It starts with the weather. Any crisp fall morning with a clear blue sky in the days around 9/11 brings me back.
As the day gets closer, the memory intensifies.
A pang in the heart. A constriction of the chest. Legs that go weak. Hands that go numb.
Extra sensitivity to smells and sounds.
This is what it means to remember: it’s an embodied experience.
It’s an energy that wells up within me.
The pulse of emotion seems to intensify, to remind me that this is a moment to pause and recall the details.
Then they all start flooding back.
I recall what I wore. The bag I carried. Exactly where I was. The weather.
How it all unfolded.
I recall the confusion. The fear. The questions. The uncertainty.
I recall who was with me.
I recall the days that followed.
The stories from friends who were closer to the epicenter.
The physical memory doesn’t always feel good, but it’s a necessary reminder about the nature of life:
Inherently unpredictable. Uncontrollable.
Any moment can be our last.
We can be the fittest, the smartest, have the most success, and it can all vanish in an instant.
The person you love might not come home at the end of the day.
You might not come home at the end of the day.
Those memories are like an alarm bell in my body, asking:
What are you doing? Are you making the most of your time here?
Everything has risk.
There is risk in stepping outside your home, but also risk of staying inside.
There is risk in running and risk in staying still.
There is risk in taking initiative and risk in waiting for permission.
Safety is an illusion.
I have friends who are still here today because, on that day, they didn’t wait for permission.
They ran when they were told to stay still. They found the extra gear. They didn’t wait to be rescued.
On this day, my memories remind me that we all have that power, every day.
We remember not to relive the trauma of the past but to use the past to pave the path to our future.
I remember what was so I can create what will become.
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