Remembering September 11: Twenty-Four Years Later

Seven months pregnant, I shifted in my chair, trying to get comfortable with my changing body. A soccer ball-sized life pressed on my organs, making me fidgety. Rubbing my belly with one hand and holding a pen in the other, I suddenly heard the line to New York go dead. In the hours that followed, I experienced a story about September 11 that left a lasting impression on me.

At first, I thought nothing of it—just another dropped call during a morning meeting with our Manhattan team. I redialed once, then again. A busy signal responded each time. On the third attempt, before I could press the buttons, our creative director rushed into the office. His voice tight: The World Trade Center has been attacked.

I left my chair and followed him down the hall, belly heavy, heart unsteady. In the conference room, just six of us gathered around the television. Smoke billowed from one tower. Then, right before our eyes, another plane hit the second. My arms instinctively wrapped around my stomach, as if I could shield the life inside me from what was unfolding on the screen.

During the next few hours, news spread about the Pentagon and a plane that crashed in Pennsylvania. Terrorism. The word echoed across every channel. More than three thousand lives were lost that day. A skyline was changed forever. So was our sense of security.

But what I remember most vividly isn’t the flames themselves — it’s how time seemed to melt away. The projects piled on my desk no longer mattered. I couldn’t concentrate on words, layouts, or deadlines. All I could do was sit there, eyes fixed on the endless replays, whispering prayers for the dead, the living, and for my baby.

When I finally called Rob, he hadn’t yet heard. Relief surged through me. He was home. He was safe. But the what-ifs pressed in anyway—what if he had been traveling, what if his work had taken him to New York that morning? My tears came fast then, not only for the strangers on the screen but for the nearness of my own potential loss.

Twenty-four years have passed, but the images remain: black smoke curling against a flawless September sky, the stunned silence of that conference room, the heaviness of my hands on my unborn child. Life moved forward, as it always does. Children played, airplanes flew again, we celebrated birthdays, buried loved ones, and returned to our routines. Yet, nothing felt the same.

Every anniversary of 9/11 brings me back to that terrible day, reigniting the ache of unanswered questions. The hatred that fueled such destruction still burns deep inside me, a rage that no words can soothe. Politicians and pundits argue endlessly over what should have been done and what must be done now. Still, their pointless debates only distract us from the real, raw work—honoring the memory, mourning the loss, and fiercely refusing to give in to despair. That sacred work is ours to carry and to fight for.

For me, remembering September 11 is less about history books or news specials and more about honoring the fragile miracle of being alive. It is about pausing to hold my son, now grown, and marveling that on the day the world fell apart, he was still safe inside me. It is about praying for the families who carry loss every single day. It is about believing that even amid terror, violence, and grief, we can still choose peace, hope, and, if not forgiveness, at least understanding.

We may never discover the answer to why. But by remembering, we honor those who were lost. By remembering, we create space for healing. And by sharing my personal story about September 11, I remind myself to cherish each ordinary morning—for it may be more miraculous than we realize.