By: Laura Thompson
Updated: Sep. 8, 2020
Originally Published: Sep. 11, 2016
Everyone has a personal narrative from that fateful day. We can all pinpoint where we were when the tragic news of the 9/11 attacks broke. The shock, sorrow, and overwhelming fear are etched in our memories.
At 23 years old, I was newly married and working in an office close to Grand Central Station in Manhattan. When I arrived at work, a buzz filled the air as colleagues discussed a plane crashing into the World Trade Center. An uneasy feeling gripped me; my husband was downtown, traveling for work, and uncertainty loomed over me.
A few moments later, when I learned that another plane had struck the second tower, the reality hit me – this was no accident. Something catastrophic was unfolding. I frantically tried to reach my husband, but the phone lines were down. I informed my boss I was leaving, my instincts kicking in. He nodded in understanding.
As I made my way down Madison Avenue, I caught sight of the two towers engulfed in flames, thick smoke billowing into the sky. I desperately searched for a working payphone, but none connected. I wandered downtown, passing countless individuals rushing uptown, some covered in ash, tears streaming down their faces. It dawned on me that continuing in this direction wouldn’t help me find my husband. I needed to escape the city. I boarded a subway to Brooklyn, and just as I stepped on, the announcement came through that it was the last train leaving due to the system shutdown.
Next to me sat a woman, covered in ash and sobbing. Without saying a word, I embraced her. Upon exiting the train, I encountered a man standing on a ladder atop his truck, gazing toward the Manhattan skyline. “There’s only one tower left,” he remarked. It was hours later that I grasped the full weight of his words.
Fortunately, my story had a happy ending. My husband, unharmed and safe, had joined the throng of people moving uptown, crossing the 59th Street Bridge to our apartment in Greenpoint. When I saw him approach our block, I burst into tears, rushing to embrace him, filled with relief.
I understood how fortunate I was, especially as the news revealed the tragic losses suffered by so many families. As the smoke from the wreckage drifted across the river to our home, we sat glued to the television, absorbing stories of grief and loss. While we didn’t personally know anyone who perished that day, we heard of friends of friends who did. A firefighter from our Long Island hometown had rushed to the scene that morning and lost his life.
For those of us nearby, the connection to the tragedy felt profound, whether or not we had a direct link to the victims. The weeks and months that followed were marked by a lingering sense of sorrow and disbelief. Subway station walls were plastered with missing person posters. Many held out hope for weeks, waiting for news of their loved ones. We wandered through the city in a fog, sharing stories, embracing one another, and shedding tears. Concentration on daily life seemed nearly impossible.
Amidst the grief, stories of heroism emerged. I vividly remember walking past fire stations and police precincts adorned with flowers and tributes. We recognized the brave souls among us—first responders who had witnessed unimaginable horrors and lost friends and loved ones. Countless heroes rushed into danger to save others, pulling injured individuals from the wreckage and offering comfort and care without a moment’s hesitation.
That bravery fostered a palpable sense of community in the city. New Yorkers, often seen as tough and guarded, began to connect with one another on a deeper level. We exchanged glances and nods, sharing an unspoken bond. In those moments, we felt like family.
As we reflect on that day—whether we were in New York, Pennsylvania, or Virginia; whether we were in a classroom in Kansas or waking up in California—we all carry the weight of the memory. The impact of loss and the realization that our nation had changed forever resonate in our hearts.
For those who lost loved ones, the scars remain, no matter how many years pass. The pain, longing, and memories linger. Each day, we remember—wishing we could somehow turn back time. Our hearts ache for the lost, and we honor the bravery of those who risked their lives to save others.
It has been 19 years since the attacks—a significant span of time that has altered many lives. Yet, the memory of that day remains vivid, and we know we are forever changed. We will never forget.
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In summary, 19 years later, we stand united in remembering the lives lost, the sacrifices made, and the enduring spirit of resilience. We will carry this memory with us, forever.