Remembering emotions but not ruled by them

As I look back on my life, I’m grateful that I can recall, vividly, how I felt during my earlier years. Those memories can be precious, or painful, but remembering those emotions doesn’t mean I’m ruled by them. And some years hold more emotion than others. When I think back to 2001, as an example, I can remember sadness, worry, and uncertainty arriving in waves. But I also remember learning that none of those feelings had to decide what I would do next.

When things change

As that year began, Trans World Airlines, where I had worked since 1968, went bankrupt and was acquired by American Airlines. I always described myself as having “jet fuel in my veins,” and this change felt like a physical loss. The TWA name would disappear from the skies, and we faced changes we had not chosen. I couldn't preserve the company, but I could care for employees and passengers, even if the logo on my uniform changed. There were flights to manage, people needing answers, and work deserving my attention.

I had barely adjusted to a new schedule that had me flying into different and unfamiliar cities, when on February 14th, my father died. I had spent much of my life caring for him, and his absence brought a deep and lasting sorrow. But my grief didn’t prevent me from knowing what needed to be done. I handled all the details and spoke at his funeral. What steadied me was knowing I had done everything I could for him while he was alive. I couldn't change the loss, but I didn't have to question whether he had known my care.

By late summer, my son graduated from high school and was headed off to college, joining his two older sisters in New York. Dropping off my youngest brought the quiet ache of becoming an empty nester. I was excited for what awaited him but I dearly missed his presence at home. I knew that joy and sadness can occupy the same moment, and I found that naming both helped me accept that a good change can still hurt.

Then, one week later, September 11th came. All three of my children were living in New York City, and the phone lines were overwhelmed. I was working at the airport, while planes were being grounded, flights were canceled, passengers were frightened, and families wanted information we didn't yet have. I was a worried mother and an airline employee with responsibilities that couldn't be set aside.

I asked a family member to keep trying to reach my children. I said, “If you learn that they are alive and safe, call me. But if you can’t reach them, or if something has happened, come and tell me in person.” This gave a manageable shape to my fear. Until more information became available, I focused my attention on the people before me.

Eventually, I learned that my children were safe, but at that moment, perseverance meant doing the work assigned to me as carefully as I could.

Focusing on what is ours to manage

I didn’t think of myself as practicing Stoicism at the time, but I realize now that by focusing on what is ours to manage, especially in difficult moments, we see the gap between external events and internal emotions. That gap can serve as a guiding light. The fear was real, but it didn't have to direct every thought or action. Pausing didn't make me detached from my children any more than planning a funeral earlier that year made me less sorrowful. It helped me remain useful when others were sad, anxious, or afraid.

To me, Stoicism has never meant denying emotion. Sorrow, fear, and disappointment carry information about what and whom we value. Trouble begins when the first rush of feeling becomes the only voice we hear.

In 2001, a difficult year with many changes, I didn't handle every moment perfectly. I learned to pause, recognize what I was feeling, and decide what responsibility belonged to me with every new change that came my way. I didn't think of it that way then, but I was learning to focus only on what I could control in real time.

Allowing ourselves to remain open to feeling and human experiences

And as I continue to face unknown challenges, I think it’s sometimes as simple or ordinary as that: feeling what’s present, taking the next necessary steps, and allowing ourselves to remain open to feeling and human experiences while we do it.

Shirley Kwosek Sciacca is a writer, living in the midwest, seeking wisdom and resilience through lifelong learning and the practice of Stoic principles.

---