I’m on an airplane somewhere between South Florida and Washington, D.C. It will be a relatively short trip. I’m on assignment. Normally I would have brought only a carry-on, but no, I had to check my suitcase because I cannot go on this trip without toothpaste, contact-lens solution, hand cream, moisturizer, hair spray and, of course, foundation, mascara and lip gloss. Reminder: I work on television -- I need the makeup.

I hate checking luggage. It takes forever to get it at baggage claim. It’s such a waste of my valuable time. Going through security to get to the boarding gate also takes forever. Now they screen your bags, then hand-search them again. But the worst part of that process is having to walk barefoot on the dirty, disgusting airport floor. I hate that shoe-bomber guy.

Life certainly has changed for all of us since the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, whether we are traveling, talking on the phone, surfing the Web, checking out books from the library or simply expressing our political views. We can no longer feel free to say and do as we please without wondering if someone is listening to our conversations or snooping into what topics we research or what reading materials interest us. No doubt about it -- our privacy has been invaded.

An immigrant is no longer just an immigrant. Ethnicity is no longer just a symbol of a diverse society. Your skin color or accent can turn you into a potential terrorist. Your religious beliefs can cause you to be perceived as a suspect.

In the past five years, our world and our way of life have been altered. We think about it and feel anger; we blame the terrorists for their brutal act. We think about it and feel vulnerable; we blame our government for not protecting us. We think about it and feel like our freedom has been limited; we blame our government again. We think about it and feel frustrated; we don’t know who to blame anymore.

But when we get past the anger, the frustration and the inconveniences of living a life with so many limitations, it’s difficult not to think about what a life-altering experience really means.

Just one example: Wilder Alfredo Gomez celebrated his 38th birthday on Sept. 9, 2001. Before going to work that morning, he asked his mother, Luz America Ayala, to take a picture of him with his crisp, new uniform on. That night, she baked him a cake. It was an uneventful yet special day.

Both Wilder and his mother immigrated to the United States in 1992, running away from the dangers of terrorist attacks in Colombia. Wilder, who had been a mechanic with the Colombian Air Force, dreamed of learning English and working for an American airline. But instead, he ended up working as a bartender at Windows on the World in the World Trade Center. He was scheduled to go to work at 10 a.m. on Sept. 11. But as fate would have it, the night before, his boss called and asked him to fill in for a friend at 6 in the morning.

It was about 9 a.m. on that fateful day when Luz America learned from her husband about what she thought was an accident at the Twin Towers resulting from a disoriented pilot. She called her son, and he told her not to worry. “Everything is fine. Noises are common in such a high building.” Those were the last words she heard him speak.

Wilder’s body was the 103rd found in the rubble of the World Trade Center. Every week Luz America, who was lucky enough to have a body to bury, deposits flowers at her son’s gravesite. The old piece of leftover birthday cake still sits in her refrigerator. She cherishes that last picture she took of him on his birthday with his crisp, new uniform on. That, and a lifetime of memories, is all she has left of her son.

When we multiply Luz America’s life-altering experience by thousands -- the thousands who lost a son or daughter, a mother or father, a sibling, a spouse or a friend; the thousands who survived the tragedy and are left with irreparable emotional scars; and the thousands who never got a chance to live out their dreams -- only then can we begin to put life and its new set of inconveniences into perspective. They are a reality, and we have a right to dispute them. But we should also count our blessings.