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It is rare to know the exact moment, to the minute, that your life has changed forever. For me, and many Santa Cruzans, the time was 5:04 pm, October 17, 1989.

I was an eight year old girl, growing up in a rented turn-of-the-century duplex on Cedar Street, downtown. Usually busy at an after school activity like dance or music lessons, that afternoon my whole family, including dad, sister and step-mom, were seated in the livingroom for what was to be the inaugural (but turned out to be the last) "family study hour." I had just cracked Beverly Cleary's Dear Mr. Henshaw when the waves began. So strong and so fast that our "run to a doorframe" training proved useless. We couldn't make it one step without falling to our knees. It would have been easier to walk on actual waves than reach any of the four thresholds that surrounded our living room. Ever the protector, my father launched into an impromptu dogpile, covering us in the middle of the floor. When the shaking finally ceased, we ran to the street and slowly met the rest of our dazed neighbors. A haze hung in the air and one small dark smoke plum rose from somewhere in the surrounding blocks. We scarcely noticed that our TV had crashed inches from where we laid in the living room, or the entire contents of our kitchen shattered on the floor.

Though "Earthquake Kits" were not yet the norm, we were fortunate. My Father was a kayak instructor who lived most weekends out of a small camper in the bed of our shiny new Toyota pickup truck. We lived out of the truck for a whole week, waiting for the inspectors to give us the okay to move back inside. We had plenty of canned foods, a camp stove, water--enough to get us by until stores finally reopened. When the inspectors finally arrived, we were relieved to hear that our house was one of the best on the block--far better than the many houses around us with caved in porches, broken windows, and red tape across the door.

The aftershocks became part of everyday existence. With each shake, your heart stood still waiting to see just how big it was going to get and if it would turn into another 7.1. To this day, a large truck driving by or the rattle of a window gives me pause. Twenty years later, I still think I feel earthquakes at night, like feeling the roll of the ocean after a day at sea.

Those dramatic 45 seconds made a lasting impression on me. Through the earthquake I saw the best in people--neighbors helped one another without hesitation. We pulled together as a community and helped each other pick up the pieces, quite literally. I also learned how quickly your life could change, and how important it is to be prepared. Now that I have a family of my own, I am constantly making emergency plans, counting the gallons of bottled water and canned foods we have stored in our own small trailer. But most importantly, the 1989 earthquake taught me everything about living fully without fear of what may come tomorrow. There are no earthquake alarms or warnings. They simply happen, and sometimes in a life-altering way. Like life, if we constantly live in the fear of "what if", we ruin the now.