food we eat at different points in the story — these are all impacted by branding. Either we’re loyal to certain brands or we’re consciously fighting the grip that a company name can have over our lives. In each case, brand influence is a factor in our personal brand.

***

And personal branding is significant. We are constantly sending a message — actively or passively, consciously or subconsciously. How that message is perceived can impact our destiny; this is why we try and take ownership of our own brand identity.

But where should we turn for inspiration when undertaking this task? I feel the best answer to that question is actually…companies like Nike.

You see, the impact of corporate brand influence on our lives is twofold. On one hand, it can embed itself in the story we tell. On another, it can provide us a reminder of which principles to master when crafting our personal brand.

Specifically, it can demonstrate how to build connections to our hopes and dreams. It can show us that how we act, how we dress, what we say and what we do can help us attain the life we desire — whether that be the job we dream of, the family we aspire to build or the circle of friends that we seek to maintain.

The foundation of the life we strive for might already be in existence. But until we take ownership of the narrative, our story is being written on autopilot.

***

It’s time to take control of the branding of us. Whether this means strengthening the connections we already have or breaking with them to build new ones, we must take the helm in writing the narrative of our lives.

We’re obligated to take on this task, because doing so can reap benefits for so many. A properly managed personal brand can help drive us forward, and positively impact those we come across. It can allow us to speak to our community in a way that truly resonates. It can help make the world a better place.

The branding of us is within our grasp. But it’s on us to make it happen.

The Trials of Our Time

About a week ago, I wrote a blog article that was meant to be shared here. The article was about Dallas — how it is so often misunderstood, how what makes it special is hidden behind the stereotypical perceptions held by outsiders and whether all of this even matters.

I believe in every word of that article. But it will have to wait for another time.

As I was reading over my completed draft of that article, a nightmare was unfolding less than 20 miles away, in the heart of downtown Dallas. A peaceful protest against police brutality was suddenly ambushed by a barrage of bullets, aimed by a sniper at the officers on duty in the area. Five officers lost their lives in the attack, while seven others — plus two civilians — sustained injuries. It was quite possibly the most heinous incident in Dallas since President Kennedy was gunned down at Dealey Plaza — a mere two blocks from the most recent atrocity — more than 50 years ago.

The past few days have, admittedly, been difficult for me. I reckon they’ve been difficult for all North Texans. And while I’m no stranger to the emptiness left by senseless tragedy — having been in New York City on 9/11 and having covered some awful stories during my news media career — the pain I feel is different this time, in part because the situation is so much more complex.

You’ve probably heard commentary from countless angles over the violent events of the first week of July 2016 by now. This is not another piece of angled commentary. It’s a narrative I hope is shared by so many who are deeply disturbed by these recent events, but are also weighed down by the balance of perspective.

Given the perilous state of our society, I feel it’s my duty to share this narrative here.

***

“Dallas is a city that loves.”

Those words from Dallas Police Chief David Brown the day after the city’s most heinous attack in decades.

He’s right.

Despite the bad rap Dallas gets elsewhere — including the derogatory “New York of Texas” moniker given by the folks down I-35 apiece — this is one of the friendliest places I’ve ever called home. Strangers are genuinely kind and respectful, and friends have treated me like family.

While Dallas’ official tourism slogan is “Big Things Happen Here,” I’ve long thought it should read “Your Life Matters Here.” Aside from New York, I’ve rarely seen a more diverse and inclusive region; in fact, I personally feel Dallas is more openly diverse than Miami — a city that considers itself “The Gateway to the Americas”.

Of course, “Your Life Matters Here” brings us to the heart of the recent tragedies.

There is a define trend of African American men losing their lives at the hands of law enforcement in this country. It is real, it is disturbing and it must be properly addressed.

But the Dallas Police Department, by and large, has not been a part of this trend. Serving a city that, despite its welcoming attitude, is far from perfect — a city that still features its share of bad neighborhoods and violent crime — the department has made great strides to fulfill their duties without creating a culture of racial prejudice displayed in Ferguson, Saint Paul, Baton Rouge and even New York.

But that didn’t matter to one former member of the U.S. Army, a man who looked down at white and Hispanic men in badges and saw red.

