The Road Less Traveled… Can Be Explosive

A True Story

The explosion

A giant explosion shook me from my receptionist seat. Everything trembled. I ran outside to see what was happening…

That day—May 13th, 2000—is forever etched in my memory, as if it happened yesterday. Sometimes, life throws the kind of chaos at you that’s one in a billion. It’s strange, really, that I’ve experienced so many such moments in my life, yet never won the lottery. If I’ve won anything, it’s been the lottery of disasters following me.

I never understood why chaos seemed to follow me everywhere I went. It was as if the universe had decided to test my limits, to see how much I could endure. Ironically, I always managed to endure it—though not without consequence.

It’s funny I say “ironically,” because if you’ve read my last story here, you’d know what I’ve already been through. But honestly, this was just the beginning. Despite suffering from panic attacks and bouts of agoraphobia, I kept pushing myself to live a somewhat normal life. I still went to work, especially since my job was close to home. At the time, that was enough to keep me going day to day. If one day became too much, then so be it. I knew my country had a good structure in place to support me, so I didn’t feel too worried—I just did my best.

The Day Chaos Struck

That day, I was working as a receptionist at a 9-story hotel, the back of which housed international students, while the front catered to regular guests. The hotel overlooked the area where the explosion would soon take place. Across the street was the ER of a hospital, and while it was a relatively quiet day, that silence would soon be shattered.

It was so quiet, I almost expected tumbleweeds to roll by the reception desk. Everyone was outside, soaking up the sun, which is basically a national holiday when you live in a country with 300 grey days a year. It was a beautiful, sunny day—the first truly warm day of the year. People were out enjoying the weather, wearing t-shirts and shorts, taking full advantage of the sunshine, something rare for our grey, rainy country. The quietness of the day at work made sense, since everyone was outside enjoying the weather. But there was something else—a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. I always seemed to have a sixth sense about significant days like this. Something felt off, though I couldn’t put my finger on it.

And then it happened.

The Explosion That Shattered Everything

The first explosion was deafening. The whole building shook. I thought it was a bomb. Later, I would learn it was the equivalent of 0.8 tons of TNT. Instinctively, I ran outside, heart pounding, trying to locate the source.

Then, the second explosion hit.

This one was far more powerful—equivalent to 4 or 5 tons of TNT. Obliterating everything within a 40-hectare (100-acre) area. The blast was so strong that windows shattered within a 15 kilometer (9-mile) radius. The air pressure was enough to lift me off the ground, throwing me about 10 feet into the air. It felt like one of those slow-motion scenes in action movies, except nobody yelled ‘cut,’ and I definitely didn’t have a stunt double.

The ground shook like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Everything seemed to slow down as I flew through the air, trying to make sense of what was happening. It all felt surreal.

The devastation was unimaginable. Twenty-two people lost their lives that day. If it hadn’t been for the beautiful weather, that number would have been far higher. Six firefighters, caught in the second blast while fighting the fire, were among the dead. The explosion wasn’t just fireworks. There were other things stored there—things I would later learn had been kept hidden.

Areal View of the Disaster

But in the midst of the chaos, I felt calm.

Moments of Calm in Disaster

This wasn’t the first time I had remained calm in a crisis, nor would it be the last.

It's a paradox, but in the middle of true disaster, I’ve always found a sense of calm. Maybe it’s because I’ve lived with panic attacks for so long—sudden, overwhelming waves of anxiety with no tangible cause—that when something real happens, something with an actual source, I can make sense of it. The chaos outside matched what I’d felt inside for years, and finally, I didn’t feel the need to panic. It all became tangible, and in that moment, I was simply an observer. While the world spun into chaos, I found clarity. Usually the impact would hit me later when everyone was calm again. But this one took 22 years to hit me, while in Mexico and off of medications.

I rushed back inside, immediately going into focus mode. My first thought was to call my brother. He didn’t even live in the city—he was just visiting for the week. My mother and stepfather, meanwhile, were on a day trip outside the city, completely unaware of what had happened. My brother told me he was safe in the city centre, not far from where I was, and that he would come to check in with me. Relieved, I hung up and quickly called my mother before the phone lines went dead. The media wasn’t as fast back then as it is today.

With the shockwave freshly lingering in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of awe and curiosity, I had never experienced anything like this—something I imagined people in war zones faced regularly, yet here I was in a—normally—peaceful city. In a voice that felt far too calm for the chaos around me, I said, “Mom, don’t get scared. There was an explosion, but my brother and I are safe.” She was, of course, utterly confused. I continued, “Check the news in the coming hour,” reassuring her once more that we were both unharmed, then hung up. Just minutes later, all the phone lines went dead.

I was glad I had thought ahead. Later, many people would be frantically trying to reach their families and friends, with no way to get through. For me, it was easier. I hadn’t been back in the country long enough to build a large social network, so there weren’t many people I needed to contact, nor many who would contact me.

At the time, I had returned to the Netherlands three years prior after living in Italy for eight years. I was 31 and had finally found my own place to live. Two neighbours in my street were slowly becoming my friends, but after being away for so long, I didn’t have many deep connections. I had moved so many times—to different places and different countries—that by now, I had lost count. I was starting over, piecing my life together again. But for those who had deep roots and connections, their entire network of friends and loved ones must have been trying to contact them at once. The whole country must have been ringing. I was grateful I had made those calls while everyone else seemed to be walking around like headless chickens. It was a strange sight.

