Reflections on 9/11: Why Every Ordinary Story Still Matters
Twenty-five years after September 11, the collective memory risks fading into history. This personal reflection explores why every ordinary, mundane story from that day—from high school classrooms to quiet shifts in worldview—still matters in a hyper-connected digital age
SEPTEMBER 2026SOUND MIND LIVING
Never Forget
We promised as a nation that we would never forget. Twenty-five years later, it often feels like we have.
In the rush of daily life, political cycles, and the passing of time, the collective memory of September 11, 2001, risks fading into a distant historical chapter rather than remaining the scar and the turning point that it truly was. We tend to focus exclusively on the monumental accounts—the high-ranking officials, the heroic first responders, and the survivors of Ground Zero. But every single story from that day is important to preserve, even the mundane ones. Even the ones that feel small.
My own story from that day is simple, yet it fundamentally altered how I viewed the world. I was 13 years old and a freshman in high school. Because I was in 0 period cheerleading, I arrived at school early that morning. One of my friends mentioned that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. At first, I dismissed it, assuming she meant a small, single-engine aircraft. It was tragic, but unfortunately not entirely outside my frame of reference—my dad’s cousin had previously died in a small plane crash into an Arizona mountain, making me acutely aware of aviation accidents.
We quickly learned it was not a single-engine plane, and it was not just one. In nearly every class that day, teachers turned on the news, watching alongside us as the horror unfolded. Rumors rippled through the hallways that another plane was still in the air and heading west, leaving many of us to wonder if the West Coast was next.
When I got home, the television stayed on for hours. Nothing new was happening, yet the broadcast felt entirely surreal. We watched people jumping from the towers, images that my teenage mind simply could not process. I didn't feel blind panic; mostly, I felt numb. It didn't seem real.
In the days and weeks that followed, the shock rippled outward in strange, lingering ways. My cheer squad took our annual yearbook photos together on a local fire truck, wanting to honor the victims and anchor ourselves in the shared trauma witnessed together. Soon after, the anthrax scares hit, and I remember one of my friends becoming irrationally terrified just to check the mail. When I finally flew on an airplane again a few years later, I looked at everyone around me with heightened caution. On a trip to Europe with friends, a Muslim man asked my companions to watch his bag at the airport. They said yes, and nothing came of it, but it struck me deeply—a reminder of how quickly some people return to a state of unwariness while others carry the weight of vigilance.
Over the years, my perspective has broadened through the people I have crossed paths with. I have spoken with individuals who were in Washington, D.C. that day, people who lost loved ones on the hijacked planes, those who were inspired to enlist in the military because of the attacks, and students who sat in New York classrooms enduring terrifying uncertainties. I have even stood inside the Pentagon, walking quietly through the old crash area.
These encounters, combined with my own memories, are a reminder that 9/11 belongs to all of us. It altered the course of history for the entire country, weaving itself into the fabric of a generation.
Today, a quarter-century later, the way we consume and preserve history has fundamentally shifted. Major historic events no longer unfold exclusively on classroom televisions or evening news broadcasts; they live on endless digital loops, short-form video feeds, and algorithmic timelines where profound tragedy often competes with digital noise. This hyper-connected reality makes intentional remembrance even more vital. When history can be scrolled past in a fraction of a second, sitting down to share an unpolished, human memory becomes an act of quiet defiance against forgetting.
We cannot afford to let that memory quiet down. Keep talking, and keep sharing your stories, even if you feel you don't have a spectacular testimony. Whether you watched it unfold on a television in a high school classroom, lived through the subsequent anthrax scares, or carry a quiet shift in your worldview, your voice matters.
To honor the victims and keep their memory alive, my husband and I watch at least one 9/11 documentary every September. I encourage you to do the same—sit down with your family, watch a documentary, and talk about where you were. Let us ensure that the promise we made a quarter-century ago is kept, one story at a time.
As we continue preserving these vital milestones, you can also read our reflection on the one-year mark of another public loss in Where Were You When Charlie Kirk was Shot?
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