He didn’t just take the lives of five men who were doing their job by protecting a group of people who were protesting atrocities committed by their own profession, he took the lives of five North Texans. Men who had families. Men who made plenty of sacrifices just to join the police force. Men who truly cared about the community they served. Men who would stop pro athletes to take a photo with them, just as other North Texans would.

Heck, some of the men and women he targeted had stopped to pose for pictures with the protesters momentsearlier. But that didn’t matter to this sniper, who had categorically picked them for extermination.

And that is why I take this incident so personally.

I am not black. I am not in law enforcement. So I don’t know what it’s like to have a continual target on my back. But the thought of being systematically categorized and eliminated based off something as basic as my skin tone or line of work is unconscionable. It’s a risk all my friends with darker skin tones face continually, and one that all my friends and acquaintances in law enforcement must be aware of as well. And it’s a situation that cost five officers — five of my extended neighbors — their lives.

We cannot let this continue. For if we do, we’re heading for a path of self-destruction. Coast to coast, the racial divide is as bad right now as I’ve ever seen it in my life. Distrust is high and violent confrontation has taken hold. We’re on the brink of a total meltdown that would annihilate everything good our society has ever stood for.

These are the trials of our time, and we must deal with them.

We must take the steps to come together and save ourselves. The angry voices on the edge need not take the lead; that’s the responsibility of those in the middle — the ones who care about fair treatment for all, but have done little to speak up so far.

We must put aside our differences and unite against hate, against prejudice and against this horrific violence.

***

As I turned onto the Woodall Rodgers Freeway the other night, I noticed the iconic Dallas skyline, decked out in blue in honor of the fallen officers. It was a beautiful, captivating sight — but also a melancholy one. Our city is certainly hurting right now, but we will endure.

Our society must make the changes needed to do the same.

The Moments That Matter

The glass stood on the kitchen counter, filled with Ovaltine chocolate milk. I watched with wide eyes as my father stood next to it, dressed to in his suit and tie.

I looked up at him, with a hopeful expression on my face.

“Could I have some too, daddy?”

Moments later, we were downing our glasses of Ovaltine together, the master and his three-year old apprentice.

***

The milk ritual was special to me. Maybe even sacred. It was the only time I could spend each day with the man I idolized so much, before he headed off to his advertising job in the big city. So I busted tail to the kitchen every morning, hoping to catch him before the glass was empty and my hopes were shattered.

But this day was different. Our time together would not be limited to a glass of milk, because I was going my father to that mystical job, the one that kept him from me so much.

I felt like a kid at Disney World. We got to take the train into the big city, then we walked down a street full of tall buildings until we got to one that looked like it touched the sky. We rode an elevator to the 32nd floor, and my father opened a glass door in a glass wall, entering an office suite that overlooked much of the city.

My father got me M&Ms and a Diet Coke from the vending machine, opened up Microsoft Word on his computer and left for a meeting. I stared mesmerizingly at the blank page before me on the computer screen, then hit hit the “g” key repeatedly, until the entire page was filled with it. When my father returned, I proudly showed him the “work” I’d done, and he laughed. Then, we went down the street to McDonalds for lunch.

***

By the time we got home that evening, I was convinced that my father had the coolest job ever — an occupation that made up for all the time we had to spend apart. But even though he tried to hide it, I had a feeling that he didn’t feel the way about his job that I did.

Truth is, my father was miserable — so miserable, in fact, that my mother felt compelled to utter the seven-word ultimatum that would come to define our family’s future: “Change your life or change your wife.”

My father made the wise decision, and soon that job in the fancy high-rise office was no more. He went to grad school and our lives changed. Even at a young age, this wasn’t lost on me; I remarked, “Now we can finally eat out again,” on the day he graduated.

Soon enough, my father was back on his feet as a teacher — a career he continues today, more than 20 years later. It was all strange to me, as I was in the early years of school myself at the time. But it was certainly nice to see him more each day, and to have summers off together.

***

Draw what you don’t want to be.

It’s an odd request, particularly when you’re 12 years old and those words are coming from a psychologist. But it didn’t take me more than a second to put pen to paper.

