Hijacked

Every September the American people recount where they were and what they were doing on September 11, 2001. That was the tragic day when terrorists hijacked planes to attack prominent American locations. The Twin Towers, New York City’s two tallest skyscrapers, collapsed in flames from the airplane strikes while taking the lives of almost 3,000 Americans. Another hijacked plane was headed to America’s capital, Washington, D.C., when passengers sacrificed themselves by fighting the terrorists and crashing the plane in the Pennsylvania countryside, sparing the lives of many. Country singer, Alan Jackson, unifies those who lived through 9/11 with his song “Where Were You?” In his deep and calming country voice, he asks, “Where were you when the world stopped turning on that September day? Were you in the yard with your wife and children or working on some stage in LA?”

Listeners replay their own answers to Mr. Jackson’s question in their heads as he solemnly sings. Unfortunately, my mind draws a blank when I listen to “Where Were You?” I don’t remember anything about that day because I was only three years old. Although tragic, I wish I had some memory of 9/11. Admittedly, I want to feel a part of the day that broke America’s heart and left the nation bleeding red, white, and blue.

I grew up in Western Pennsylvania and then lived in Eastern Pennsylvania for eight years. I drove the Pennsylvania turnpike numerous times to return home for family visits and events. During my five-hour trek across the state, I saw signs for Shanksville, the rural town where one of the hijacked planes on 9/11 met its fatal end. Passengers had sacrificed themselves by fighting the terrorists and crashing the plane into an open field, preventing terrorists from making it to America’s capital. Throughout those eight years, I had intended to visit the Flight 93 Memorial in Shanksville, but when I neared the exit, I didn’t want to add to my already long drive. I regret not having taken the time to visit, pay my respects, and learn more about those who sacrificed themselves. Every time I drove past the exit, I wondered what those passengers felt as their lives went from in-control to careening out of the sky. One moment they were probably sipping coffee while the next they were fighting to save their lives from terrorists. What does it feel like when life is quickly taken over? How can life feel peaceful and then be suddenly shattered, or even completely gone? Driving near the crash of Flight 93 left me wondering what it feels like to have life hijacked.

While the lives of many were lost or forever changed on September 11, 2001, my life was hijacked on March 23, 2019, with a phone call from my brother informing me that our sister Sarah was in a very serious car crash. The doctors didn’t think she was going to make it. I was awake that early spring morning preparing for a collegiate rowing competition. Within seconds, my original destination for the day was redirected from a local rowing regatta to a different state. I had to get from Pennsylvania to Sarah who was states away in Tennessee. My routine five-hour drive across the Pennsylvania Turnpike suddenly felt short compared to the ten-hour drive to Tennessee that was suddenly thrust upon me. At first, I didn’t know how to get to Sarah. I initially rushed to the Philadelphia airport in hopes of catching a flight. But all the morning flights had already departed. My Uncle Ken and Uncle George became like a private jet when they offered to drive me to Tennessee. Shortly before nightfall, I arrived at Sarah’s bedside in an intensive care unit in a Tennessee hospital. I became hopeless like the passengers on the terrorist-infested planes as I witnessed Sarah die on 3/23, joining those who lost their lives on 9/11.

To be productive with my grief, I run marathons. Those few hours are dedicated to running out the weight of grief that builds up over time. People are usually surprised to learn that I don’t carry my phone or listen to music during the 26.2-mile journey. What they don’t realize is that my already heavy heart can’t take extra baggage or noise. My broken heart needs miles dedicated to finding healing.

Marathon running has evolved into a goal of finishing one in each of the fifty American states with my cousin Dana. To select our next race, we look for family or friends living in different states. With an aunt in Wyoming, we flew to our first marathon west of the Mississippi River. Dana and I convinced our cousin Ryan to join us. He had politely declined our previous invitations, but we somehow sold him on this one. We advertised this marathon by saying we’d run with wild horses, visit our Aunt Bernie and then venture into Yellowstone, the Grand Tetons, and even make it to Montana.  Good thing none of us realized beforehand that this marathon would end up being an unusually grueling course at high elevation with significant incline gains while exposed to the scorching sun. Seeing wild horses with majestic manes meant little when trying to survive an unforgiving marathon.

