09/11/2026
My family was safe.
My poor husband was on his own while I was traveling overseas. He was working in Queens that morning, just across the river from lower Manhattan. As the news began to unfold (he could see the towers), he knew he had to get home to pick up our children from daycare. I still can’t imagine what was going through his mind.
At my hotel, I had a note from him at the front desk:
“NYC has been attacked by terrorists. Call home as soon as you can. I love you.”
No smartphones. Overseas phone lines were jammed. Airspace was closed. I couldn’t get through to my family.
I felt absolutely helpless.
My husband later told me how eerie that first night was. Fighter jets flew low over the house—so loud against a sky that otherwise seemed completely silent.
I made it home a week later and hugged my family very, very tight.
Not long after, I made my way to Lower Manhattan. The acrid smell still hung in the air. I said prayers for the dead and the living. I thanked every police officer and firefighter I encountered. I hugged a construction worker who, right then, just needed a hug.
Twenty-five years later, those memories are still vivid.
I will never forget. Ever.
To the families who lost loved ones that day, you remain in my prayers. And I will keep praying for a more peaceful world.
