Thanks to the encouragement from this morning’s post, I finally forced myself to write down my rambling September 11th story. It’s difficult to put into words, but I want this account for the future—especially for Clara, when she’s older and I need to explain how enormous that day was. September 11th was a terrible day that changed so many lives, and it shaped who I am. Despite loving all the DIY content in our archives, it’s the rare personal posts—like this one, this one, or this one—that I’m always glad I wrote and saved for later.
I debated whether to write about that morning for six years, each anniversary bringing the same hesitation. I was a college sophomore living in New York City on September 11th. Even now, it’s hard to fully process watching everything unfold in front of me. For many years I stayed quiet about it on the blog, but this year I felt ready to share. Though it happened over a decade ago, describing it brings back every sound, smell, and sight like it was yesterday.
That morning I was at Grand Central Station, helping at a show house for Country Home magazine. My best friend and I were interning there on days we didn’t have classes, unpacking accessories so the rooms could be styled. When we first arrived, we heard a report that a plane had struck the World Trade Center. At first it sounded like a small accident—people called relatives who worked in the towers, asking if they were okay. No one said “terrorism” or “attack,” so we shrugged and kept working. When the second tower was hit, the mood changed instantly. Within minutes Grand Central was being evacuated.
Armed guards and authorities were ushering people out, explaining that landmarks could be targets and the city needed to clear large public spaces. I’m so grateful my best friend was with me—we were in shock and didn’t know where to go. The subway system was shut down, so crowds spilled into the streets outside Grand Central. We walked toward Penn Station, hoping trains to Bayside, Queens—where our apartment was—might still be running.
They weren’t. We wandered aimlessly until we sat on the New York Public Library steps. We were terrified it might be another target, but we were too stunned to keep moving. People hurried past, leaving items behind as they fled: one shoe on the sidewalk, an open briefcase with papers scattered. Cell service was down, making everything more frightening for those trying to reach loved ones. We conserved our phone batteries and stayed put. Then someone pointed toward the skyline: the towers, nearby and smoking. A massive cloud of dust rose from the first tower, and people shouted that it had been hit again. Then the building collapsed—an implosion of concrete and dust that filled the air.
At the time we didn’t understand that the collapse was caused by the earlier impact and resulting damage; it felt like the towers were being hit again. People screamed, prayed, or stood frozen. Then we ran. The streets filled with dust and panic, even though the towers were miles away. Police officers and firefighters moved through the crowd, their faces and uniforms coated in ash. Injured people who had fled from downtown stumbled by; the scene felt chaotic and surreal.
We found refuge in a hotel foyer in midtown. A TV there showed the second tower collapsing. The room fell into a stunned silence; everyone was too shocked to speak. The hotel offered vacant rooms, but nobody wanted to go upstairs after seeing skyscrapers fall. We stayed near exits, ready to run if needed.
Late that night some limited trains began running and we managed to return to our apartment in Bayside. Cell service was finally good enough to tell family we were okay. Stepping onto our tiny balcony, the smell hit us—an acrid, burning scent unlike anything I’d known. I remember asking if it was burned metal from the buildings, then realizing the tragic truth together with my friend. We cried.
The images that continue to haunt me are the missing person posters plastered everywhere afterward—fences, scaffolding, and subway walls covered with photos of people who never returned. Smiling dads, families, holiday pictures with faces circled—those faces became a painful, daily reminder. I dreamt about a man in a suit and later recognized him as one of the faces on a fence near my apartment. Stories poured in, each one more heartbreaking. Someone I knew lost a father who had escaped the tower once only to go back inside for his wallet; he never came out. Firefighters and police who ran toward danger became faces on those posters. The grief was both immediate and numbing.
Yet amid the sorrow there was also an overwhelming sense of solidarity in New York City. For a time it felt as if everyone were family, united in grief and determination. People thanked dusty, exhausted first responders with tears and gestures of appreciation. Neighborhoods rallied to support the rescue workers combing through rubble. The city felt like a community determined to recover.
Classes resumed about a week later when the subways reopened. Many friends left the city—about 30% of the people I knew at school moved away—but I couldn’t imagine leaving. For those of us who stayed, the city felt stronger and more connected. We silently encouraged one another on the subway and in crowds; we would never forget that day, but we weren’t going anywhere.
I stayed in New York for four more years, finished college, and began working at an advertising agency in midtown—less than a block from Grand Central, the place where my life had tilted that morning years before. That agency is where I met John. He took a picture of my best friend and me about a month before we moved to Virginia to start our life together.
Although I now live in Richmond, a part of me will always be a New Yorker. The city, its people, and that painful, defining morning are woven into who I am. NYC forever.
