Tag: emotion

The Heart of Morality

I just want to do the right thing.

Many of us have uttered these words after doing something unorthodox.

Staying on the straight and narrow sometimes involves deviating from routine procedures or making personal sacrifices. And this can envelop us with a sense of cognitive dissonance.

Whenever we veer off-script, a conflict emerges between the norm we’re breaking with and the result we’re seeking. Reminding ourselves that we’re doing the right thing helps reconcile that conflict.

The right thing can seem like a nebulous term. But the code it’s based upon is not.

We call that code morality.

Morality means everything to us. It’s the standard we judge others on. And it’s what we critique ourselves on as well.

But how do we derive morality? How do we distinguish between what’s appropriate and what’s unjust?

Many of us believe the answer is basic logic. We claim that tapping into widely accepted values helps us determine what to do next. And we argue that morality is simply the process of following those markers.

It’s a tidy argument. But the truth of the matter is far more complicated.

The final months of 2001 were nothing short of surreal.

America had endured the September 11th attacks. Our military had sent troops to Afghanistan to root out those responsible for the violence. Our economy was in a recession and a sense of tension was in the air.

I was in my early teens at the time, which made these events particularly jarring. In an instant, my youthful innocence was ripped away. A sobering reality took its place.

I went through all the emotions that come with trauma in those months. I oscillated between anger, fear, and sadness. But mostly, I was filled with confusion.

The terrorists who organized the September 11th attacks had committed unspeakable acts — killing 3,000 innocent Americans, toppling skyscrapers, and blasting a hole in the Pentagon. And yet, they claimed they were in the right. They blamed America for a culture of sin. And they touted the morality of their actions.

All of this made no sense to me.

How would sending operatives 5,000 miles to indiscriminately kill civilians be viewed as moral? It violated one of the Ten Commandments from the Bible. (Thou shalt not kill.) And it ran afoul of the guidance of the Quran. (You shall not take life, except by way of justice and law.)

To me, it was as if these terrorists had stacked a crime on a crime. They had done more than just violate the code of morality. They had ripped the code to shreds. This made them evil, in my mind, and thereby worthy of purging.

So, as I slogged through adolescence and early adulthood, I was filled with thoughts of vengeance. I openly cheered the killing of Osama Bin Laden. And I turned a blind eye to the torture of detainees accused of terrorism.

It all seemed so clear to me. Anyone who so blatantly disavowed the code of morality had to be eliminated. I stuck by this logic, even as it took me to darker and darker places.

But then, some new examples of misaligned morals enveloped our society. And this time, the situation was far murkier.

The killing of unarmed Black teens by law enforcement — a longstanding problem — gained widespread attention following the death of Michael Brown in 2014. Protestors took to the streets in Ferguson, Missouri in pursuit of racial justice.

Those protests grew violent, with looting and mayhem. This led to a militarized law enforcement response. Police sprayed tear gas, threw smoke bombs, and fired rubber bullets at the protesters.

In the wake of this confrontation, both sides claimed they were in the right. Supporters of law enforcement said it was their moral duty to prevent looting and assault. The protestors believed considered racial justice to be their moral quest. A calling that superseded the code of laws they might break along the way.

Neither claim to morality was fully upheld. But neither was refuted either. And in the years since then, the debate over morality has only grown fiercer. It’s become a defining marker of our societal divisions.

It’s uncomfortable living in conflict like this. So, we keep seeking to close the gap.

We search for that one bit of logic that will neutralize the other side, settling this debate once and for all. And, in the process, we keep finding nothing but futility.

Perhaps it’s time we try a new approach.

On October 6, 1965, the Los Angeles Dodgers dropped the first game of the World Series to the Minnesota Twins. Many players had a hand in the result. But one man who never saw the field seemed to grab the most attention.

Sandy Koufax — the Dodgers’ best pitcher — was supposed to take the mound in Minnesota that day. But October 6th also happened to be the date of Yom Kippur — the holiest day of the Jewish calendar — that year. Koufax, who is Jewish, refused to pitch on that day.

Many criticized Koufax for abandoning his job at such an important juncture. It seemed immoral to some.

But Koufax’s choice might actually have been the purest example of morality at work.

Baseball was Koufax’s profession. He was a steady, dominant force in a sport that meant a great deal to him. But his faith also mattered. It was as much a part of his values as baseball was.

