On the 10th anniversary, my mom wrote an article about the lasting psychological effects of the fire and in it she said of me:

“Her stoicism is elegantly spare but it is borne of a deep-rooted fear that something unimaginably worse is still out there. She braces for it and she insists on smelling the roses, not for the joy of it but as a consolation for the inevitability of having them suddenly taken from her.”

It's as true today as when it was written almost 10 years ago. Since then, my existential philosophy has been reinforced by proof that things can get worse. And that compulsion to live life at its fullest has made it almost impossible to set limits. The necessity for continued exhilaration is both insatiable and exhausting, making nine of the first 10 weeks of this year nothing short of epic, but this success is paired with sadness that these moments are only temporary.