Me in 500 Words

I was introduced to the concept of impermanence at a young age: how something that seems indestructible and enduring can vanish or change in a moment’s notice. 

​In the fall of 2012, Hurricane Sandy slammed the south shore of Long Island, and my house did not escape unscathed. The first floor was drowned in three feet of water. For months, planks of wood took the place of former bedrooms and family spaces. 

During renovations, we were displaced for months. Thankfully, no one was hurt during the storm, but having to spend much of the year out of our home wasn’t easy for anyone involved. 

Luckily, my Aunt Eileen allowed my family to stay with her for the time being.

​Less than a year later—paint still fresh on our spackled and sanded walls—an electrical box on the side of our house caught fire. Its sparks jumped to the garbage cans adjacent to the garage, which then went up in flames. 

I was coming home from a summer basketball camp at the time and remember seeing flashing lights along the block. My fear that they were stationed in front of my house soon became a reality. Amid the fire trucks and ambulance, I sprinted from the car to see what had happened. 

Thankfully (again), no one had gotten hurt, but the fire’s smoke had made its way inside the house, triggering medical inquiries and examinations of my mother and brother. The smoke had also blackened and melted our newly installed speakers and the fresh coat of cream-colored paint we thought had sealed away the memory of Sandy’s wreckage. The flames had climbed to the upstairs bedroom walls of my brother’s and parents’ room.

Off to Aunt Eileen’s we went once more.

I was eight at the time, and my life seemed relatively perfect. I hadn’t faced much hardship or discomfort beyond petty disagreements with my brother about remote controls and bathroom usage. These two disasters taught me how to adapt to difficulty. 

I watched my parents figure out how to re-invent our lives in the span of a week. I watched my Aunt Eileen adapt to our presence in our time of need. I watched myself overcome new obstacles, daily.

Six years later, when I lost my mother to cancer, it was the groundwork laid by the flood and fire that gave me a reference point, not only for my grief, but for my gratitude. In addition to my sorrow, I was able to focus on how thankful I felt to have been raised by such an amazing woman.

Even at my worst, I still was more fortunate than most. I’m not sure if I ever heard the word “no” growing up. My parents ensured I had more than enough – not just in terms of material things but also love, support, and opportunities. I never lacked.

Now, in my 20s, I realize how rare and precious that kind of privilege is. I am the person I am today because of what I went through then. And I think that’s something to be proud of—something my mom would be proud of.