A few artistically-challenged moments later, I showed off my completed “masterpiece.” It was a photo of a sad-looking man, wearing a suit and holding a briefcase, waiting on a train platform.

The moment was jarring; I’d drawn my father from my early years.

It was clear that the normal 9 to 5 was a trap to me at that time. I’d felt the prison bars up close, and I was determined to avoid them. In the decade that followed, I charted a course far away from the traditional business field, ending up as a TV news producer in West Texas after I graduated college.

At the age of 25, I pivoted.

I moved back to a big city — Dallas in this case — and transitioned into a 9 to 5 career in the same marketing and advertising sector my father had left so many years before.

It had all come full circle.

***

In the early days of my second career, I spoke often about finishing what my father started. It didn’t matter that I was cutting my teeth in Internet marketing — a beast that didn’t exist 20 years earlier, when he was in the industry; to me, the symbiotic nature of our career journeys was too compelling to ignore, and it was a powerful motivator.

But then, I remembered the picture I’d drawn years before. I wasn’t becoming the man on the train platform, was I?

Thankfully, the answer was a resounding no.

I realized in that moment that despite the shared career field, my father and I were worlds apart. While my father started in the industry fresh out of college, I had already experienced burnout in another career by the time I joined the marketing world — and I had taken the lessons from both my father’s prior experience and my own to heart while building a necessary sense of perspective.

Forget legacy or overarching purpose. At the end of the day, my job was simply an occupation, and it needed to stay that way.

***

I’ve since grown more comfortable with the routines of the business world — even dressing somewhat formally despite my employer’s lack of a strict dress code — but I still refuse to let my job take over my life. While I continue to work at becoming a better marketer, if I ever feel that my career is trapping me in a cycle of misery — as my father did — I will follow his lead (and my precedent) and start anew.

For there’s one lesson my father taught me that rings truer than the rest.

Building a career is a worthy investment. But the moments that matter the most are the ones shared while downing that glass of Ovaltine.

The Everyday Evolution

I don’t like change.

That’s a bit of an odd statement from someone who relocated three times in a seven-year span, but one filled with truth.

Some people get a rush from a constant stream of new adventures; I’m more comfortable with the tried-and-true routine.

But life doesn’t care about my comfort zone. My own biology doesn’t care about my comfort zone. And, to a certain extent, my mind doesn’t care about my comfort zone.

So I’ve made some big changes. My address, time zone, employer, career, sleep schedule and hobbies have all transformed in the past decade. To a certain degree, my temperament has too — I’ve come to embrace my introverted nature without becoming a hermit, come to embrace the serenity of silence at certain points during the week and come to find a balance between the times when I’m locked in and kicking back.

But most of these changes have been reactive. I had to adapt in order to play the hand I’d been dealt, regardless of how I ended up at the table in the first place. And a reactional change is more about self-preservation than self-improvement.

There ain’t much shame in survival, according to Darwin. (The Donner Party notwithstanding.) But there’s little to be gained from it.

So in the past year, I’ve pivoted. I’ve decided to make change a proactive part of my life.

It started with a reactive decision. Noticing that my wallet was empty but my fridge was full of beer one evening, I decided to cut beer from my grocery list — for good. Suddenly, another thought popped in my head, unprovoked: While I’m at it, why don’t I also commit to eating out less often?

Soon, I was bringing my lunch to work 4 days a week, and preparing meals at home every weeknight. Not coincidentally, I gradually stopped eating all fast food.

Next up was Dr Pepper. I quit that — and all other soft drinks — cold turkey about 8 months ago, followed by other sugary drinks like sweet tea, protein shakes and Gatorade. Eventually, I purged sugar itself — aside from the occasional donut at the office or slice of pecan pie at a restaurant.

At the same time, I increased my workout load, committed to taking multi-mile walks on weekends and even added fruit and vegetables to my diet.

And food wasn’t the only part of my life that changed. I cut back on traveling, going to sporting events, shopping and other thrill-seeking events — committing much of that time and energy toward initiatives like Words of the West, fitness, cooking and self-education.

A lot of wholesale change, all inspired by one choice to stop buying beer.

Now, you might think that replacing so many things I like with those that I was once ambivalent to would be a soul-crushing experience. But you would be dead wrong.

