I was in a great season of life. As an FDNY Firefighter in New York City, I was living the dream! On September 11, 2001, I awoke in my Staten Island apartment ready to enjoy a day off.

Forty-five minutes later, my phone rang, “Mike, turn on the TV! A plane hit the Trade Center!!”

Watching the news, I then called my Dad. “Dad!! Wherever you are, get in front of a TV. That’s no small Cessna.” As I watched, thoughts flashed in and out of my mind. God be with those people. … That would be the highest roof rope rescue in the history of FDNY. … How the heck are they going to knock down that fire?

The stairs. … That’s gonna be tough. Climbing 70-plus flights of stairs is one thing, but add 100 pounds of gear with the urgency of people desperately needing help. … Then I saw a second plane, United flight 175, hit the south tower followed by a huge fireball.

“That’s terrorism!” Dad exclaimed.

“Dad, I gotta go.”

As I drove, I heard over the radio, “Oh my God! I think one of the towers just collapsed!” Shortly after that, I heard, “All off-duty NYC firefighters and police officers are to report to work immediately. A major disaster has just occurred in lower Manhattan.”

Just six months earlier, I graduated from the Rock, FDNY’s Fire Academy, the breeding ground for New York’s bravest, FDNY firefighters. But as I now walked north on Manhattan’s West Side Highway less than two hours after the first plane hit, I didn’t feel brave at all.

Around midday, there was no traffic. It was eerily quiet and instead of city sounds, I heard a bad chorus of Scott Pak-Alerts. The whaling alarms rang from high to low, again and again, but they were muffled by the gray dust in the air and on the ground. Each alarm, located on a firefighter’s breathing pack, goes off when a firefighter goes down or lies motionless.

I walked through what seemed like a foot of soot, feeling totally unprepared in my borrowed, one-size-too-big FDNY bunker coat, khaki shorts and sneakers. My mind kept asking myself, “Where the heck are the towers?”

I noticed a soot-covered battalion chief sitting on the cement median in the middle of the road. Battalion chiefs are usually leading in the chaos. This poor brother was holding his head and looking at his feet, clearly in shock. His face said it all.

We just lost a ton of guys, I thought. Man, this is really, really bad.

The soot and smog thickened. Sheets of paper were everywhere. More heavily damaged FDNY rigs, ambulances, and police cars emerged into sight. I saw buildings all around me with windows blown out. One building was missing a chunk and looked as if Godzilla had taken a swing at it.

I continued toward the what looked like a war zone. As I walked under a partially-collapsed footbridge (which crossed above the west side highway from the World Trade Center), everything went silent for me. There, in front of me, about 20 yards ahead, sat my fire engine, E-23. … Windows were blown out, all compartment doors open.

It was clear the guys had taken everything they could and bravely ran into hell. I looked at the pile in complete denial. There’s no way. This can’t be real.

Still, with the image of the fire engine burned into my mind, a figure emerged from behind the engine. Is that Tony, my engine company’s driver walking toward me? I wonder if I’m seeing a ghost.

“Tony!?”

“Mike!” Tony yelled back, waving in relief.

“Tony, where are the rest of the guys?”

He paused and pointed to the smoke-billowing pile. His face went helpless and sad. “They were in there.”

I was wondering how Tony could have survived. Before I could ask, Tony interrupted and explained that the dispatcher had ordered all firehouses with an extra rig to equip it, man it, and get it down to the Trade Center.

Jimmy, I thought. Jimmy took my spot today. There’s no way he’s gone. He took my spot.

“Let’s go find them, Tony.”

With urgency, I began to crawl up the rubble to search. The smoke smell was very heavy. The blue sky went dark gray. Utter devastation surrounded us. I was in the middle of what looked like a mini mountain range of burning scrapyard piles.

The piles went up about eight stories, covering 16 acres. Giant, thick, steel beams were twisted and torn. Heavy, thick elevator cable ran out of the pile like thread. My mind jumped back to the thought of those poor souls in the elevators, elevators which I’d ridden on many occasions. A couple of us tried to lift debris. It wouldn’t budge. I felt like an ant commissioned to rescue his brothers under a pile of 2×4’s.

Without my boots and bunker pants, my sneakers gave way. Oh, crap! I fell. I saw sharp, protruding metal everywhere. It could easily sever an artery.

I stood back up to scan my surroundings. I looked down. Am I standing on an ambulance?! I began to see the sea of first responder vehicles buried all around.

Be more careful, I thought. If you sever an artery, your help is dead. Help won’t get to you today.

