09/11/2026
It’s 10:28 a.m.
The exact time, 25 years ago today, that the North Tower fell.
I was 12 years old.
Sixth grade at Delaware Trail. Mr. Edwards was my teacher.
I can still tell you exactly where I was sitting—the second pod of desks from the door.
I remember looking through that doorway and seeing the teachers standing in the hallway. I didn't know what was happening yet, but I remember their faces.
Shock.
Mr. Edwards came back into our classroom and turned on the TV.
And we watched.
We watched the news coverage. We watched the second plane hit. We watched as the towers eventually collapsed.
I was 12.
And when you're 12 years old, you don't truly understand the magnitude of what you're watching.
You don't understand that there are people inside those buildings.
That there are husbands and wives who won't come home that night. Moms and dads. Sons and daughters. Friends and coworkers.
You don't understand that there are children sitting in classrooms just like you who are about to have their entire lives changed.
You don't understand that you're watching history unfold in front of you—or how much that day will change the world you grow up in.
At 12, I just knew something terrible was happening.
At 37, I understand it in a completely different way.
Maybe that's why the older I get, the more I understand how precious the ordinary moments really are.
The goodbye before work.
The hug you almost skipped.
The family picture nobody wanted to stop for.
The random photograph sitting in your camera roll that doesn't seem important until someday it is.
Twenty-five years later, I can still picture that classroom.
The second pod of desks.
The doorway.
The teachers' faces.
The television.
Some moments become memories.
Others divide your life into a before and an after.
September 11, 2001 was one of those days.
**I was 12 years old. And I will never forget. 🇺🇸**
