What Can—and Can’t—Be Replaced

2 min

On Sunday, I was walking home, still in a bit of a sulk. Some recent changes in my life have really shaken up plans I had looked forward to for months. I was in my feelings—mourning what didn’t go the way I imagined it would. And then something unexpected redirected my attention.

As I turned onto a street in Astoria, I came across the charred remains of a two-family house. Fire trucks still lined the block, neighbors stood quietly in disbelief, and the air was thick with the unmistakable scent of smoke. The Fukumoto and Yoshido families had lost everything in that fire—beloved pets, personal belongings, memories etched into walls now blackened and broken. Even the family next door was impacted.

Thankfully, no lives were lost. But so much else was.

In that moment, two thoughts came rushing in. One was something my dad had texted me earlier in the week: “As we go through life, we experience all kinds of things. None of it is necessarily to our personal credit or fault.”

The second thought was this: What is truly irreplaceable?

I realized that while I’d been mourning something meaningful—a trip, a moment, a dream—I was grieving something that, if I’m honest, is still within my reach. Maybe not in the way or timing I’d planned. But still possible. Still rebookable. Still fixable.

That fire reminded me of a truth we often forget when we’re deep in disappointment: some things can be rebuilt. But others—our people, our loved ones, the essence of who we are—those are irreplaceable.

So this week, I invite you into a simple but powerful reflection.

Take a page and draw a line down the center. On one side, write down the things in your life that are truly irreplaceable. People you love. Parts of yourself that you’d fight to protect. The things money and time can never recreate.

Then, on the other side, write down the things you’ve lost—or worry about losing—that can be replaced. Jobs. Apartments. Trips. Even money. These losses can still hurt deeply, but they don’t have to destroy us.

This is not about minimizing pain—it’s about perspective. When we lose something we can rebuild, we must protect the things that make that rebuilding possible: our energy, our courage, our belief that joy is still waiting for us somewhere on the other side.

Because you can lose a lot. But don’t lose that.

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