I feel better than I ever have. I’m lighter, stronger and more energized.

Why? Because I haven’t changed. I’ve evolved.

The changes I’ve made have rekindled old interests — such as the art of cooking — and inspired new ones, like an active lifestyle. Swapping out old habits for new ones allows me to continue my drive for self-improvement, while maintaining the balance of routine.

This evolution is ongoing. I’m sure as the weeks, months and years go by, I will keep proactively finding ways to make my life healthier, more productive and more efficient.

You can do this too. If you’re on the fence about making changes in your life, get at it!

Evolution is an everyday process. Grab the bull by the horns and let it ride!

The Essence of Texas

I am a proud Texan. I drink my coffee from a Come and Take It mug, have a Lone Star flag emblem on the back of my SUV and care about March 2nd more than y’all do. Texas soil is sacred to me, and I consider it an honor to live on top of it.

But I’m not a native Texan. Far from it.

So how does someone who spends his childhood more than a thousand miles from the banks of the Red River identify with the land that lies between it and the Rio Grande? Safe to say, this uniquely authentic place has captivated me like none other.

And I’m not alone. Over the years, I’ve gotten dozens of non-Texans addicted to Torchys Tacos. My barbeque brisket has gotten such rave reviews up north that it’s become a holiday tradition. And I’ve been promised return visits from out-of-state family and friends who were pleasantly surprised by how much they enjoyed their time here. Yes, I’m sure my presence has something to do with it, but the unique aura of Texas has had some effect.

But my enveloping connection with Texas goes much deeper than exposure to good food, warm weather and Lone Star charm. Being a Texan has as much to do with the way you live your life as where you live it.

Values are everything in Texas. Doing the right thing matters here, and that includes treating others the right way. This is a breath of fresh air in a world that seems to glorify self-aggrandizement, entitlement, indulgence and misbehavior. Texas hospitality is relic of a more decent time, one which has been sustained into a more advanced and inclusive era.

Of course, Texan values are about more than how you treat others. They’re also about standing up for yourself. It’s a doctrine that found its roots within the walls of the Alamo, and is rooted within the souls of Texans today.

Don’t Mess With Texas is more than just a hollow saying, as Jose Bautista recently found out. (It should be noted that the source of that right hook — Venezuela native Rougned Odor — has quickly ascended to the status of Texan for his very public display of this value.) While violence is not encouraged, standing up for oneself most certainly is.

This complex mix of values serves the backbone of the collective spirit known as Texanism. We are proud to be Texans; by and large, we see no shame in publicizing that.

This is not always an easy concept for others to grasp. A recent New York Times article — written by a Texas resident who grew up in California — passed off Texanism as a regional, commercialized resistance to America’s rapidly evolving culture. I couldn’t disagree more.

Texanism is quite authentic; it’s a tacit solidarity embedded within the souls of those who do right by each other and stand up for themselves. Texanism not about resisting change; it’s about respectfully and gracefully accepting it without sacrificing our identity.

This is what makes Texas uniquely special, this compromise between new ideals and time-honored traditions. Openness is demanded, but heritage is still protected. Independence is lauded but respect is expected. Standing up for yourself is on equal footing with looking out for others. And morality is both a personal and collective responsibility.

Ultimately, the essence of Texas is finding balance in ideals — a concept I believe quite strongly in.

This is why Texas is a part of me. And I’m a part of it.

I am a Texan. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Meeting Our Needs

We all have our priorities.

If we’ve heard this line before, it most likely came gift-wrapped in a derisive tone. We can be quite the judgmental lot as a society, and when someone’s set of priorities dares to defy our expectations, we all too often find ourselves scoffing in indignation.

But what are the right priorities to set? What are the expectations that should be met?

These questions will often bring an uncomfortable silence among the self-annointed peanut gallery. After all, it’s easier to point a finger at what’s considered wrong by society than to articulate what’s considered right.

Truth is, there is a road map to these questions. It’s called Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.

Without digging too deeply into this theory (since I ain’t got a couch for you to lie on and tell me your feelings), it outlines a pyramid of needs, starting with the most basic and foundational and reaching its peak at self-actualization.

