It’s been 25 years and I remember every detail like it was yesterday. Neither time nor distance will ever fade my vivid memories of 9/11.
My two sons were born in Manhattan after 9/11, so they are far removed from it all. To them it is history. To me, it still feels deeply personal.
Of course, my sons know I lived in NYC then, and have heard bits and pieces from me. They’ve visited Ground Zero and the 9/11 Memorial Museum with us and have learned and will continue to learn through school, movies and social media.
There are so many stories. I want them to know mine.
Thankfully, my story does not have a tragic ending and I did not lose an immediate family member or one of my closest friends. But I was deeply affected, and I still have a story.
Maybe my sons will find it meaningful. Either way, five years ago, on the 20th anniversary of 9/11, I sat outside, reflected and wrote about my experience. Today, on the 25th anniversary, I am sharing it again.
If you want to know what the day 9/11/01 was like for me,, read on….
September 11, 2001
I had already been working and living in NYC for almost 10 years. I lived on the 8th floor of the Colorado, a high-rise apartment building on 86th Street and Third Avenue on the Upper East Side. I was single (dating someone but not serious) and lived alone. I previously lived with my sister, Amy, in another apartment in the same building. Over the years, I had become quite friendly with many people living and working in the building.
That morning I rode down the elevator with a few other people. I was talking with this young, attractive and friendly guy, Kevin, who I knew from Equinox, my gym, and the Hamptons. I stopped quickly in the lobby to say good morning to my doorman, Anthony. Kevin and I continued chatting all the way to the 86th Street subway and then on the downtown 4, 5, or 6 train. At 59th Street we said goodbye.
I transferred to the N or R train, took it to 49th Street and Seventh Avenue and then walked to my office at the Time & Life Building at 1271 Avenue of the Americas between 50th and 51st Street. It was just like every other day.
I worked at PEOPLE Magazine. At the time, it was one of the biggest and most popular magazines in the country. We had a huge and close-knit staff. I took the elevator to the 29th floor where my office was and sat down at my desk around 8:15 a.m. It was pretty quiet because most of my co-workers hadn’t arrived yet.
Around 8:50 a.m, my landline rang and it was my sister, Amy. She was at her new Xerox office near Grand Central, but had most recently worked in Tower 1. “A plane hit one of the towers at the World Trade Center. It’s on fire and people are jumping from the windows,” she shared with her voice in shock. We just assumed it was an accident. We hung up thinking we’d talk again later that morning or maybe even meet for lunch, which we often did. Little did we know the phones would go down right after that.
More people had arrived at work by then. Everyone came out of their offices and gathered in the hallway when they heard me tell a few friends, “My sister just called and told me a plane hit one of the towers at the World Trade Center, it’s on fire and people are jumping.” The small group of us all ran into the conference room and tuned into the large black TV set on wheels to learn more. This was before Facebook, Instagram and texting.
My boss pulled me aside and told me to stop creating drama and unnecessary chaos and then instructed the group of us to get back to work. After all, it was closing week for the Best and Worst Dressed issue, one of People’s biggest issues of the year, and we still had a lot of work to do. Little did my boss know.
I returned to my office and called my sister. I got a fast busy signal.
Shortly after 9 a.m, I ended up back in the same conference room, this time with a lot more people, including my boss. In fear and shock we watched live as the second plane hit. At this point, I knew it couldn’t be an accident.
I then realized I had been right at that exact spot for a client meeting at American Express the morning before. What if this had happened one day earlier, or my meeting was one day later? What if my sister’s office was still in that tower?
We tried to check on friends and family, but phones couldn’t get a signal. We could hear loud sirens. Then a piercing alarm sounded in our building and someone over the loudspeaker announced, “Emergency alert. Everyone evacuate the building immediately.” I can’t remember if they told us if it was due to a terrorist attack or not, but we were panicked.
