Thank you for the encouragement this morning to finally write out my long-held memories of September 11th. It’s hard to put into words, but I want to have this recorded — both for myself and for Clara, when she’s older and I need to explain the magnitude of that day. It was a terrible day, and one that changed my life. While I love all the DIY posts in our archives, sometimes the personal pieces — like the ones I’ve shared about Clara’s birth or other emotional moments — are the ones I’m most grateful I wrote down.
I’ve debated whether to write this for six years, each anniversary wondering if I could convey what it felt like. I was a college sophomore living in New York City when it happened, and watching everything unfold right in front of me is still something I haven’t fully processed. For years I stayed quiet on the subject, but this year it felt like the right time to share. Even though the events were twelve years ago, the sounds, smells, and sights return with startling clarity whenever I think about them.
That morning I’d been at Grand Central, helping on a show house for Country Home magazine. My best friend and I interned there on days we didn’t have classes, unpacking accessories so rooms could be styled. When we arrived, our boss told us a plane had hit one of the World Trade Center towers. At first it was described as a minor accident — a small plane with the wrong coordinates — so most of us went back to unpacking while a few people called relatives who worked in the towers. We were worried about those floors that were affected, but not expecting what came next.
Then we heard the second tower had been hit, and panic spread instantly. Grand Central was evacuated within minutes. Guards with guns moved people out and explained that a major landmark had been targeted, making the station unsafe in case other sites were attacked. My best friend was with me, and I don’t know how I would have managed without her. The subway system shut down quickly, so we spilled out into the street and walked toward Penn Station, hoping trains to Queens were still running.
They weren’t. We wandered aimlessly until we found ourselves sitting on the steps of the New York Public Library, unsure whether to stay or keep moving. People were rushing by, leaving possessions behind as if they’d abandoned them mid-run — a single shoe, an open briefcase with papers scattered, frozen cell phones that wouldn’t connect to frantic family calls. We tried to conserve phone batteries and energy, and then someone pointed to the skyline. From the library steps we could see the towers smoking. A huge cloud of dust rose from one tower, someone shouted, and the tower collapsed in front of us, imploding into a huge plume of dust and debris.
We didn’t know then that the structural damage and fires from the plane impact had caused the collapse. To us it felt like another strike, an attack that made the building fall. People around us cried out, prayed, and then ran. Streets filled with dust even though the towers were miles away. Police officers and firefighters came by covered in ash, their faces and clothes gray from the rubble. Injured people walked past, clearly fleeing downtown because public transportation was no longer running.
We took refuge in a hotel lobby in midtown where a small group watched a television and then saw the second tower fall. The room went silent — stunned, frozen in shock and fear. The hotel offered vacant rooms to people, but few of us wanted to go upstairs after witnessing skyscrapers collapse. We wanted to be at ground level so we could run if needed.
Late that night we finally made it back to our apartment in Bayside, Queens when a few trains started running and cell service became sporadic. Standing on our tiny balcony, looking at the changed skyline, a new smell hit us: an acrid, burned odor that was deeper than metal. It felt like an unbearable confirmation that the damage reached far beyond the buildings themselves. We cried.
What stayed with me for weeks were the missing person posters plastered everywhere: fences, scaffolding, subway walls covered in faces of those who were lost — smiling fathers with their children, holiday photos with circled faces. It was heart-wrenching. I kept recognizing faces I’d seen in my dreams and then would find them on a fence near my apartment. A friend’s father escaped the first tower only to go back inside for his wallet when told he could retrieve belongings; when the tower fell he was killed. Stories like that, and the tales of firefighters and police who ran toward danger and never returned, left us stunned and grieving.
Yet amid the sorrow there was an incredible outpouring of community and support. For a time the city felt like one family. We thanked dusty firefighters on the subway with tears and bought drinks for workers searching through rubble for survivors. It felt like we’d all shared the same trauma and, together, were determined not to let it defeat us. In the weeks after, classes resumed and many people left the city, but I stayed — New York was my home, and staying felt right. Those who remained seemed more connected, a silent nod of solidarity on subways and sidewalks.
I finished college, stayed in New York for four more years, and later took a job at an advertising agency in midtown — not far from Grand Central, where my life had felt upended. It was there that I met John, and we began our life together. Though I now call Richmond home, I’ll always be a New Yorker at heart. NYC forever.