Despite our ignorance about the Wyoming marathon, Ryan, Dana, and Jeff (Dana’s fiancé), flew from Pittsburgh to their connecting flight in Denver, Colorado. I connected in Denver as well, having flown out of Philadelphia. The four of us boarded onto a tiny aircraft, often referred to as a “puddle-jumper,” to complete the last leg of our journey. The flight attendant advised all passengers to secure beverages resting on trays because puddle-jumpers are notorious for spilled drinks. Seat belts were also to be pulled tighter than usual to prevent head collisions with the ceiling during turbulence. It was meaningful sitting next to Ryan as he talked about his newfound girlfriend. My drink could have spilled, but I wouldn’t have even noticed because of how happy I was about Ryan finding the love of his life.

Fortunately, no drinks were spilled or heads were bumped during the flight into Aunt Bernie’s small town of Green River, Wyoming. After hours of air travel, it was nice hopping into our rental vehicle where we could talk more freely and begin enjoying our trip together. The first few days of our trip were filled with special family memories. When we arrived at Aunt Bernie and Uncle Tom’s inviting home tucked in the mountain foothills, familiarity and peace greeted us. It was a gift to be surrounded by family. At each meal, we roared in laughter around the dinner table. We shared meaningful and funny stories while sitting on their patio with a picturesque mountain backdrop. I remember us collectively listening to “The Piña Colada Song.” We giggled as Uncle Tom made us attentively listen to the lyrics. He didn’t want us to miss the song’s storyline about a man leaving his wife, to then reconnect with his abandoned love through his favorite fruity cocktail. We all indulged in one of Uncle Tom’s favorite fruit, cherry tomatoes. He prided himself on his tomato garden that flourished from the automated water system he had installed. The juicy berries burst with fresh flavor and healthy goodness from the fruits of his labor. With a mouthful of cherry tomatoes, I observed the similarities between Aunt Bernie and my mother who are sisters. I was comforted by their mirrored mannerisms and values. I was reminded that home is where the heart is. Whether in Pennsylvania or Wyoming, my home is where I’m surrounded by family.

After a wonderful visit and surviving the intense Wyoming marathon, Dana, Jeff, Ryan, and I continued north into the Grand Tetons with bags of Uncle Tom’s cherry tomatoes as our car-ride snack. The mountains grew taller, engulfing us in their mighty peaks. At least the Wyoming marathon didn’t have that degree of elevation. We experienced extreme elevation, but nothing close to that of the Grand Tetons. The drive started with Dana talking about the essay she wrote in fourth grade about our grandmother’s dog, Buster. Dana’s sweet recount of “Summers with Buster” echoed the fond childhood memories we shared while our road trip captured our adult memories in-the-making. Cherry tomatoes served as a great snack during our drive, but we were hungry for lunch by the time we arrived at Jackson Hole, Wyoming. As we split the bill and left our tips, I was suddenly overcome by grief as I realized that the Wyoming marathon was another adventure I wouldn’t be able to tell Sarah about. I was terribly upset by acknowledging that she probably would have joined us on this trip because she was passionate about travelling with family, especially to destinations of natural beauty. I fought back tears as my heart exploded like a cherry tomato remembering that my sister and Dana and Ryan’s cousin, Sarah, was gone. My ruptured heart bled out leaving hollowness like that of a plane without passengers. What’s the point of a plane if no one flies in it? What’s the point of love when it always ends up in a grave?

Despite my internal outbreak of grief, I remained composed while paying for my lunch. The four of us continued from Jackson Hole into Grand Teton National Park with our stomachs full on something more than cherry tomatoes. Most people dread traffic until they drive through a national park where wildlife offers a unique form of congested transportation. Visitors get excited by a stand-still que of vehicles waiting for wildlife to cross. Everyone is eager to see a wild bear, bison, or other magnificent animal while safely seated inside a vehicle. Like everyone visiting the park, we hoped to stop for road crossings of wild bison and bears wandering the rich land. Unfortunately, no roaming bison stopped our drive to Jenny Lake, our first destination within the park. This was not my first time at Jenny Lake. I had been to the majestic mountain lake during my family’s cross-country road trip when I was nine years old. Before my oldest sibling left for college, my parents loaded us into our Honda Odyssey minivan and drove over 2,500 miles one-way from Pennsylvania to California. It was the family trip of a lifetime. What I remember most about Jenny Lake is its name. Sarah and I were devoted players of the online children’s game, Millsberry. This online platform had children create characters to live in and interact with other characters in the make-believe town of Millsberry, while strategically promoting the consumer foods company, General Mills. Our family road trip delayed access to the internet like a bison herd crossing the highway. Sarah and I patiently gathered names for the new characters we would create upon returning home in a few weeks. In sibling fashion, we fought over who would get to use the name Jenny as their next player. Jenny Lake inspired the name of Sarah’s favorite character.

