There’s a particular period of my life that I have always referred to as my Year of Hell. (The phrase is borrowed from an episode of Star Trek: Voyager; call it my annus horribilis if you prefer a more classical term.) In fact, I cheat a little bit: it’s a period of just about thirteen months, spanning from September of 2001 through September of the following year. Perhaps it’s overstating things a bit; I know I’ve had a pretty good life, and I probably don’t know what true suffering is like. But it was, as they say, a rough patch.

That thirteen-month period started, of course, with an event that wasn’t about me at all: 9/11, a trauma we all shared, even those of us who watched only from a distance. I felt shaken: it seemed that the world had changed, and not for the better. Over the weeks and months that followed, I watched nervously as the economy reeled and the country moved toward war. But gradually I began to realize that despite the enormity of the event, my own life hadn’t really been affected.

Then, one day in May of 2002, after a weekly team meeting, my manager pulled me aside and asked me to come see him in his office. “We need to chat,” he said. I felt like a condemned prisoner walking to the electric chair. I sat in his office and listened as he delivered the scripted speech: “There is a resource action,” he said, “and you are directly affected.” This was corporate codespeak, but I knew what it meant: I had lost my job, a consequence of the economic downturn. I had not been as unaffected by 9/11 as I had thought.

I know that getting laid off is not the end of the world, but this was an emotional blow I wasn’t prepared for. I had spent my entire ten-year career at the same employer, and I had no professional experience of anything else. That job wasn’t just the source of my income; it was also a large part of my identity. To make matters worse, only a couple of months earlier, my wife Lynn had quit her job in order to stay at home with our four-year-old daughter. We had gone from two incomes to one, and then to none. Going home and telling her this news was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do.

I immediately started sending out resumes, and after about a month I managed to land a short-term contract job. It was a big step down from what I’d had before: significantly lower pay, no benefits, and a finite duration. To add insult to injury, the client for the contract was my old employer, so I’d be going back to work in familiar surroundings but feeling like a second-class citizen. But it was a lifeline, six months’ worth of employment, so of course I took it.

My first day at this new job did not go according to plan. My manager was taking me around to meet people when my cell phone rang. It was my wife Lynn, and she was so distraught that I could not understand anything she was saying. But I could guess; that morning we’d heard that Lynn’s mom was in the hospital, although at that time things didn’t sound too serious. Eventually, Lynn was able to communicate to me that she had heard from her brother, and the message was simple: you need to get to the hospital as soon as possible. I told her to go, and that I would follow.

And so, only hours into my first day, I told my new manager that I had to leave and didn’t know when I’d be back. Lynn did not make it to the hospital in time before her mom died. The events that followed were something of a blur, and it was one of the most emotionally intense experiences of my life. I had never before lost anyone close to me, and as much as I tried to be the Strong Husband, it was hard to take.

Fortunately, my new manager was patient and understanding. A week after my abrupt departure, I finally returned for a second attempt at a first day. But I was now living alone; after the funeral, we had been worried about Lynn’s dad, so we’d agreed that she and my daughter would stay on for a while to help out. It was a depressing existence. I spent my days at an unsatisfactory job, and if that weren’t enough of a reminder of what I’d lost, I came home to an empty house. I got to see my family only on weekends, when I would drive the three hours to my father-in-law’s house.

It wasn’t until the first anniversary of 9/11 approached that things started to turn around. I heard through a friend about a job opening with my former employer (a real job opening, not a short-term contract). It seemed like a long shot — I had never heard of anyone who had been rehired only months after being laid off — but I pursued it anyway. And miraculously, on September 30 (my mother’s birthday, which seemed somehow auspicious) I was rehired by the same employer who had unceremoniously shown me the door in the spring. Indeed, I was rehired in a better position, and with a higher salary, than I’d had before the layoff. And I got to keep part of my severance payment.

In some ways, it seemed like the Universe had just said “never mind” and put things back like they were. That wasn’t true, of course; some of the events of the last year could not be undone, and some (like my family’s continued absence) would take more time to resolve. But it finally felt like my Year of Hell was over, and that things were starting to get better again.

Now here’s the thing. I have always regarded that thirteen-month period as the worst time of my life and hoped never to see another like it. It was a year of trauma, anxiety, fear, grief, and loneliness.

And yet, even two decades later, I think about that time a lot. I reminisce about it, remembering it with a bittersweet feeling that almost feels like nostalgia. Sometimes I’ll hear a piece of music from back then, and it will bring back a potent memory: I’m in my car, pulling into the parking lot before facing another day of my depressing job. Or it’s late on a Friday night, and I’m exiting the Interstate, about to be reunited (for a couple of days) with my wife and daughter. It was a time in my life that I would never want to revisit, and yet I find myself drawn to those memories, trying to recall how I felt at the time. Why would I do that?

One of the lessons I learned that year was the curious truth that happiness and sadness are not really opposites. They can coexist, and often you cannot have one without the other. I have recounted the events that made that year an unhappy one for me; but those are not the only memories from that time that have stayed with me.

I remember spending the evening of Independence Day at the state fairgrounds, watching a fireworks display and having a great time with my family. We’d never attended that event before, but now we were conscious of the need to tighten our belts, and the fireworks were free. At that moment I felt closer to my wife and daughter than I had in a while, and there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

I remember how — after moping for a week or two about losing my job — I decided to take advantage of the chance to spend time on some creative projects. I got back to writing, posting regularly on my blog, and finishing a long-stalled book I’d been working on for years. It remains one of my proudest achievements as a writer.

I remember the impromptu gathering at my in-laws’ house on the evening after Lynn’s mom died. There were tears, of course, but there was also laughter: it was a gathering of friends and family, people who loved each other and loved her, and it wasn’t too soon to start sharing memories and favorite stories. I learned more about her after she died than I’d ever known, and it was only after I’d lost her that I really came to understand how much I’d loved her. Which in turn led me to pay more attention to the things I love about the other people in my life.

I remember the kindness of the funeral director (who happened to be an old family friend) when we met with him. I remember being surrounded by strangers, members of my in-laws’ church congregation, and how much I appreciated their support and their promises to look after Lynn’s dad.

I remember learning, after I’d gotten my job back, about how friends and colleagues had helped to make it happen. People I had worked with during my first decade there had made phone calls on my behalf, given me glowing references, and helped to keep the bureaucracy from standing in the way. The whole time I was feeling powerless, waiting for the phone to ring, an army of friends had been working behind the scenes. I felt like George Bailey, learning just how many lives he had touched, and feeling like the luckiest man in the world.

And most of all, I remember learning some important lessons about who I am, lessons I could perhaps not have learned in any other way. In some ways, that year felt like a process of having parts of my life stripped away — my sense of security, my professional identity, my financial resources, even (for a while) my family — leaving me with nothing but myself. I learned what the Stoics knew thousands of years ago, that you can’t control events, but you can control how you respond to them. And what the Buddhists know, that letting go of expectation is the key to happiness.

So in a weird way, the worst time in my life was also the best, in the sense that it gave me some of the most valuable experiences I’ve had. You learn far more about yourself during difficult times than you do during good times, and those are lessons you can take with you and benefit from even after things get better. I hope I never have another Year of Hell, but if I do, I hope I can again learn from it.