I was 12 years old on September 11, 2001.
I was old enough to know something terrible had happened, but probably not old enough to understand just how much that day would change our country.
Twenty five years later, I understand it differently.
I understand the magnitude of what we lost that day. I understand the courage it took for first responders to run toward something everyone else was running from. And I understand why those who remember it so clearly have worked so hard to make sure the rest of us never forget.
But there is another part of that story I think is worth telling our kids.
September 12.
The next morning, Americans woke up grieving, but we woke up together.
Flags were everywhere. Churches were full. Neighbors checked on neighbors. People took care of each other. For a while, the things that divided us didn’t seem nearly as important as what we had in common.
My children will only know September 11 through the stories we tell them.
I want them to know about September 12, too.
I want them to know what this country can look like when we remember that being Americans is something we share.
And I want them to know about the 2,977 people who never got to see September 12, 2001.
Twenty five years later, we remember them.
And maybe we could stand to remember a little more of who we were the day after, too.
Never forget. 🇺🇸