So, when Koufax found the two halves of his identity in conflict, he listened to his heart and made his decision.

Yes, Koufax let emotion — not logic — define his morality. That gave him the clarity and conviction he needed to see his decision through.

The example Sandy Koufax set might seem extreme. But it’s far from extraordinary.

When we drop everything to be there for family or friends in need, we’re following our moral compass. And we’re often doing this at the expense of our logical one.

In a vacuum, such choices make little sense. They’re inconvenient and they pull us away from proven patterns of success.

Still, we can’t imagine not making these decisions. They clearly seem like the right thing to do.

It’s our emotions that are guiding us to go the extra mile. It’s our feelings that are helping us be there in the moments that matter. It’s our hearts that are defining our sense of morality.

Our emotions help us distinguish right from wrong. And through this process, we realize what it truly means to be human.

As such, our mandate is clear.

We must stop relying on logic alone to delineate right and wrong. We must listen to our hearts as well.

It’s our obligation to look beyond our self-interest. It’s our duty to care about each other, be good to each other and be there for each other.

So, the next time we’re faced with a tough choice, let’s resist the temptation to break out the spreadsheets. Let’s give our hearts the chance to guide the way.

The Fragility of Emotion

There have been thousands of sci-fi TV shows and movies throughout the years. But only a select few franchises have the level of popularity that Star Trek does.

Why that is remains an open-ended question.

It could be the aspirational mantra— To go where no man has gone before. It could be the fascination with all the technological flair. It could be the intrigue of the mysterious language of Klingon.

But I think the appeal of Star Trek comes from something far more fundamental — the allure of the protagonist.

The franchise primarily covers the adventures of the Starship Enterprise. The ship’s captain in the initial series — James T. Kirk — is a confident character who is not afraid to wear his emotions on his sleeve. Yet, his First Officer — Spock — is meticulously logical and comparatively emotionless.

Spock’s tendencies are biological. Spock is Vulcan on his father’s side, and Vulcans are defined by their adherence to logic. Kirk’s tendencies are also biological — as humans are often known for their bravado.

The dynamic between Kirk and Spock defines much of the narrative — both in the 1960s TV show and the 2000s reboot film series. Their interactions often demonstrate the conflict between emotion and logic.

This dramatic tension resonates. After all, logic and emotion are two core conditions of humanity. And they represent the two pillars of storytelling.

With this in mind, it’s no wonder Star Trek is so compelling. In a strange way, it’s the story of us.

Step away from the TV screen, and the view is much different.

In our everyday lives, we don’t want to explore the overlap of logic and emotion. We’d rather keep them separated.

So, we protect our emotions with vigor. We aspire to keep our mood steady. And we angrily rebuke anyone who pokes holes in our defenses.

This process takes no prisoners. Like an enraged dragon, our defenses engulf anyone who questions our decision making processes.

No one is spared when this inferno rages. Not our enemies. Not our acquaintances. And not even our loved ones.

And sometimes, entire industries feel our wrath for prodding a little too deeply. Two, in particular, get on our nerves most often — the news media and marketing.

These professions get all up in our business. They blast right through our varnished facades and expose the raw emotions within us.

We don’t like getting exposed like this. So, we brand the news media as Triggering. And we give marketers scarlet letter of Manipulative.

We sing the praises of other industries in their stead. Of professions that are more logical.

They seem like lines of work that Spock would excel in, if he wasn’t the First Officer on a famous Starship. And we aspire to be like Spock — or at least to appear to be like him.

Of course, in reality, we are not like Spock. Not even close.

Unlike half-Vulcans, we are driven by emotion. We feed off it. We rely on it.

We want to be loved, cared for and doted on. We want to experience joy, wonder and satisfaction. We want to our pulse to quicken, our heart to race, the blood to flow through our veins.

Most of all, we want to feel.

So, we lead with emotion. We let it pilot our decisions. Then we use logic to justify them.

None of this, on its face, is improper. After all, emotion is what makes us human.

Still, this approach comes with its own set of issues.

For emotion is fragile. Emotion is raw. And emotion leaves us vulnerable.

Our feelings can cloud our judgment. That means others can use them against us for nefarious purposes.

We avoid this outcome by spinning a narrative. By portraying ourselves as logic-based machines. And by rebuffing anyone who openly tries to stoke our emotions.

