It Was Never About the Shoes: Living With the Echoes of Loss

         It’s been years now. The smoke cleared. The rubble was hauled away. The business was rebuilt. The house was reborn. And to most people, the story ends there—neatly tied with a bow of resilience.

      But here’s the thing no one tells you about surviving a fire: Just because the flames are gone doesn’t mean it’s over. You’ll be halfway out the door, mentally ready for the day ahead— Outfit on point. Hair cooperating. Confidence intact. And then it hits you. The necklace. The one that tied it all together. The one that’s gone. Forever. And just like that, you're spiraling.

         You’ll go looking for a pan you haven’t replaced yet. You’ll stand in front of your closet trying to grab the cozy sweater you swore you owned. You’ll remember the new shoes you bought—right before the fire—still tucked in their box, worn once, maybe twice. You’ll remember them, but you won’t find them. Because they burned. And so did everything else. And for a split second—despite the years, despite the healing—you feel like you’re losing your mind.

        Not because of the sweater. Not because of the shoes. But because trauma doesn’t tell time. It doesn’t soften just because people think enough time has passed. It doesn’t fade on a schedule. It doesn’t care if you've rebuilt your life from the ashes—it still shows up, uninvited, when you're just trying to make it through a Tuesday.

         And sometimes, you melt down over something small. Something that to someone else seems ridiculous. A pair of socks. A specific mug. A spatula. But it’s not about the thing. It’s about what the thing represented— Stability. Normalcy. 

       The illusion of permanence. You never realize how deeply your sense of security is tied to the everyday until your everyday is incinerated. So if you see me take a sharp breath, or abruptly go quiet while getting dressed— If you witness a tear or two over a kitchen item I can’t find— Pardon the minor meltdown.

       It was never about the shoes. It’s about the memory of a life that vanished without warning. It’s about reconciling what I remember with what I know. It’s about living in a reality where things feel almost whole, but not quite. This is what it means to carry fire in your bones. To smile at the rebuild while quietly mourning the things no one else thinks twice about. To walk forward bravely… and still look back, sometimes, with ache in your chest. So no—it wasn’t “just stuff.” It was my stuff. And some days, I still miss it like it happened yesterday.