As I neared Jenny Lake over fifteen years later, I felt empty like a drained lake. Other visitors photographed the iconic lake, while I pictured it without any water. What’s the point of a lake that has no water? What’s the point of love when it drains into the ground with the death of loved one? I missed Sarah more deeply than the depth of any lake. I wanted to call her to share I was at Jenny Lake, the place after which she named her favorite Millsberry’s character all those years ago. I yearned to connect over our childhood memories of Millsberry and our family road trip in 2007. Instead, I posed for a photograph in front of Jenny Lake like everyone else while forcing a smile to hide my grief.

Oftentimes while running marathons, I must decide that I will finish because quitting is always an option. Grief follows a similar cadence. At times, I must choose to smile and enjoy the moment despite grief staying on pace and weighing me down like oversized shoes. Although the rainy weather covering Jenny Lake matched my melancholy mood, I consciously chose not to let grief cloud the rest of my trip. I was so thankful to be surrounded by the stunning Grand Tetons and my loving cousins and family-to-be. Not having quit during a marathon yet renewed my strength and determination in making another family trip of a lifetime.

Meaningful memories filled our journey. We ate day-old pizza while we watched in wonder as Old Faithful, a volcanic geyser, released its powerful plumes. We attended a Catholic Mass in a cozy cabin. Although my Catholic beliefs have been shaken with Sarah’s death, I still experience deep comfort during Mass with family. I learned how Yellowstone got its name as I admired golden sandstone cloaking the banks of the park’s major river. The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone filled me with awe as I stood in the waterfall’s mighty mist surrounded by the iconic yellow rock. We gawked at roaming bison and took a ridiculous number of photos. We finally made it to Montana, fulfilling our “marathon advertisement” to Ryan. In cold rain, Jeff took one for the team as he filled the rental car with gas at a pump that was slower than a grazing bison in summer heat. At our lodging in Montana, we warmed up with some local craft beers while playing Cinch, our family’s card game of choice at every gathering. The next morning, we all burnt our mouths on extremely hot breakfast burritos. The surrounding mountains were breathtaking, soothing our scorched tongues. Gratitude for this trip rose up like the Montana mountains. I felt washed over with peace like the cascading waterfall in the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone. Love for my cousins burst within me like the plumes of Old Faithful.

My mum often says, “All good things must come to an end.” While I was relieved the Wyoming marathon adhered to Mum’s mantra, I was sad the road trip was ending. The four of us left the grandeur of the national parks, returning to the airport. Ominous clouds moved towards us as we boarded the puddle-jumper heading to Denver.  My window seat gave me a front-row view of the incoming storm. We were within ten minutes of take-off when a ground attendant saw lightning, requiring a delayed departure. The dark clouds released heavy rain that pelted our plane causing another delay. Extending our takeoff made me nervous about making my connection in Denver back to Philadelphia. I feared being trapped overnight in the Denver airport like a hiker caught in Yellowstone’s backcountry after nightfall. With no control over Mother Nature’s untimely appearance, I distracted myself by going on the social media app, Facebook. I rarely visit Facebook, but I longed to continue connecting with others like I had with my cousins. While scrolling, I came across a post from a grade school friend that warmed my heart at first. Sweet childhood photos radiating sibling love made for a precious post. In one of the pictures, her older brother lovingly hugs her as she smiles brighter than her blonde hair.