This is the objective we seek — this relentless homogeneity. It’s the safe play. Far safer than exposing the soft underbelly of our emotions.

But it’s also vanilla. Too vanilla for our tastes.

And that dissonance looms large.

When there’s a logjam, it’s best to cut through the clutter.

We want the stability of logic-based decision making. But we need information to feed our emotional side.

The legal and financial industries help give us what we want. They provide us the cornerstones of order and power — even as seem more detached from reality than someone hopped up on Valium.

But maligned industries like the media and marketing — they give us what we need. They call to our emotions, providing us the fodder to make choices in the manner we’re most accustomed to.

Yes, professions like these are the purest reflection of the human condition. They allow us to make profound connections. Connections that capitalize on the very fragility of emotion we so fear. Connections that build upon empathy to make the world a better place.

This is why I’ve chosen to work in both the media and marketing realms throughout my career. And it’s why it irks me to see them so callously smeared.

For there is a lot of good in these lines of work.

Indeed, unlike many “logic-based” professions, these industries are seldom zero-sum. It’s not about winners and losers, or lifting up one at the expense of another.

At their best, these industries think broader. They focus on connecting buyers and sellers, or providing knowledge to the uninformed.

These are the types of mutually-beneficial exchanges that can raise entire societies. When we have each other’s backs — when we’re focused on the same endpoint — we soar.

But we can’t get there by playing it safe. By putting distance between ourselves and those who are attempting to reach us. By deluding ourselves as to our true nature.

No, we must welcome vulnerability. We must accept the fragility of emotion. And we must recognize the potential that exists if we allow others to move us toward action.

To be sure, this is not a silver bullet. If we don’t do our due diligence, we can get badly hurt.

But it is a step in the right direction. A necessary step.

The fragility of emotion is not a bug in the human condition. It’s a feature.

Let’s get the most out of it.

The Mirage of Relief

A cloud lifted.

This is the sensation we often feel when we can avoid making a decision our heart’s not fully invested in.

That decision often comes as we prepare to enter into a commitment that’s unfamiliar and scary.

It could be heading off to college, signing a mortgage, or committing to a new job.

Regardless of which type of tough decision we face, we react the same when we turn and walk away.

We feel as if the cloud has been lifted. We feel relief.

Relief is soothing. Relief is reassuring. And relief is extremely dangerous.

You see, there’s a misgiving embedded in relief. One that makes us believe we were right to run from our tough decisions or unpleasant commitments. One that says those choices were wrong for us, and that we provided our own salvation from them.

In essence, we treat relief as a White Knight. As the sensible way forward in a world of unpleasantness and confusion.

But this elevation of purpose is all kinds of wrong.

You see, relief is no savior. No, it’s actually a mirage.

Much like visions of water in the desert, it’s a reaction to our own hopes and dreams.

These hopes, these dreams — they’re heavily biased by our desires and fears. As such, they’re hardly objective at all.

Treating them as the voice of righteousness is like building a house of cards. They’re bound to come crashing down.

The truth is as follows: What makes us feel good isn’t always right. Sometimes, what’s difficult is what’s needed.

Think about it. What are we trading off for walking away? What is the price of comfort and uninterrupted happiness?

That price is the potential for something greater.

By playing it safe and letting our sense of relief win the day, we sacrifice our ability to grow and prosper. We cede the opportunity to make mistakes and learn from them. We give up the chance to live at the edge of our comfort zone.

There’s nothing admirable in that.

Now, that’s not to say that walking away is the always the wrong thing to do.

There are no absolutes here. The choices we make are heavily impacted by our temperament, along with the specific situations we face.

Some of these situations may carry a heavy toll for walking away. Others might not.

But regardless, when we do decide to balk, we must not mistake relief for validation.

Instead, we must take the time to exhale and move forward. All while disposing of all in-the-moment sensations.

For if we do not do this, we will cloud our judgement for future decisions. We will continue to champion what’s comfortable over what’s most beneficial.

And should we do that, we’ll be hurting ourselves. And ruining our potential.

So, find solace in relief. But beware of the mirage.

Illusions can cut deeper than the sharpest dagger.

The Soundtrack Of Our Lives

The first thing I remember is still clear as day.

