We still talk about how close we came to losing everything that day, and how ordinary it all looked until it wasn’t. A simple tree, a sunny afternoon, a curious child—nothing about it suggested danger. But those Lonomia caterpillars were waiting there all the same, invisible to anyone who didn’t know what to look for. That’s what haunts me most: how easily we could have walked away believing the world was completely safe.

Now, when we head outdoors, we move a little slower and pay closer attention. We teach our children to admire nature with their eyes first, not their hands. We remind them that some of the most beautiful things can hurt you the most. It isn’t about fear; it’s about respect. Because sometimes, the difference between a memory and a tragedy is a single, watchful moment.