Imagine this: you’re standing right on the harbour’s edge, and the Sydney Opera House fills your entire view. Its sails — usually gleaming white — are now blurred by thick columns of smoke twisting upward into a cloudy sky. Through the haze, orange light glows faintly, as if the structure itself were breathing fire from within.
The air feels heavy, the low sound of sirens echoing across the water, and the wind carries that sharp, smoky edge that clings to your throat. Then you hear it — a voice nearby, quiet, stunned, almost whispering with an Australian accent: “Mate… I can’t believe this… what’s happening?” It’s not shouted, not panicked. Just raw disbelief spoken out loud, the kind of words people say when their mind can’t quite match what their eyes are seeing.
I lift my phone to film, but the footage shakes, zooms in and out, catching glimpses of the sails cloaked in haze, the orange glow flickering through, the skyline behind it muted by smoke. Every frame feels raw, imperfect, the way real life does when you’re caught in a moment that doesn’t feel like it should exist.
And yet, even in that moment, something deeper stands out. The Opera House is still there. The sails rise against the sky, unbroken, even as smoke drifts across them. The city doesn’t stop, the water keeps moving, the horizon remains. It’s strange, but in the middle of chaos, there’s a reminder: endurance often looks quiet, steady, and simple.
Maybe that’s the lesson — things will test us, cover us in smoke, blur who we are for a while. But what’s strong doesn’t collapse. Like the Opera House standing through it all, we too can choose to endure. Fires fade. Smoke clears. What lasts is the structure beneath
