Thank you for the encouragement this morning to finally put my long-held September 11th memories into words. Even though it’s painful to relive, I want this written down for myself—especially for Clara someday, when I try to explain the enormity of that day. It was horrific and life-changing, and it helped shape who I am. While I love the thousands of DIY posts in our archives, the personal ones—like the birth story or other small, honest posts—are the ones I’m most grateful to have documented. Getting the jumble of memories out of my head and onto the page always feels like a relief.
I’ve debated writing about this for six years. Each anniversary brings the same question: should I share it? I was a college sophomore living in New York City that September 11th. Being there and witnessing events unfold in front of me is something I still haven’t fully processed, and for years I kept quiet about it. This year felt different—I felt ready to try. It’s strange how something that happened more than a decade ago can feel distant until I begin to talk about it; then every sound, smell, and sight rushes back as if it happened yesterday. Early that morning I was at Grand Central, helping with a show house for Country Home magazine—I’d interned there on days when I didn’t have classes, unwrapping accessories and helping the stylists.
When we arrived we heard from our boss that a plane had hit the World Trade Center, but it was described like a small, accidental crash. No one said “terrorism” or “attack,” so we kept unpacking while some people called relatives who worked in the towers to check on them. At first it seemed like only a few floors were affected, which was worrying but not catastrophic—until the second tower was hit. That’s when panic set in and Grand Central was evacuated within minutes.
Armed guards were directing the evacuation, explaining that another landmark might be targeted and the city needed to clear public spaces. I’m grateful my best friend was with me; I had no idea what to do. The entire subway system was shut down, so we spilled out onto the street and walked toward Penn Station, where trains to our apartment in Bayside, Queens might still be running. When we learned they weren’t, we wandered aimlessly and ended up sitting on the steps of the New York Public Library. We were terrified and in shock—unsure whether to keep moving or stay put. People streamed by leaving belongings behind: a lone shoe, an open briefcase, papers scattered on the sidewalk. Cell phones weren’t working, which was especially frightening for those trying to reach family.
From the library steps we could see the towers smoking in the distance. A large cloud of dust rose from the first tower, someone shouted it had been hit again, and then it collapsed—an implosion of concrete and smoke that sent a huge dust plume into the sky. At the time we didn’t understand that the initial impact and subsequent fires had weakened the building. Instead it felt like another deliberate strike. People screamed, prayed, and then we ran—stumbling, coughing, and covered in dust that traveled miles through the city.
Streets were filled with ash-covered police officers and firefighters, faces and uniforms gray with dust, eyes and teeth white from the coating. Injured people fled on foot from downtown. We found refuge in a midtown hotel foyer where a TV showed the second tower’s collapse. For a long moment there was silence; shock had frozen everyone. Even when the hotel offered vacant rooms upstairs, no one wanted to go higher. After witnessing two skyscrapers fall, everyone preferred to stay on the ground floor where they could run.
Late that night some trains were running and we made it back to our apartment in Bayside. Spotty cell service allowed us to let family know we were alive. We stood on our small balcony looking at a skyline forever altered, and the smell hit us—burning and rancid. I asked if it could be the metal from the buildings burning, and then realized it was far worse. We cried.
In the days and weeks that followed, missing-person posters covered fences, scaffolding, and subway walls—faces of those lost, smiling in photos meant to help identify them. The images were heart-wrenching: dads with kids, holiday photos with faces circled, collaged remembrances taped to every available surface. I had a dream about a man in a suit and later recognized him as one of the faces on a nearby fence. The grief was personal and constant.
Friends told stories that still haunt me: a father who had escaped the first tower but returned to retrieve his wallet and perished when it collapsed; first responders who ran toward danger and never came back. We were devastated, numb, and overwhelmed. It was a lot to bear.
Still, one profound thing emerged: the city’s compassion and resilience. New Yorkers rallied around each other. We thanked dusty firefighters with tears in our eyes, brought drinks to workers sifting through rubble, and offered whatever help we could. It felt like a shared struggle—us against the violence done to our city—and it brought people closer. A number of classmates and friends left New York after the attacks; about 30% of my peers moved away. I understood why, but I knew I would stay. New York had always been my home, and staying felt like the right response. Those of us who remained felt more bonded—we silently encouraged one another on subways and sidewalks, determined not to let the city be defined by fear.
I lived in New York for four more years, finished school, and took a job at an advertising agency less than a block from Grand Central—the same place where my life felt upended years earlier. It was at that agency that I met John, and we began our life together. He even took a picture of me and my best friend about a month before we moved to Virginia.
I’m now a Richmond resident, but I will always be a New Yorker at heart. NYC forever.