A Flood of Victims

Meanwhile, the ER across the street began flooding with victims. People stumbled in with head wounds, deep cuts, missing limbs. Some were carried in on someone’s back or in their arms, while others arrived in damaged cars, hanging out where a door had once been—traffic laws no longer mattered. The chaos was immense.

 As I stood there, I saw panic in every direction—people running, the sound of sirens growing louder, the distant cries of people. But amidst all that, I felt strangely detached, almost as if I was watching a movie unfold around me.

I walked back into the hotel, which had quickly been transformed into a trauma center for the firefighters. Six of them had died instantly, but those who survived stumbled in, their faces smeared with soot and ash, trembling, and some in tears. I remember standing there as they huddled together in shock, grieving the loss of their colleagues and the sheer scale of the destruction. These were strong men, trained to face danger, but even they were completely shattered by what they had seen. This wasn’t just a simple accident. There was something more to it—something that didn’t add up.

The Aftermath

I remember vividly how the biggest beer manufacturer in that neighborhood had caught fire. There was a giant tank full of methane on the roof, and we all watched in fear as the fire climbed toward it. By 6 p.m., I was still at the hotel watching the TV, even though the disaster was happening just outside. The plume of black smoke turned the city dark long before nightfall. It was visible for miles and miles. The city bordered Germany, and even their firefighters had come to help. The job was too big for the local crew to handle alone. Everyone feared that if the tank exploded, the entire city would be lost. I remember thinking to myself, “Well, we’re sitting ducks here.”

A Cover-Up?

An hour earlier, the military had arrived and sealed off the entire city. No one was allowed in or out, and my mother and stepdad couldn’t return home. As the city scrambled to assess the damage, murmurs began to surface—there was more to this explosion than met the eye. People weren’t just talking about fireworks anymore. There were whispers of equipment, foreign languages, and things being covered up. Some said military mines had been stored there illegally, and that things weren’t as innocent as the official story claimed. But those stories would never reach the public—at least not officially. It wasn’t just an accident. Innocent people were blamed, some went to jail, and others were silenced. It’s a story that’s still whispered about today, with citizen journalists unearthing new details even 24 years later.

Aftermath: Picking Up the Pieces

The sound of sirens echoed through the city for the next 24 hours and days ahead. The explosion’s aftermath was felt for years. An entire neighborhood of 400 houses was leveled, 1,500 buildings damaged, and thousands left homeless. The air was filled with asbestos from roofs that had caught fire.

400 Houses Gone

The devastation was beyond anything we could have imagined, and yet I found myself standing in the middle of it all.

Late that evening, the fire at the brewery was finally brought under control, and my parents were able to return to the city. One of my neighbors, whose father had lost his home, hosted him for months afterward. I remember seeing him stare out of the window for hours, in total shock. He couldn’t function anymore. Eventually, they moved away, and I never found out what happened to him.

For years after the explosion, fireworks were no longer a source of joy. People and animals alike, especially those closest to the disaster, remained in shock. Personally, I’ve never really liked fireworks. In Mexico, they set off fireworks three times a day during a festival, which happened quite a bit, and no, not the pretty, colorful ones—just loud bangs that sound like someone’s trying to blow up the moon. My rescue cats weren’t fazed at all. Apparently, they got used to living with daily sound effects from ‘The Apocalypse: Mexico Edition’.—and it would drive me insane. Even after this last New Year’s Eve, I realized that the loud noise still brings back a sense of unease, but it’s different now. Ironically, with my Mexican cats not afraid of it at all, It no longer stirs any need for chaos in me. And maybe, just maybe, they helped me with this too. Now, it’s only a quiet reminder of how far I’ve come.

A New Year, A New Calm

As I’m writing this, more memories are coming to the surface. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt calm amidst disaster. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if I unconsciously sought it out.

Looking back, I’ve always had drama around me, often wondering why conflict seemed to follow me. Maybe it was my energy—perhaps people sensed the tension within me and reacted to it. Or maybe, without realizing it, I invited that chaos. The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes: I sought out dramatic situations because they made me feel calm. They mirrored the storm inside me and gave me something to focus on, something tangible to process. It had become a red thread throughout my whole life.

For years, I unconsciously created or surrounded myself with chaos because it made sense to me. But here’s the epiphany—since my healing began, and after coming to the sad conclusion in December 2023 that I needed to let go of my rescue cats, the drama has stopped. Letting them go brought profound sadness but also a sense of release—my need for control and chaos had ended. Their sanctuary symbolized my own journey toward finding peace.

Now that I consciously understand this pattern, I can see how it has shaped my life. It feels like a weight has lifted, and though the calm inside is new and unfamiliar, I’m trusting that it’s real. For the first time, my life has quieted down, and I don’t feel that same need to create chaos anymore. I hadn’t even realized it until now, but it’s a sign that my healing has truly taken root. For the first time in a long time, I don’t need external chaos to balance the internal storm. It’s quiet now—both inside and out

- Patricia Isabella -

This is just one chapter in a long road of healing. As I continue to uncover more layers of my past, I’m realizing that the story of chaos isn’t over yet—there is so much more to explore, more to heal, and much more to share. Next up will be an inspirational, beautiful and uplifting one, to change it up a bit! Stay tuned as "The Road Less Traveled” continues… ❤️

Sources on the disaster: youtube.com/watch?v=GdAfUzKu-IM

Not a complete accurate representation of the truth: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enschede_fireworks_disaster