My smile quickly turned into a gasp when I read her accompanying post to the endearing photos. This was a birthday tribute to her late brother. I reeled in disbelief that her brother had died. I immediately looked up his obituary, learning he had passed almost two years ago. I was shocked to have not known all this time. I felt terrible over my unawareness that her brother had died, and I didn’t know until two years later. My stomach sank as I acknowledged the effort this friend had made in attending Sarah’s funeral. My grade school friend had driven over six hours during a busy college semester to extend her support and condolences. She had comforted me during Sarah’s Celebration of Life such that I felt a warm glow calming my grieving heart. To this day, I still remember how my grade school friend made me feel by showing up at Sarah’s funeral.

I looked out the airplane window with a heavy heart asking myself, “Has my grief blinded me so much that I can’t see others who are grieving?” The ongoing storm answered my question with its dense clouds, limiting visibility. Grief’s thick haze was blinding me to the pain of others. Lightning began illuminating the cloudy effect of grief while sending shock waves through me.

Although the storm outside eventually subdued, my internal one continued as the plane took off towards Denver. During the flight, I had almost forgotten about the tight connection until my cousins began asking if I’d be able to make it. They encouraged me to put my backpack on and get ready to run. They joked that the marathon had prepared me for this moment. As we neared the gate, I positioned myself at the door, looking more like a sprinter than a marathon runner. I mentally mapped my route to the next gate while tightening my backpack straps, securing my load. The storm may have put me in this pressured position while exposing the vulnerability of my grieving heart. But the storm was no match for my marathon mentality. I was determined to overcome it by making my connection home to Philadelphia like finishing a marathon. Little did I know I was in the calm before the real storm.

I glanced down at my feet that were anxiously waiting for the airplane door to open. I flashbacked to when I had nervously looked at my feet before turning the corner into Sarah’s hospital room. She had been struck by a drunk driver who was barreling down the highway, putting her in the Intensive Care Unit. I was terrified to round the corner and see Sarah’s condition after the brutal impact. On the airplane, my feet now sunk with fear. Trauma began surfacing, making me afraid of what was on the other side of the airplane door. Airport crew with wheelchairs are usually waiting for passengers needing mobile assistance. But trauma was saying that something heartbreaking would be waiting for me.

The airplane door unlatched, snapping me back into focus. I was on a mission to make my flight home to Philadelphia. As I began sprinting, I felt relieved to have left trauma on the plane like unwanted baggage. However, my relief was replaced with frustration as I realized the significant distance to my next gate. I was flying with United Airlines for all legs of the trip, and yet the plane to Philly was in a different terminal. To get to the other terminal, I hopped on the Denver airport’s underground tram. Initially, I was thankful for the tram ride, thinking I could catch my breath. But my breathing accelerated like the speed of the tram. My airway began constricting like a collapsing tram tunnel. I had just run a marathon at 5,000 feet above sea level with an elevation gain of 1,700 feet. How could I be out of breath! I nervously glanced around at the other tram passengers. I tried regulating my breathing so they wouldn’t notice my sudden fight for air and think I required medical assistance. I didn’t want to be pushed around in one of the wheelchairs I had just sprinted past on my way off the plane.

While in the dark tunnel, the lighting inside the tram reflected my face off the windows. I witnessed my intense expression and heaving shoulders. My facial reflection faded as memories of traveling to Sarah on her fateful day started forming on the tram windows. These memories began reeling like a movie. I watch myself getting the call from my brother to inform me that Sarah was in critical condition. I see myself kneeling as I cried out to God, pleading for Him not to take Sarah. I’m opening the door to leave my room but turn around to pick up a little red London telephone booth souvenir Sarah had given me because I need some connection to her. I receive a call from Mum directing me to meet up with my brother in the Philadelphia airport. I try getting an Uber to the airport but must redownload the app and input my credit card information. I can’t think straight enough to complete the small task so instead I rapidly knock on my college friend’s door, trying to wake him. I have no time to feel bad for disrupting his sleep in the early morning. All I know is that he has a car on campus and would drive me to the airport before my spinning mind could order an Uber. My friend drops me off at the Philadelphia airport where I plea with an airline desk agent to get me a flight to Knoxville, Tennessee. I reel in frustration as the flight agent informs me that all morning flights have departed. My brother arrives at the airport where we both frantically try figuring out how to get to Sarah. We receive a call from our Uncle George and Uncle Ken to meet up with them so they can drive us to Sarah.