I remember vividly the day I discovered the truth behind this theory. I had just landed in Chile for a college study abroad program, and was in a private van heading with my classmates from the international airport in Santiago to Viña del Mar — the city we’d call home for the next two months or so.

Shortly after we got on the highway, the orange juice I’d downed on the plane caught up with me. After about 10 minutes of trying to soldier on, I asked the driver to pull over. He obliged at a scenic overlook, one that was conspicuously missing the type of thick roadside shrubbery those who make these types of pit stops hope to find. I ultimately had to climb a hill and wind around some barren desert plants to find a place where I could be comfortable relieving myself.

As I stood there, looking out across the Andes Mountains, I knew exactly where my priorities were. I was alone on a continent where I didn’t know a soul, en route to living quarters I knew little of. If there was a moment in my life where I was most out of my element, this would be it. But even at this moment, when nature called, I took great liberties to make sure my core needs were met. I even made sure my senses of safety, belonging and self-esteem (the middle sections of the Hierarchy of Needs pyramid) were met by making the extra effort to find a spot shielded from view to…you know.

As I returned to the van, I felt at peace. The unknown still awaited me, but the most basic level of normalcy had taken hold.

So what can we all learn from this, besides the fact that the terrain of Chile is quite rugged? Quite simply, our quibbling over our priorities in life is trivial. How we spend our time and who we spend it with is important, but the attention we give it is as overblown as the headlines in the gossip magazines in grocery store checkout aisles.

Are we fed? Are we clothed? Are we safe? Are we happy? These are the needs we must meet, the priorities we must set. For without these, we can’t function properly, let alone soar to our potential.

So the next time someone makes mention of your priorities, think of these basic needs — for both yourself and your loved ones. If these needs are met, and morality is ingrained in your actions, you’ll be off to a good start — no matter what the peanut gallery says.

Owning Our Mistakes

It was an unusually wonderful Thursday evening. Instead of staying home and watching Shades of Blue, I was at a bar in Dallas connecting with fellow University of Miami alumni. A couple drinks were had, many stories were shared, and the hours flew by.

Friday morning hit me like a ton of bricks. As I went through my 6 AM zombie-like wakeup routine for one final time that workweek, it dawned on me:

Did I ever pay for my drinks?

The answer was no.

My heart started racing. I’d made many mistakes before, but this was a particularly big one. And the fact that I didn’t even notice the mistake until 12 hours later compounded the issue. In this case, ignorance most certainly was not bliss.

My pride, integrity and morality were on the line. I’d screwed up — and screwed over a waitress who was relying on my gratuity. Immediately, my mind fixated on one question:

How will you respond?

There were really two options: I could have just moved on as if it never happened, or I could have tried to make it right.

I chose the second option.

I called the bar when they opened Friday evening, apologized and tried to settle my tab. It turned out an official from the Alumni office who was at the event had picked up my tab, and I later learned the University had reimbursed him for the expense.

Why am I bringing all this up, aside from sharing how I accidentally got the University of Miami to cover some adult beverages?

Well, in the course of our lives, we will make mistakes. Some of these will be small errors, like accidentally cutting the line at the deli. Others might be more significant, like forgetting to pay for your drinks.

In these cases, what happened doesn’t really matter. How you respond does.

Are you the kind of person who will strive to make it right? The one who will fix what’s broken and learn from your errant ways? Or will you move on down the line as if nothing ever happened?

Your answer depends largely on who you are on the inside. Your moral compass, the standards you set for yourself, your drive to learn and improve — these will all define the choices you make in these moments.

It’s been said that one’s true character is illuminated by the fires of adversity. Well, mistakes are self-inflicted episodes of adversity. The aftermath of these gaffes provide the opportunity for you to show who you truly are and how you can make a difference.

So own your mistakes. Then rectify them.

More With Less

I am a huge fan of the TV series Justified. For six seasons, the show brought a potent mix of vibrant characters, dark comedy and dramatic tension to my living room. It also brought this gem of a line into my consciousness.

“Boy, you say 40 words where four will do.”

Nine words of brilliance. Brilliance that cuts deep.

I am a writer. While it might not be the way I make my living per se, putting words on paper is my greatest talent.

