Recently, I had the chance to visit Fort Sumter with an old friend—someone I hadn’t seen in at least five years. It’s funny how time can widen the gap between us yet make no difference at all. We picked up right where we left off, laughing over shared memories and catching up on what we’ve each been up to since. But as we walked through the historic fort, surrounded by remnants of a tumultuous past, I found myself reflecting on how history and memory intertwine.

Fort Sumter, of course, isn’t just any site. It was here, on April 12, 1861, that the first shots of the Civil War were fired, marking the beginning of a conflict that would define the nation. Standing there, looking out over Charleston Harbor, I couldn’t help but think about what it must have been like for the soldiers stationed there—a mixture of fear, loyalty, and resolve. The war that followed would claim over 600,000 lives and tear the country apart, all for a vision of the future that many people were willing to die for. As someone who’s lived a largely cushioned life, I find it difficult to imagine a world where I’d be ready to make that kind of sacrifice.

In today’s divided political climate, the idea of risking my life for the country feels distant. The concept of war itself is terrifying to me. It’s one thing to read about it, see reenactments, or watch historical footage; it’s another thing entirely to imagine being in the middle of it, feeling every moment of terror, hearing every deafening shot. The sacrifices those men made at Fort Sumter, whether for the Union or the Confederacy, were real and immediate, and they believed in something beyond themselves. It’s humbling to stand in a place where such convictions took physical form.

After the tour, we took a ferry back and headed over to the USS Yorktown, a decommissioned aircraft carrier from World War II, which is now docked at Patriots Point. Walking through the carrier was a surreal experience, especially after visiting Fort Sumter. Here was another chapter of American history, another symbol of sacrifice. The Yorktown, nicknamed “The Fighting Lady,” was integral to battles in the Pacific Theater, from the Marshall Islands to Iwo Jima. I couldn’t shake the feeling of awe as I walked the steel decks where men once stood, prepared to give their lives in a conflict that, much like the Civil War, would shape the world for generations.

It’s easy to take these sacrifices for granted when you’re standing on a safe, decommissioned ship or exploring the preserved walls of an old fort. For those of us who haven’t had to face such harrowing experiences, war can feel like a distant concept. And yet, walking through these sites with my friend, I was reminded that the lives we live today—free from that scale of sacrifice—are in part due to the courage of people we’ll never know. The weight of history was palpable, as was the quiet realization of just how much we owe to those who came before us.

Throughout the day, my friend and I talked not just about history but about our own journeys. We spoke of past challenges, dreams we’re still pursuing, and memories that have shaped us. It felt fitting to be in places so steeped in history, as if the setting itself encouraged a deeper reflection. It was a reminder that, just like Fort Sumter or the Yorktown, our own lives are marked by moments of change and resilience. Even as time marches on, the connections we forge—like the friendship we’d rekindled—carry through, just as enduring as the stone walls of Fort Sumter or the steel decks of the Yorktown.

The visit left me with a renewed sense of perspective. In the grand span of human history, 162 years or even 80 years is just a blink. And yet, these places stand as proof that even in the face of time’s passage, there is value in remembering. Touring Fort Sumter and the Yorktown gave me the chance to step out of my own story and into a much larger one, a reminder that while we are each just brief notes in the symphony of history, the moments of real connection and reflection we create give it meaning.