The traumatic journey to Sarah continued playing until the tram suddenly exited the dark tunnel, switching off my harrowing memories. The tram door slid open, bringing me back to my mission. I resumed sprinting through the airport, feeling relieved to leave trauma back with the tram. Relief built into frustration again when I realized Gate 55, my destination, was one of the farthest gates in the long terminal. To complete this last leg of the mission, I tapped into my marathon mentality. In every marathon, there’s an external element that requires acceptance. Whether it’s too hot, cold, rainy, or armpit chaffing, I must absorb the external factor if I wish to finish the 26.2-mile journey. The airport gate numbers climbed as I ran towards Gate 55. My stride picked up when I accepted Gate 55 as my external factor despite it being annoyingly faraway.

During marathons, spectators often cheer at the halfway point, “You’re almost there!” While I appreciate their support, I quickly learn those spectators have never run a marathon. Completing half of the marathon doesn’t mean runners are even close to finishing because 13.1 miles is still a long way to go, especially since the second half is tougher due to depletion. Unlike naive spectators at a marathon’s halfway mark, there comes a place where I am indeed almost there. Blow-up arches usually span across the finish line, enabling runners to have the end in sight. Despite extreme fatigue, I always find the strength to smile when I see the blow-up arch. The sign for Gate 55 came into view like a blow-up arch over a marathon finish line. Although my trek from the airplane to Gate 55 felt unending, I grinned with excitement because I was almost there.

There’s a joke among the marathon community that we run just for the banana, a superfood that helps with muscle cramps. After crossing a marathon finish line, runners collect their well-earned medal and banana. Despite the silly marathon humor, I am sincerely thankful when a volunteer hands me one of the potassium-rich yellow fruits. I hoped to arrive at Gate 55 and join the other passengers on the jet bridge. While I wasn’t expecting a medal or banana at Gate 55, I did anticipate being funneled onto the plane the way marathon runners are channeled to collect their medals and post-race nourishment. I finally arrived at Gate 55 to find that all passengers had already boarded. I rushed to speak with a gate agent in hopes that I could still get on. She informed me that the flight to Philly was taxiing on the runway. I could return to United Airlines Customer Service in terminal A, where I had just come from, to see my other flight options.

Missing my flight felt like being tripped right before finishing a marathon. I had put in so much effort to make the Philly plane, only to be flattened with its departure. I felt kicked while I was already down when the gate agent advised returning to my previous terminal for Customer Service. As I turned away from Gate 55, my heart began racing like a Wyoming wild horse. I had finally slowed down, and yet my heart rate picked up speed. My throat dried up like a drained Jenny Lake. My vision blurred like the misty plumes of Old Faithful. My hearing deafened as though I were standing beside the roaring waterfall of Yellowstone’s Grand Canyon. My airway became constricted like a pinched gas pump. My body suddenly felt heavy like the Grand Tetons. Sprinting to make my plane in the Denver Airport felt like the day I had rushed to the Philadelphia Airport to get to Sarah in a Tennessee hospital. Making it to Gate 55, only to miss the flight, reminded me of when I missed all the morning flights to Sarah. Unresolved trauma regarding my harrowing journey to Sarah began violently surfacing through my senses. I began believing trauma’s lie that someone I loved was in danger again. And I would fail to make it to my loved one in time. I couldn’t flee from trauma like I had while sprinting off the puddle-jumper or darting from the tram. In the middle of the Denver airport, I was being hijacked by trauma.

I felt like an airplane spiraling out of control as I continued through the Denver airport. I happened to pass by Dana, Jeff, and Ryan. I quickly informed them about missing my flight and being redirected to Customer Service. I wondered what my face looked like. Did I have the same intense expression as when I was on the tram? Did my cousins realize I was having a panic attack induced by trauma? I was too afraid to let them know what was really going on, so I kept our interaction brief and moved along. Making it to the tram was my intended next step, but trauma overwhelmed my system. I could barely breathe. I slumped along a wall as my body fought the overpowering effects of trauma. While running a marathon in Rhode Island, my foot had severely cramped. As much as I wished to continue, I had to stop and address the muscle spasm. My fingers pried open my toes that had curled into a fist, making it impossible to run. I massaged my knuckles into my toes to loosen the tight muscles until I finally regained a working foot. To prevent another cramp, I took deep breaths as I slowly ran the remainder of the marathon. I tapped into my cramped foot experience to help me in my current situation at the Denver airport. My next step was not the tram. Rather, my next action was addressing how trauma was hijacking me. Trauma was clouding my thinking. I realized I didn’t have to meet with United Customer Service in person. I could simply call United Customer Service.