Yet this gift comes combo-packaged with the curse of long-windedness. Indeed, I often say more than I need to in my writing; worse still, I become an unconscionable blabbermouth when I spend extended time with family and friends.

I know why this happens. I subconsciously feel the extra words will allow everyone to understand something I previously implied. I often have trouble deciphering implied meanings, so I aim to be an empathetic communicator for all who I can connect with.

But this strategy is foolish. Writing is about forging an emotional connection with your readers. Verbal communication with one’s inner circle is no different. That connection can be powerful when done right, but every extra word or unnecessary thought dilutes its potency, much as water dilutes alcohol.

This is why the most influential communicators have mastered the art of efficiency. Writers from Mark Twain to Seth Godin have imparted wisdom in short phrases, time and again. The impact of their words outweighs the amount of text on the page. The absence of explanation gives the audience something to chew on, making the prose more impactful and memorable.

My goal is to have this impact both with my writing and my verbal communication. So I strive to show restraint, to listen more and to think before speaking, every time.

It’s a challenge, but one that’s critical for me to take on. For if I want to be the best communicator I possibly plan, I must master this manta:

Say more with less.

Darkness In The Light

“I’m going to die.”

The thought raced through my head, over and over like the words on an electronic marquee board, as I sat on the gym floor. I stared blankly out the windows illuminated by bright sunshine, resigned to my fate. All around me, my classmates stared intently, as the faculty leaders told us that we were safe.

“That’s bullshit,” I thought. “Stop lying to us.”

Still, I stayed silent. It wasn’t my place to say a word; even if it were, what would I say?

Soon, it was back to the school day. I wandered to my next class, my body climbing the staircase but my soul halfway to the other side. Moments later, my teacher told us to call our parents and tell them that we were okay.

Still in a daze, I turned on my phone and called my mother. On the second ring, she answered, sounding worried. I told her what I had just heard, but didn’t believe — that I was alright and we were all safe. My mother told me she was glad to hear that, the palpable emotion in her voice knocking me back into reality.

As the shock wore off, I was hit with an avalanche of emotions I’d never experienced before, feelings that I’ll never be able to adequately put into words. At the age of 13, my life had changed; I was broken, and would never be whole again.

The date was September 11th, 2001.

***

It started as a normal Tuesday. It had rained the night before, but as I started my hour-long journey from the New York suburbs to my middle school on the Upper West Side of Manhattan — a trek that included a bus and two trains — the skies were clear and the air was warm. It was the kind of day that made a teenager long for the recently departed summer break; one you wanted to hold on to before the biting chill of fall set in.

As I sat in my history class an hour or so later, I was momentarily distracted by the sound of an airplane overhead — an unusual, but not unheard of occurrence. A few minutes later, it was on to a Physical Education class, and we headed out to Central Park to play soccer in the beautiful weather. As far as school days went, this one didn’t seem so bad.

But as we left the park, I could tell something was wrong. The streets were nearly empty; only a few people were on the move. A woman approached our gym teacher, who was nearly twice her height. The teacher leaned over as she whispered something to him; when he turned away he looked pale. I knew this teacher relatively well; he was also one of my baseball coaches and a pillar of positive energy. I’d never seen him so shaken.

That’s when I learned the horrifying news: The plane I’d heard flying over the school an hour earlier had crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center, just 7 miles south of where I was standing. Moments later, I learned that another plane had hit the south tower. It was apparent that the city was under attack, and doomsday scenarios sprung into the forefront of my mind; even with so much still unknown, I was convinced whoever was responsible wouldn’t stop until they burned down the entire city. There was nothing I could do to avoid the inevitable.

As the entire school gathered in the gym for an impromptu assembly, I was convinced this day would be my last on Earth.

***

After I got off the phone with my mother, and returned to my English class, I gained some clarity. We learned that terrorists had hijacked commercial airliners and intentionally flew the planes into New York’s tallest buildings. Other terrorists had flown a plane into the Pentagon, and there were a few reports of a plane crash in rural Pennsylvania. New York’s public transit system shut down, and the National Guard quickly blocked all the bridges and tunnels around Manhattan. I had nowhere else to go.

Two hours later, my father picked me up. He was teaching at another school a few blocks away at the time of the attacks, but he had to stay there until the parents of his students came to collect their kids.