The buildings around us weren’t safe. We were now near World Trade Center 7. The seventh floor of the 47-story building was still burning out of control from the impact of the exploding plane.

Fearing a potential collapse was imminent, rescue workers were ordered off the pile. Soon after, we heard loud cracks that sounded like claps of thunder followed by a roar blowing out a plume of gray smoke. Forty-seven stories came tumbling down before our eyes, and New York’s skyline was forever changed – again.

As we joined other rescue workers, the looming concern of nearby buildings collapsing down on us grew. Surveyors stepped out to examine the buildings. Every few hours we heard, “Run! The building’s moving!”

Run where? I thought. I can’t run in this smoldering pile.

The day and night went on with more scares like this.

I saw things throughout those days that I can’t write about.

In the days after 9/11, I attended many funerals. To this day, the sound of bagpipes still unearths buried emotions and brings me back to these memories. The stories friends and families shared about their loved ones inspire me. Sometimes, they alleviated my deep heartache. Yet the hardest funeral for me was Jimmy’s.

Three days earlier, I had received a phone call from my fireman buddy from my graduating class, Rich, who I’d been trying for months to make plans with. I’d given up on the idea of our schedules working out. Out of the blue, Rich was finally available on Tuesday, September 11. I told Rich, “Sorry, I’m working that day.” But, Rich persisted for 30 minutes until I gave in. I called my shift partner, Jimmy, and he was more than happy to swap shifts with me. Early Tuesday morning, Rich actually flaked out on me. I changed my shift for plans that never even materialized.

James Pappageorge (Jimmy) had a fiance and a son.

His sister, Helen, told mourners that Jimmy was a paramedic before becoming a firefighter. He loved helping others so much that he carried his own medic bag in his car in case, while off duty, he would be prepared if someone needed help. He saved someone’s life that way.

September 11 changed me. It changed all of us. Seeing life through the lens of a funeral recalibrated my focus as to what matters in life. My second chance compels me to live in gratitude in response to God’s grace. It shapes my choices. It shapes my relationships. As a husband and father of four, the legacy I hope to leave is one that goes generations beyond me in the values our family lives by. It shapes my work. As a coach and realtor, I’ve renamed my team, “The Legacy Team.” I think it helps my customers understand their own “why” and allows that to guide their decisions.

I would be remiss to neglect the overwhelming love and support the entire world gave to the families of those lost and the first responders. It was overwhelming! Local businesses and neighbors fed us meals for weeks. People and other firefighters came from literally all over the world to show solidarity. They saw our pain and vowed to never forget.

Lake Nona has more 9/11 families like ours, right here in our community. I met Ed Jurabe at my son’s therapy center right off Moss Park Road. His brother was Angel Jurabe, who was also killed in the line of duty on September 11, 2001.

Mike Troisi, a former resident of Eagle Creek, is a retired NYPD sergeant who displayed tremendous heroic leadership at Ground Zero that day.

Friends, it’s been 17 years. While I wish this story on no one, I write so that we will never forget. I share because people have great worth. Lives are precious, and even the toughest of us can be ever-so-fragile in light of tragedy. Even the strongest of us could go at any moment. I believe we all want our moments to count!

For the next year and a half after that tragic day, the two topics I heard in most conversations throughout firehouses, with friends, strangers, it didn’t matter who, were about God and relationships. While that gave peace and hope for many, others struggled with confusion and the pain of regret, mostly about what was not said to our loved ones lost.

The things most important in life come clearly into focus when we face adversity or tragedy. The things that matter most must never be at the mercy of the things that matter least.

I also learned a huge lesson about bitterness. As a rookie fireman, it’s customary for senior guys to bust your chops a bit. There was one guy who I just couldn’t stand! I didn’t mind the “you’ve gotta earn respect” mentality. But, I just really struggled going to work with him.

But, you know something? When you think you can’t stand someone, and then you lay eyes on his broken widow wondering how she’s going to raise her two toddlers without their father, when I looked into the eyes of his kids … I was crushed. You never forget that. Did I really hate him that much? Oh, how foolish bitterness really is!! In the end, I realized the bitter person loses.

I don’t understand why God preserved me and not others on that day, but I know, with the fleeting moments of life I have, I want to love people with all I’ve got. The hard lesson I learned is that we’re all going to die; we’re just not guaranteed the time we think we have. What do you want to be remembered for? What do you want your legacy to be?

Please pray for the families of those lost that day. Together, we can honor their legacy by picking up where they left off, like Jimmy, who actually saved a life, be the friend or neighbor who’s there to help and serve with humility. Today is the day to get your priorities straight.

This is my story. This is your story. May we never forget.