09/11/2026
I’ve been back and forth on sharing my experience, but I feel it needs to be shared. As an end of life doula I have learned the importance of bearing witness and sharing stories, even if they are hard.
Twenty-five years ago, I was a freshman at St. John’s University on Staten Island. I had been living in New York for only two weeks when the world changed.
Even in that short time, I had created a routine for myself. I would take the Staten Island Ferry into Manhattan and visit a coffee shop near Battery Park. As a Midwesterner, I always waved to the security guard working next door. He would reluctantly wave back, unsure what to make of me.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, my roommates and I joined countless others, staring at the television right before we were about to head to our first classes. We ran to our bedroom window and could see the smoke rising across the water. Military planes began circling overhead. That night, we were not allowed to leave our dorms as there were hardly any first responders left on Staten Island.
The days and weeks that followed remain etched in my memory. I developed bronchitis and ended up sitting in the emergency department beside a man whose sister was missing. Together, we watched the names scroll across the ticker at the bottom of the television screen in the waiting room. He was desperate to see his sister's name, to at least know, he began crying on my shoulder, as I held his hand.
At school, I walked through the cafeteria and saw two tables filled with students doing the same. They sat close together, watching for the names of their parents in silence.
But there was also an extraordinary coming together. In our community, in the city and across the country.
I was able to be a part of a group of students as we carried supplies that had been gathered to where first responders were, quietly placing clean socks and toothbrushes as they slept on cots between shifts.
Eventually, I returned to the coffee shop near Battery Park. The security guard was back at his post, I waved.
This time, he spoke to me.
“Are you from here?” he asked.
“No, I'm from Missouri” I told him.
He looked at me and said, “You were here with us through this. You will always be a New Yorker.”
I have carried those words with me for twenty-five years.
The images of the smoke, the military planes, and the wreckage will be seared into my mind forever. But so will the memories of people holding strangers, students sitting beside grieving classmates, volunteers gathering basic necessities, and communities doing whatever they could to care for those around them.
September 11 showed us the terrible fragility of life. It also showed us the strength that can emerge when we recognize that we belong to one another.
On this anniversary, I remember those who died, those who searched and waited, the first responders who ran toward danger, and the families whose lives were forever changed. I also remember a city, and for a time, an entire country, coming together in grief, service, and love.
Twenty-five years later, I still believe that this is one of the most meaningful ways we can honor those we lost: by bearing witness to one another, showing up, and remembering that even the smallest acts of care can help carry someone through the unimaginable.
If you would like to talk to someone about your experience, don’t hesitate to reach out.
- Niki
ED
KC End of Life
(not my photo)