When my father showed up at my school, I didn’t want to leave. I had finally realized that I was indeed safe at school. Who knew what would happen if I left? But there I was, moments later, walking down empty Manhattan sidewalks, hardly saying a word. Soon, my father and I were heading back to the suburbs in a car driven by his colleague’s mother.

As the car approached a toll bridge at the top of Manhattan, a heavily armed National Guardsman stood by the tollbooth. “Go on,” he said. “Get out of here.” It seemed like something out of a movie, and it gave me chills.

Around 1:30 that afternoon, my father and I met up with my mother and sister in the Bronx, at what would later be my high school. We took the short drive home and turned on CNN. For hours, I watched Aaron Brown give the latest developments on America’s darkest day, his voice weighted by somberness and mounting exhaustion. Eventually, my parents and sister went to bed. I stayed awake, worried that I wouldn’t wake up the next morning — and worried about what would happen if I did. Eventually, exhaustion took over; I shut off the TV and crawled into bed.

***

September 12th, 2001

I awoke confused, angry, disturbed and hurt. School was cancelled for the day, giving me plenty of time to think. So much was unknown, but one thing was abundantly clear: My life would never be the same again.

***

September 21st, 2001

Within a week of the attacks, the authorities reopened some of the sidewalks of Lower Manhattan. My father and I wanted to get a firsthand sense of what had happened, so we took a train to Chinatown (where the police barricades were) and walked a mile down Broadway to Ground Zero.

There was no way to prepare for what we saw next. A plume of debris filled the air, and the wreckage was six stories high. My father touched a scaffold three blocks from the World Trade Center and discovered the dust stuck to it was an inch thick. It looked like a war zone.

Soon, horror gave way to disgust. As we made our way down Broadway, I saw Don King standing on the other side of the police barricade. He was wearing an expensive jacket adorned with the Statue of Liberty and promoting his next fight. It was selfish, callous and rude for King to use a national tragedy as his promotional stage, but there he was just the same; I’ll never forgive Don King for that, as long as I live.

***

Time heals wounds, but some are just too darned big.

As the days and months passed, I returned to my normal routine at school. But everything felt different. I knew the immense pain I was feeling would take time to heal, but it seemed like things were only getting tougher.

I thought about what happened on September 11th, and all that was lost, each day. But in the first few years after the tragedy, my thoughts would quickly turn to questions:

  • What can bring closure after a catastrophic tragedy?
  • Can you get PTSD from watching people jump out of buildings and get buried by debris, even if you only see it on television?
  • When will we truly be able to feel safe again?
  • Will those responsible for turning our world upside down ever fully pay for what they’ve done?

Answers were fleeting, and the pain never subsided.

***

Eventually, I came to a sobering truth.

There is no closure for a tragedy like this, and there never will be one.

I don’t know when exactly I discovered this, but it marked a significant turning point. I had to live with the fact that my life would forever be changed, that I would forever have a hole in my heart. A part of me was stolen on September 11th; instead of letting it go, I had been wasting years trying to get it back.

A strange thing happened when I came to this revelation — I found solace in it. The pain of the memories was raw as ever, but my soul was no longer in a constant state of restlessness. Somewhere along the line I found God, and faith has been a significant part of my life ever since.

***

May 2nd, 2011

I was sitting in my apartment in Midland, Texas, on a Sunday night, winding down before another stressful and exhausting week as a producer at KMID Big 2 News when my cell phone rang. It was KMID’s weekend anchor on the other end of the line.

“Dylan, our troops killed Osama Bin Laden in Pakistan. I’m trying to get more information on this for the newscast, but can you update the station’s website?”

I thought I’d misheard something, but she assured me that yes, Osama Bin Laden had been killed. Soon, I was watching ABC News and writing a detailed recap for the KMID website — from my couch. Journalism at its finest.

Once the story was up and the breaking news rush was over, I took a moment to think about what had just happened. I didn’t even know Bin Laden was still alive at the time, but I felt his death at the hands of our forces provided a bit of relief. Although this might sound vengeful and immoral, I felt that the killing of Bin Laden was justified (and ironically, I was watching an episode of Justified when I got the call about it). A man who brought so much suffering to our world, who ruined so many lives — that man deserved to have that suffering turned on him.

