National Tragedy
While I can’t recall what I did over the weekend, I can vividly remember the morning of January 28, 1986. My fifth-grade teacher, Ms. Burfeind, entered the classroom pushing a tall cart with a tube TV mounted on top. Seeing a TV in class usually meant something exciting—maybe a movie or a fun educational program. But this time, my initial excitement quickly turned to confusion.
I stood near the front door of the classroom and had a clear view of Ms. Burfeind’s face. Tears streaked through her makeup, and her nose was red and running. She looked distraught—biting her lip as if trying not to break down entirely. The room fell silent as we realized something was very wrong. Moments later, we learned the devastating news: the space shuttle Challenger had exploded shortly after launch, and everyone on board was presumed dead.
This wasn’t just any space mission. The Challenger carried the first civilian to join a shuttle crew—a teacher, Christa McAuliffe. She wasn’t just an astronaut; she was a mom, a teacher, someone familiar to us. Her presence on the shuttle made this mission feel personal, like a shared moment of pride for every classroom in the country. We had all followed her journey, excited to see one of our own make history. Never once did we imagine its tragic ending.
Childhood traumas are like ketchup stains on a white shirt. They fade over time, but they never truly disappear. While they might not be noticeable every day, anniversaries have a way of making them vivid again, bringing back emotions you thought had faded.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand death. Around the age of ten, kids start to grasp the concept of mortality, but it’s still abstract. This wasn’t even the first tragedy my class had faced. Just a year earlier, our former third-grade teacher had been accidentally shot and killed by her husband. I remember my mother sitting me on her knee to break the news, tears streaming down her face. I was more upset by her sadness than by the idea of death itself. But by the time the Challenger disaster happened, I could comprehend the weight of such loss.
The Challenger tragedy taught me that, no matter how horrific an event is, life goes on. We didn’t forget, and we mourned deeply. But we didn’t retreat into safe spaces or use it as an excuse to avoid our responsibilities—as sons and daughters, as students, or as human beings. A tragedy had occurred, and while it was heartbreaking, we processed it, mourned, and moved forward.
Even in the 1980s, before therapy was as common as today, my elementary school handled the tragedy with compassion. We discussed it openly as a class and as a school, honoring those who were lost. We learned to face our emotions rather than shy away from them.
Over the years, I’ve noticed a growing societal sensitivity that gives me pause. While it’s crucial to address mental health and emotional well-being, there’s also value in allowing people, especially children, to experience sadness and grief without shielding them entirely. Life is not a smooth, upward climb—it’s a series of peaks and valleys. And those valleys, painful as they are, build the resilience that helps us weather future storms.
On the day of the tragedy, President Ronald Reagan addressed the nation with moving words, quoting John Magee: the astronauts “slipped the surly bonds of Earth to touch the face of God.” His words reminded us of the sacrifice these men and women made for the advancement of humanity and the benefit of our nation. It was a powerful reminder that greatness often comes with risk—and that courage is worth honoring, even when it ends in tragedy.
We need to allow our children to feel sadness, to sit with their emotions rather than avoiding them. Tragic moments offer an opportunity to develop resilience, so that when personal defeats or losses come, they are better equipped to face them. What defines us is not how we fall but how we rise again. Adversity, in its own way, is the great equalizer—and it should not be feared.
