Hi Reader,

Today is September 11th. Twenty-five years since that day, and I haven't been able to think of much else this week.

My husband and I were in New York City that morning, working close to the towers. When it happened, my body did something I never chose to do. I ran, away from where he was, before I even understood what was happening. It would be hours before I saw him again, walking north toward me covered in ash, after both towers had fallen and it was finally safe enough to walk. We couldn't leave the city that night. We stayed with my cousin, who had an apartment nearby, and when we finally found each other, we just held on and cried.

I was safe. So many were not. Twenty-five years later, I still carry the smell, the fear, the doom that settled over all of us that day.

But something else happened too, something I have never forgotten. Strangers helped strangers. People stood on the sidewalks handing out water and food and whatever they had, simply because everyone was feeling the same thing at the exact same moment. Vulnerable, yes. But unified and strong in a way we all needed to be, together.

That's the one true light that came out of so much darkness. So many lives lost, so many hearts shattered, and still, people were there for each other.

I can't assume this day touches you the way it touches me. But twenty-five years later, I still pray for the families and friends who lost someone that morning, and I still hope we remember not just what happened, but how we held each other up in the days and months that followed.

Holding all of it close today.

Follow along with me... ​​​

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