While slouching on the floor, I connected with a United Customer Service Representative who informed me about a flight from Denver to Newark Airport. It would be a one-and-a-half-hour drive home compared to only forty minutes from the Philadelphia airport. But the Newark flight would get me home five hours sooner than the next one from Denver to Philly. I was thrilled to hear this until the representative informed me that I only had twenty minutes before boarding closed and the gate was in Concourse A.

Like icy rain during an entire marathon, I got no reprieve from external factors. Just when I thought I could catch a break, another challenge blasted me like Wyoming winter winds. I would have to sprint again if I wished to make my flight. I slowly rose from the airport floor like I had after releasing my foot cramp during the Rhode Island marathon. Fortunately, I wasn’t suffering from muscle spasms this time, but I was still struggling to breathe. I took deep breaths like I had done to help myself finish the Rhode Island marathon. Although I wasn’t running a marathon, I could leverage what I had learned from the grueling race to help me in my current situation. I shifted my mindset to accept that I needed to sprint back to Concourse A. I began regulating my breathing to provide more oxygen to my legs as they gained momentum. By tapping into my marathon-running experience, I gave myself the chance to make the Newark flight.

I boarded the tram again. After the doors latched, the small locomotive lurched into the dark tunnel. I looked at the tram windows to see the reflection of my hurting face. During every marathon, I question when the pain will stop. I know it won’t until I either quit or finish the marathon. But ending trauma’s agony doesn’t feel like a choice. My weary and vulnerable expression reflecting off the tram windows mirrored the helplessness I felt towards trauma. When would trauma stop hijacking me?

I couldn’t leave trauma on the tram like I had after my first ride. Trauma had declared its control over me. I felt forced to carry it around like unwanted bulky baggage. I lugged it the whole way to the gate for the Newark flight. I wished to board without trauma, but it demanded not to be left behind. The United Customer Service representative who rebooked me must have sensed my distress because she had kindly selected a window seat without a neighboring passenger. But trauma canceled out her good deed by becoming like an unwanted seatmate. I collapsed into my seat from exhaustion only to be jarred upright by a rush of emotions. Tears streamed down my face as I painfully looked out the airplane window towards the Denver airport. After an excruciating experience, I was finally leaving that place. So much had happened inside there, and yet, I wasn’t free of the trauma that lived within me. No place could contain trauma or keep me safe from it. Trauma would pursue me like a pilot consistently following a flight path and stay beside me like an unwanted seatmate. My tears soaked the one tissue I had, leaving it disintegrated in my hands.

I held onto the chunky pieces of wet tissue as I thought back to when I was on the delayed plane in Wyoming. I had been upset about being absent to my grade school friend when her brother had died. After this traumatic episode in the Denver airport, I now felt hollowed out. I had high hopes of helping my friend. But I was painfully reminded of where I was really at in my own journey. I was only accepting my grief while denying my trauma. I had been refusing to accept the traumatic experience of rushing to Sarah’s bedside only to then helplessly watch her die. Trauma was teaching me that Sarah’s death lives inside me. No matter how many marathons I run, I will never outrun trauma. I squeezed the soaking tissue tightly in my shaking hand as my whole body, mind, and soul painfully acknowledged that trauma would forever have a home in me.

I finally landed in Newark, New Jersey, at 1:00 AM where I patiently waited for over an hour for my luggage. Everyone else collected their suitcases and departed baggage claim. I stood at baggage claim having to confront another external factor. I was the unlucky passenger whose luggage was put onto the carousel last, or so I thought. It wasn’t until the carousel abruptly halted that I realized my baggage hadn’t been redirected from my Philadelphia to Newark flight. The airline customer service representative had informed me that my suitcase would be on the Newark flight. Turns out, she may have thoughtfully given me a nice window seat, but she had forgotten to switch my suitcase’s destination. I could either drive to the Philadelphia airport and wait for the plane to arrive, or have United Airlines deliver it to my apartment later. I opted for the latter so I could make it back to my apartment sooner. The one piece of luggage I wanted, my suitcase filled with my clothes and belongings, was the one I didn’t come home with. Instead, I returned home at 5:00 AM with baggage of unresolved trauma.

