A Lesson in Fragility, and the Desire to Explore

I was a 15-year-old sophomore, sitting in Coach Davis’ History class on this very day 40 years ago. The year was 1986, and the air in the classroom carried a mix of teenage restlessness and the faint hum of anticipation.

That day, the television had been wheeled in, an uncommon event, and we were preparing to watch something billed as historic. The launch of the Space Shuttle Challenger.

Coach Davis, with his ever-present enthusiasm for history and human achievement, seemed particularly captivated by the fact that the first civilian in space was an educator. He spoke with a gleam in his eye, describing how someone who had spent their life teaching could now float above the Earth, orbiting our planet as a symbol of possibility.

We, as teenagers, were perhaps less moved by the political or scientific significance of the mission and more enchanted by the novelty. The luxury television time in class, the chance to witness history as it unfolded, and the shared excitement of seeing something so monumental live before our eyes.

The shuttle lifted off, and for a moment, I remember nothing but complete silence. It was a silence unlike any other; a stillness that seemed to stretch longer than it should, weighted with awe and expectation.

We’d been briefed on the mission, shown diagrams of how the shuttle would separate from its boosters, and told of the complex choreography that allowed this marvel of engineering to soar into space. And yet, as the countdown ended and Challenger began its ascent, none of that preparation could have prepared us for what came next.

A little over a minute after liftoff, the shuttle exploded.

The silence that followed was heavier, charged with disbelief. There was a strange emptiness, a void of sound and comprehension as our brains struggled to process what we were witnessing.

It was as if the universe had paused long enough to force us to confront the unimaginable.

The images flickering on the screen were seared into memory. The bright flare, the sudden disintegration, the reality that seven people, seven individuals with lives, families, and dreams, were gone in an instant.

For weeks afterward, I was consumed with the fragility of life. This was the 1980s, and though we’d all seen tragedies, political tensions, and anxieties from the Cold War on the news, this was different.

We’d just witnessed death unfold in a way that was immediate and incomprehensible. Seven people died before our eyes, and as teenagers, we were ill-prepared to process such stark mortality.

Suddenly, life seemed fragile in a way it never had before.

Could my mother be killed in an accident? My brother? Could I? Could anyone I knew or loved?

The questions were relentless, spinning in my mind with the terrifying weight of reality. Accidents weren’t abstract anymore; they were real. Life was fleeting, delicate, and unpredictable.

Yet amid that awareness of fragility, something unexpected stirred within me. It was a desire to embrace life fully and boldly. I wanted to live intentionally, to understand what it all meant, and to seek out purpose wherever I could find it.

Travel, exploration, learning about the world and its people, these became passions, lifelines, and sources of hope. In my mind, there was nothing more hopeful than discovery, the relentless pursuit of knowledge, and the courage to face the unknown.

I became obsessed with exploration. I knew then it would be a guiding force in my life.

And I suppose there was a quiet resolve, too. If something terrible were to happen to me, I wanted it to happen while I was living boldly, courageously, and passionately, like those seven men and women had lived. They’d dared to reach for the stars, and in their daring, they left an indelible mark on the world, and on me.

January, 28, 1986, was a day of profound sadness. It was traumatic to witness and a stark lesson in the unpredictability of life. But it was also a day that, paradoxically, solidified something crucial in my consciousness.

It taught me that while life is undeniably fragile, it can also be brimming with courage, purpose, and the kind of boldness that makes existence meaningful, even when cut tragically short.

From that day forward, whenever I’ve faced sadness, confusion, or moments of feeling lost, I’ve returned to exploration, both of the world and of the self.

Life has a way of showing us the terrible and confronting us with experiences that feel unbearable. But it also presents opportunities to witness the remarkable, and to discover hope and courage in unexpected places.

Even a high school classroom in 1986.

There’s an old saying I often think about: “Tragedy should be utilised as a source of strength.”

When I first heard it, I admit, it seemed almost clichéd, naïve, or sentimental. Tragedy, I thought, was simply tragedy. There was no silver lining, no message of hope, only grief, loss, and the stark, painful reality of death.

But growing up, I began to understand the depth of that saying. Tragedy can indeed teach resilience, courage, and clarity about what we value in life.

Time and again, I’ve returned to the lessons of that day.

The Challenger disaster taught me to cherish life, pursue my passions with abandon, and recognise the extraordinary in both the everyday and the monumental.

It reminded me that courage isn’t the absence of fear or risk, but the willingness to confront both in pursuit of something larger than oneself.

The astronauts’ lives and their ultimate sacrifice became, for me, a touchstone for understanding the kind of life I wanted to lead. One that is intentional, bold, and full of curiosity.

So today, I commemorate and honour the victims of the Space Shuttle Challenger. I mourn the loss of seven remarkable individuals whose lives were tragically cut short. But I also give thanks for their boldness, courage, strength, and passion for exploration.

They inspired a fifteen-year-old girl to find her own courage and curiosity, to seek purpose and adventure, and to approach life with both awareness and audacity.

Challenger’s legacy isn’t only a cautionary tale of human fragility; it’s also a testament to the human spirit. It reminds us that even in the face of tragedy, life can be lived with meaning, bravery, and hope. And for that, I will always be grateful.

Even now, decades later, I carry the memory of that morning with me. The horror of the explosion, the silence in the classroom, the awe, the grief, and the resolve. They’re all part of the same thread that guides me. They’re understanding that life is fragile, yes, but it’s also full of opportunity and purpose.

Whenever I face the inevitable moments of doubt or fear, I return to that thread, remembering that the path forward is always through exploration, through living boldly, and through embracing life in all its wonder and peril.

28 January 1986 was a day of sorrow, of shock, and of profound lessons. It’s a day I’ll never forget. Not only because of the tragedy itself, but because of how it shaped the way I live, think, and understand the world.

It taught me that life is a delicate, fleeting gift; one to be lived with curiosity, courage, and compassion.

For that lesson, I remain endlessly grateful to the Challenger crew, who, in reaching for the stars, helped a young girl on Earth find her own path among them.