09/11/2026
Twenty-five years.
That morning is seared into my brain, as it is for so many of us: the clear blue sky, the news of the first plane, the hope that it was an accident, the second plane confirming it wasn’t, and then watching in disbelief as both towers crumbled.
I will never forget the countless first responders who risked—and sometimes sacrificed—their lives to save others.
I will never forget the news anchors who stayed on air for 24, 36, even 48 hours straight to bring us the latest information.
I will never forget the volunteers from all over the country/world who donated their time and resources.
I will never forget the quietness of a city that normally buzzed as we returned to work after those first few days, rode the trains, and tried to find some sense of normalcy in an outrageously abnormal time.
I will never forget the faces of the missing on the hundreds and hundreds of posters taped to scaffolding, fences, walls, and lampposts—put there by loved ones pleading for information about a son, wife, husband, brother, or sister who never came home.
It’s been twenty-five years since that terrible day and the terrible weeks, months, and years that followed—not only for NYC, DC, and Shanksville, Pennsylvania, but for the entire country.
I will always think of my years in NYC in two parts: before 9/11 and after. I’m grateful I had many more years in the “after,” because I saw a city of eight million people come together in strength and love—love for our city and love for those we lost. I will always remember.
And never forget.