Before my experience in the Denver airport, my mind drew a blank when listening to Alan Jackson’s song, “Where Were You?” Now when I listen to that song, I think of being hijacked by trauma in the Denver airport and what unfolded there, much like those who remember where they were on 9/11. I connect to the loved ones of the 9/11 victims who also had their lives hijacked by sudden loss and were left traumatized. Our days were normal until we got the news that our lives were forever changed. A thick smoke of sorrow has clouded our lives, much like the dense smog that billowed from the Twin Towers after the hijacked planes crashed into them. Losing our loved ones has left us in the rumble of grief, confusion, anger, despair, and trauma.

Although Alan Jackson’s song is intended for the remembrance of 9/11, his song serves as a universal call to unity when our worlds stop turning. The worlds of thousands of people collectively stopped turning on September 11, 2001, when terrorists hijacked planes. My world and the worlds of those who love Sarah came to a crashing stop on March 23, 2019, when she was killed by a drunk driver. The worlds of most people will come to a sorrowful stop at some point in their lifetime. We will lose those we love, and for some of us, we will experience loss in a very traumatic way. Trauma will live in us and remain ready to hijack like a terrorist when we are triggered. We may be overcome by trauma, making us feel like a plane careening out of the sky. Or we may fight to regain control like passengers of hijacked planes but sadly don’t succeed. Traumatic episodes will reveal our struggle of responding to it in a healthy, effective way.

Responding to trauma in a productive manner is a long and excruciating journey, much like running a marathon. I’ve learned that the first step in healing my trauma is acknowledging its presence and power. Denying trauma’s existence along with its weight will only hurt me more, as I learned from my painful experience in the Denver airport. Journaling, running, and listening to music are everyday ways I can calm trauma’s undertone. I have gone to counseling to learn more tools and techniques. For some of my counseling sessions, I held small vibrators in my hands as I recounted distressing experiences regarding Sarah’s death. The rhythmic pulse of the vibrators grounded me as I talked through traumatic memories, teaching me how to channel a controlled response when triggered. Spending time with family and friends gifts me with new, beautiful memories which remind me that the past doesn’t have to be my present. I can thrive amidst the presence of trauma.  Praying renews my trust that God is with me and knows my pain. I am deeply comforted as God gently reminds me that His love is more powerful than trauma.

My journey with trauma has given me a new understanding of Alan Jackson’s song, “Where Were You?” I used to recall only dark memories of where I was when trauma hijacked me and stopped my world from turning. Growing through my trauma has unburdened this hopeless way of responding. Now when I listen to “Where Were You?”, I can recall where I was when trauma hijacked me, and I responded in a productive way. There are so many situations where trauma attempted hijacking me like a terrorist. Whether in the grocery store, at work, in the gym, or sitting on a park bench, trauma quickly surfaced and fought for control over me. I’m learning that trauma is not something to work against like an uncooperative terrorist. Rather, it’s a deep emotion that needs to be acknowledged, processed, and healed. I think of those affected by 9/11 and the trauma they’ve been living with for over twenty years. My heart aches for the pain they’ve carried for decades. I assume some have experienced profound healing while others continue living with heavy hearts burdened by the memories of that September day and the aftermath. Those who have experienced tragedies and immensely jarring experiences will never forget their trauma similar to the American people who will never forget 9/11. Trauma reminds us that we’ll never be the same again like the New York City skyline without the Twin Towers. But that doesn’t mean our worlds have to stop turning forever. New York City constructed a monument to honor the lives of those lost while also building a new tower. The monument and tower are testaments to what we can do because of our trauma and the power we hold within ourselves to build from the broken. There is always hope to keep our worlds still turning amidst our trauma and build from it as we learn what is needed to acknowledge, process, and heal our trauma.