I thought about all this. Then, I thought about the events of September 11th. I prayed about it, went to bed, and slept better than I had in 10 years.

***

November 22nd, 2011

My plane touched down at LaGuardia Airport on a gloomy November day. I was up in New York from Texas for the Thanksgiving holiday. When my parents picked me up at the airport, they sprung a surprise on me: I wasn’t heading to their house.

My mother dropped my father and I off at a subway station; we rode the train to Lower Manhattan and headed toward the newly unveiled 9/11 Memorial at the World Trade Center site. Where the towers once stood now lay two square reflecting pools, surrounded by waterfalls and the names of those who perished in or around each tower. Quite fittingly, it was raining as we walked around the site.

My father and I hardly said a word as we looked at the water rushing into the memorial, both from the sky and the waterfalls. The silence wasn’t unusual; as a teacher, my father had to explain the unexplainable to a group of frightened sixth graders on September 11th, 2001, and the subject had been mostly taboo for him in the 10 years after that.

At one point, I kneeled by the memorial to think about the victims, and pray for their loved ones. As I stood back up, my father surprised me by asking for a hug. Suddenly, we were talking about what had been off-limits for so long — the events of that fateful day, our intertwined memories of the aftermath, the emotions we had to deal with in the years afterward and our separate quests for closure. After a few more moments, I asked if he was ready to go. “Not yet,” he said. We hugged a second time, each choking back tears. It was one of the most emotional moments of my life.

***

December 26th, 2014

As the late afternoon sunshine slowly faded away from the 9/11 Memorial site, and my father and I made our way into the newly-opened museum on the grounds. While I’m not often a museumgoer, it was important to me to get some new perspective on the tragedy that has so deeply affected my life.

I knew visiting the museum would bring back some gut-wrenching memories, but I had no idea how raw those emotions would be. Archive news footage, police dispatcher recordings — they all brought back feelings from half my life ago, the most harrowing and traumatic memories of September 11th, which I’d long since buried. When I came upon recordings of cell phone conversations between passengers on the hijacked planes and their loved ones — calls to say goodbye — I found myself paralyzed by grief.

Visiting the 9/11 Memorial Museum was one of the most difficult things I’ve done in my life. I left nearly as broken as I felt in the days after the attacks; I essentially dragged myself up the escalator and out the door when it was time to leave.

But I wouldn’t have traded any of that for a second. If you don’t have a full understanding of all that’s been lost, you can never be truly found.

***

November 27, 2015

The last remnants of the morning fog lifted over New York Harbor and Jamaica Bay as I watched through glass windows more than 1500 feet above the street. It was as if the veil of the past was being lifted to show the future.

As I explored the One World Observatory — atop the tallest building in the Western Hemisphere, now towering over the World Trade Center site — I felt many different emotions. Fear was not one of them.

Those that took so much from myself — and so many others — 14 years prior had still failed in their ultimate quest. My very presence, high above the ground at the very site they had once targeted was proof of both our collective resilience and the totality of their failure.

But even with my symbolic journey of resilience and recovery now seemingly complete, one thought permeated in my mind:

Although the view is stunning, this building shouldn’t be here. The Twin Towers should.

All we’ve gained doesn’t wipe out all we’ve lost; it simply reinforces it.

***

“Mama said you gotta put the past behind you so you can move forward.”

Forrest Gump is one of my favorite movies of all-time, filled with wisdom I use in my everyday life. But this is not one of them.

I will never put September 11th behind me. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about the events of that fateful day. For more than 5,000 days, these reflections have made me both stronger and weaker. The hole in my heart is ever present, the emotions still raw, and the events of that fateful day never forgotten.

But more than that, I don’t think I’d ever want to put September 11th behind me. The past has helped me move forward, as the events of that day have transformed my life ever since. I don’t take a single day for granted, and I strive to treat others with grace and kindness whenever possible. While I lost all traces of childish innocence forever on September 11th, the actions I’ve taken moving forward have helped shape me into the man I am today.

Coping with the memories of that day hasn’t gotten easier. I will carry the burden for the rest of my life. But while I will never be whole again, I am finally at peace.