Nobody knew what was going on. We all thought we were in danger and feared the worst. My office was in the heart of Midtown, between Rockefeller Center and Times Square, and, at that time, around many media and banking headquarters. If they were going to attack anywhere else in NYC, we were a likely target. “Move fast,” they told us.
I grabbed my things and ran to the elevator but they were locked shut. Hundreds of us crowded into the emergency stairwell. I walked down 29 flights of stairs, single file, in the dark, terrified. The entire time, the alarms were sounding and people were screaming and crying. It felt like forever.
To this day, many of my People co-workers are close friends like family to me. As soon as we got outside, we were scattered and lost in a massive group of people. Once we got separated there was no way to be in contact.
When we got outside fire trucks and police cars from every direction were heading downtown. The city was filled with the sound of sirens and already smelled like smoke. The streets were filled with a sea of business professionals of all ages walking towards safety.
I didn’t want to go home alone. I couldn’t reach my sister.
I walked across and uptown from my office with my close friend, Susan Goldfarb, toward her apartment on East 70th Street and First Avenue. Karen Rooney, a very pregnant co-worker, and someone else from People were with us too, but I can’t remember who right now.
It was the most beautiful fall day. Sunny. Not a cloud in the bright blue sky.
We walked uptown in amongst an endless stream of people, in our uncomfortable work shoes with blisters and sore feet (nothing to complain about considering what was happening a few miles below us).
When we finally arrived at Susan’s apartment building, we learned about the Pentagon. We still couldn’t get through to any of our family or friends. We had the TV on and watched the live coverage in horror. The city was in complete lockdown. The subways and buses were shut down, the bridges, tunnels and airports were all closed, and people were stranded everywhere.
I began to think about everyone I knew who worked downtown.
At some point, I left Susan’s and walked uptown to my apartment. I still hadn’t connected with my sister or parents or anyone for that matter.
When I got outside, besides the piercing sirens, I saw huge clouds of dark smoke and was hit with the worst smell I had ever experienced, even from more than 80 blocks away. Imagine burning bodies, computers, glass. I will never forget that smell. The smell and smoke lingered for days…months.
The guy I was dating at the time was working near the World Trade Center. He managed to safely get out of his building and walk all the way uptown to his apartment. I ate dinner with him at his apartment and then much later that evening I finally connected with my very worried parents. I learned from my parents that my sister was safe with her husband, but I still couldn't reach her by phone. I also remember getting a worried late-night call from Jenny, one of my best friends since childhood who was living in Atlanta.
That night I went to bed in a different NYC and world. There was a sadness and fear inside me and in everyone around me. And nobody knew what was to come.
Thankfully, my closest friends were all okay. But it didn’t take long to learn who wasn’t. My neighbor Kevin, the one I had commuted with that morning, never came home. My friend, Tom, from my Dale Carnegie course was a father of four young boys. Todd Pelino, a fellow Pittsford Mendon High School graduate, and my friend Jason who lived on my floor at Watson Hall during my sophomore year at Syracuse. My childhood friend, Kristin Galusha, lost her husband Michael, the father of her newborn baby. There were so many acquaintances and firefighters from the firehouse on my block. I could go on and on. It was heartbreaking.
The days, weeks and months that followed were filled with sadness, fear and uncertainty and felt surreal. NYC, and the entire country, had been forever changed. But amid all of the heartbreak, something remarkable happened. There was a sense of unity and compassion unlike anything I have ever experienced. It gave me hope and it helped New Yorkers stay strong and begin to heal.
So, for whatever it’s worth, that is my 9/11 story. It is just one of countless stories from that day, but 25 years later, I believe they are still important to tell and to remember.
Although 25 years have passed, when I see live footage, the feelings, the smoke, the sirens and the smell all come rushing back to me. Time will never erase that terrifying day or the horror and pain it caused for so many people.
My heart still aches for everyone who was touched so much more directly by this horrific tragedy. Twenty-five years later, we must continue to remember the lives lost, the families forever changed and everyone who was affected that day.
