September 11, 2001 divided the world into before and after. I have shared parts of my story before—the miracle of a taxi ride instead of my usual walk through the World Trade Center, the shock and anger of that morning, the long walk across the Brooklyn Bridge through smoke and dust, the fear of not knowing what came next. Every year, I discover something new about memory. The stories we carry shift and deepen. The names, the places, and the people—both strangers and friends—continue to shape the way I live today.

I was working at One Seaport Plaza, a short walk from the towers. Normally, I crossed the pedestrian bridge through the World Trade Center. That morning, tired and late, I took a taxi instead. At 8:46 a.m., while I was on the elevator, Flight 11 struck the North Tower. I didn’t feel it. But when I reached the cafeteria, people crowded the windows, staring at fire and smoke. Most thought it was an accident. A boiler explosion, maybe a small plane. New Yorkers speculate before they panic.

At 9:03 a.m., Flight 175 slammed into the South Tower. This time we felt it. The building shook violently, and the thunder of impact rolled through the air. From our office, there was no doubt: this was an attack. My client, the CFO, shouted in rage, “Those bastards. Those f*cking bastards.” Fear, anger, and disbelief hit all at once.

By the time the towers fell, plumes of debris swept down John Street—the very path I walked every morning. Shoes, purses, and papers littered the ground. Thousands of us poured toward the Brooklyn Bridge, silent and stunned. There was relative quiet despite the chaos. Suits, sweats, school uniforms, every race, age, and story moving in one direction. Strangers united by shock and grief.

Crossing into Brooklyn for the first time in my life, I had no idea where to go. My hotel, my clothes, my life were all still in lower Manhattan. A friend of a friend of a friend made a call, and within minutes a stranger was walking me to his brownstone. He and his girlfriend welcomed me as if I were family. Later, her mother in Queens offered me her son’s twin bed while he slept on the sofa. That night, surrounded by drawings and trophies of a boy I had never met, I felt the sharpest contrast between innocence and horror. These strangers picked me up at my lowest point and reminded me that even in despair, compassion was possible.

Years later, I returned to New York and retraced those steps. Down John Street. Past Deloitte’s office. Into the pedways I once walked every day. It was harder than I expected. The Millenium Hilton where my dad once stayed, the Century 21 where I once grabbed socks, the Embassy Suites that had been my home. Ordinary places that now carried unbearable weight. At the memorial pools, looking at names etched in bronze, I was undone. Nearly 3,000 lives taken. Nearly 3,000 names reminding us that tragedy is never abstract. It is always personal.

On the 15th anniversary, I wrote that I remembered it all: the horror and the light. The flowers, the concerts, the faces of the missing. The strangers who gave me shelter. The van full of evacuees who drove me back to Chicago. The hugs with my partner and family when I finally arrived. I remembered the resilience of people across backgrounds, faiths, and neighborhoods who came together.

That is one of the hardest things about reflecting today. In recent years, we have all faced new traumas—personal, national, and global. Yet instead of feeling more connected, it often feels like we’ve lost some of the togetherness that carried us through in 2001. I hate that it took a tragedy like 9/11 to bring us together, but I also know how powerful it was to feel strangers unite in compassion. I wish we didn’t need tragedy to remind us of that bond.

Hope doesn’t erase grief. It carries it forward. It shows up in the white roses placed on names at the memorial. In the resilience of a city that refused to be defeated. In the unity of people who, even for a moment, reached for one another instead of pulling apart. To honor is not to stand still. It is to live differently because of loss. To remember not only what was destroyed but also what was revealed: courage, compassion, and humanity.

Never forget. But let “never forget” mean more than mourning. Never forget the names. Never forget the ordinary moments that became extraordinary. Never forget the unity, the compassion, and the light that appeared in the darkness.

And here is my call to action: we need to find our way back to one another. Not because of tragedy, but because of choice. Those of us in the middle may not agree on everything, but we are still bound by something greater—our common humanity. We know what it means to care for strangers, to put compassion first, to choose light in the face of darkness. That’s who we were on September 11. That’s who we can be again.

If we bring that back—not just on anniversaries, not just in moments of crisis, but in everyday life—then we truly honor the names, we honor the stories, and we honor the hope that endures. The bad guys never win when we stand together.

Be Well. Lead On.