Reading Jeff Goins’ beautifully written post Remembering September 11: A Reflection inspired me to write my own memories of 9/11.

I was in my junior year of college at Crane School of Music. As usual, I was in the Crane building for the entire morning. The first I heard of the planes crashing was before my 9:00 class. Everyone was muttering about it, but this was before the days of smartphones, so the only resource we had was the television in the Crane Commons and the word of our professors who were reading the news. It wasn’t until later in the morning that I learned the extent of the crash and the fact that it was the work of terrorism. Classes were cancelled after noon, and my friends and I went back to my dorm, where I shared a three-person suite. I remember sitting with my friend Patrick, watching my tiny TV and checking the news online. We clicked over to CNN and saw that the only news story on the page was of the terror attacks. The fact that CNN didn’t believe anything else in the world was newsworthy at that moment scared us almost more than anything else. We spent the afternoon calling family and trying to get ahold of my best friend, who lived on the Upper West side of Manhattan. The phone lines were jammed, so it took hours to ascertain everyone’s safety. In the evening, the college organized a vigil in the quad, and despite my usual fear of crowds, I went. Student after student got up to the microphone and shared their fears. It was therapeutic, but I remember thinking that nothing could take away this kind of fear entirely.

Events like 9/11 bind the country in fear. We all go about our lives afterward, sneaking looks into each other’s eyes, at the grocery store, in church, and we see echoes of our own terror. After the shooting at Sandy Hook last year, I was terrified of being in public places. I didn’t want my husband to go to his work as a high school teacher. I kept imagining a gunman breaking into his band room and shooting him and his band students. When Edwin was asked to play baby Jesus in the nativity play just a couple of weeks later, I couldn’t stop imagining that a gunman would burst through the doors at the back of the church, and my infant son, being held up by the priest, would be the immediate target.

Those terrors fade after awhile, and while the fear never truly leaves us, we are all able to go on with our days: to get on a subway, walk into a school building, and gradually feel safe enough. But the trace of intense fear does leave something positive behind. It reminds us that life is both precious and brief, and that we all only get one chance on earth: a finite number of minutes, breaths, and moments of joy. It leaves behind the desire to make our lives as meaningful, as special, as full as they can be. As someone who had cancer, and therefore faced down death at a younger age than most, I carry the imprint of this feeling on my soul. It’s what pushes me to figure out what makes me happy and to keep those things in my life. It’s what drives me to follow my dreams now, not at some later date that may never come. It’s what teaches me to love my husband, son, family and friends with all my heart, and never to take them for granted. It’s what gives me passion and direction in my life. I know that I only have this one chance. Do you know it? Do you truly know it?

What is your 9/11 story? I encourage you to share it below. Today is a day to remember, to share, and to find solace in each other’s words.