Twenty-Four Years On: Remembering 9/11

Twenty-four years later, the sounds of that morning still carry: sirens that wouldn’t stop, the silence that followed, and the quiet resolve that set in. In the years since, we’ve told and retold our own September 11 stories—not to center ourselves, but to stitch together a collective memory from millions of angles.

One of mine is ordinary and, because of that, indelible. I had a meeting scheduled at the World Trade Center at 9:00 a.m. on September 11, 2001. At the last minute it moved—our kids were starting preschool, and we’d promised to be there. Luck and a toddler’s milestone rerouted my life. Later that afternoon I pushed my daughter on the backyard swing while military jets, the only aircraft left in the sky, roared overhead. The world had changed, and even she could feel it.

What followed in the days and years after was a kind of American muscle memory: we showed up for one another. We helped, searched, cooked, donated, and listened. We argued less and stood closer. In those first months, there were no Democrats or Republicans—only neighbors.

How we remember—now

Every September 11, the names are read at the Memorial in Lower Manhattan, and the ceremony pauses for six moments of silence that mark the strikes and the collapses, the Pentagon, and Flight 93. It’s a ritual of precision and care, one that insists on speaking every name and holding space for each life.

Tonight, the Tribute in Light will again lift twin columns into the sky, and landmarks across the city will glow in solidarity—a visual reminder that memory is not only something we carry; it’s something we make visible together.

It’s also a day of service. Across the country, volunteers pack meals, clean parks, donate blood, and check on neighbors as part of the 9/11 National Day of Service and Remembrance—an effort led by the nonprofit 9/11 Day. Transform memory into action.

The toll that keeps unfolding

The official number is familiar now: 2,977 people were killed in the attacks, with six more lost in the 1993 World Trade Center bombing that the Memorial also honors.

But the story didn’t end in 2001. The health toll has grown year after year. The FDNY has now lost more than 400 members to World Trade Center–related illnesses—surpassing the 343 firefighters who died that day. That is not a statistic; it’s a procession of names, families, and firehouses still carrying the weight.

The work of identifying the fallen also continues. On August 7, 2025, the city announced three new identifications—Ryan Fitzgerald, Barbara Keating, and one woman whose family requested privacy—using advanced DNA analysis. Roughly 1,100 victims remain unidentified, and the medical examiner’s office keeps at the painstaking science of bringing loved ones home.

Thousands of responders and survivors still rely on monitoring and care through the World Trade Center Health Program. Keeping that support strong—and adequately funded—is part of how a nation honors sacrifice in practice, not just in ceremony.

What we owe the next generation

A growing share of Americans were born after 2001—including my own daughter, whose very life exists because that 9:00 a.m. World Trade Center meeting moved at the last minute. Because of that detour, I was here to have her and to watch my children grow up. I am eternally grateful. Others were not given the same chance—children grew up without a parent, and families measure time by a before and an after. This year, that fragility feels raw again after the killing of Charlie Kirk at Utah Valley University on September 10—an act Utah’s governor called a “political assassination.” Violence aimed at silencing speech doesn’t just seize headlines; it steals futures from spouses, children, friends, and communities.

Our job is to tell the truth carefully: to teach what happened and why, to explain the choices that followed, and to emphasize the solidarity that broke through the smoke and the fear. We can do that with rituals that last—reading names, lighting the sky, serving others—and with conversations that don’t flinch from complexity. We can also do it with small, consistent acts of civic grace: showing up, listening well, and disagreeing without contempt. That was the best of us then. It can be the best of us now.

A simple ask

At some point today, pause. Read a few names. Watch the lights. Call the person you’ve been meaning to call. Do one thing that makes your corner of the world more humane. That’s how memory endures—not only in granite and light, but in ordinary days shaped by purpose.

And if you have a story—about a near-miss meeting, a backyard swing, a long walk home, or the siren you still hear—tell it. Those stories don’t compete with the names; they carry them forward.