I was sitting in my car seat as my parents’ Ford Taurus made the trek up the hill to my first home. The Rolling Stones hit “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” was on the radio.

As the angelic choir faded into the distinctive tones of Mick Jagger, I remember daydreaming about hot air balloons. With voices that light and airy, I could be forgiven for assuming the song was about a balloon ride.

I must have been about a year old.

***

It’s no accident that this is my first memory. Our perspectives and recollections can change over the years, but music is timeless.

Music holds the power of captivation — the distinct ability to enchant and entice. It contains the diversity to both maintain and break with tradition — to connect us with our past or send us soaring into the great unknown.

And much like cuisine, music has its distinct flavor in every corner of the world. But it also has the unmatched power to unite us across cultural and linguistic boundaries.

How can music be this malleable in function? The answer has everything to do with the sensation it invokes in us.

You see, music is bound by the duality of meaning. As with photography and cooking, what the artist intends to convey might not exactly match what we take in. We assign our own connotation, based off of our unique perspective of the world and our experiences in it.

This gives us the freedom to view music anyway we see fit, and for music to serve a multitude of purposes. It inspires the musicians among us to keep the wheel of innovation turning, as they continue crank out material that continues to surprise, delight and inspire us.

It’s what allows us to associate a Rolling Stones song with hot air balloons. Or an Alan Parsons Project instrumental with Michael Jordan. Or whatever the first song is at our wedding with the love of our life.

And ultimately, it’s what transforms music from a jumble of lyrics, rhythms, melodies and harmonies into something far more substantial — the soundtrack to our life story.

***

The power music holds over us comes from emotion.

You see, how music makes us feel deep down inside says everything about its place in our lives. It drives the narrative. For that feeling we get when we hear the right song at the right moment is distinctive. It’s special. It’s ours.

The combination of a piece of music and our emotional response to it makes for powerfully personal storytelling. This is why a single song can tell millions of stories over its lifetime.

A song holds the power to cheer us up or calm us down. It can take us away from reality when we need an escape, or sharpen our focus when the moment calls for it.

Yet, while our reaction to a song might be inherently individual, appreciation for music is one of the strongest bonds we all share.

This is why we’re constantly listening to music in the car, during our workouts or at the grocery store. This is why we pack arenas around the world just to hear our favorite songs live.

This is why music is a universal conversation starter, and why karaoke is a worldwide phenomenon.

Ultimately, this is why music matters to all of us — and always will.

Music is the soundtrack of our lives.

Play on.

Avoiding Overblown

“It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.”

My mind has been fixated on these R.E.M. lyrics recently. How could they not be?

While the song comes from a time of VCR’s and Iron Curtains, it still resonates today for so many reasons:

  • The holidays are over
  • The National Football League playoffs are nearing their emotional apex
  • America’s most polarizing president has recently taken the oath of office

Yes, the dead of winter seems to be high time for an emotional diaspora. Some of us will look at these events and say the world is ending, while others will act as if they’ve never felt finer.

There is no middle ground.

This all might be a reflection of our increasingly divided society. It could also be an inevitable outcome in a world where technology gives us all a platform to raise our voice, and our culture demands we do so as boldly as possible.

But in the midst of the hot air, the juxtaposed emotions, the feverish debate around these events, we must ask ourselves:

Isn’t this all a bit overblown?

To be sure, proceedings in the White House matter. The actions on a gridiron matter. The changing of the seasons matters.

These events can all be uplifting or distressing, depending on your perspective. After all, we’re emotional beings who have great passion for our city, our country and our views — along with those who we feel represent them in the realm of competition. However, these events shouldn’t be viewed as the sign of the apocalypse, or as cause for physical ailments.

That’s taking it too far.

For regardless of how we might feel at the moment, the sun will rise tomorrow morning in the east and set tomorrow evening in the west. It’s done this for millions of years, and will continue to do so for millions more.

This is more than the manifestation of an inevitable pattern. It’s a reminder that no matter how dark the night, the first light of dawn is just around the corner. A beacon illuminating that this too shall pass.

Yes, humankind and the world itself have been through trials and tribulations. Yet both have persevered, time and again.

So, let’s avoid overblown. Let’s step away from the hyperbole, from the punishment we inflict on ourselves when things don’t go the way our heart desired them to. If we refocus that energy on aspects of life we can directly control, the world will be better for it.

And so will ours.

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.