September 11

In the fall of 2001, when J's condition was rapidly deteriorating and my own emotions were raw and intense, I wrote the following in my journal:

My life as I knew it, myself as I defined it, ceased to exist on that December day (when J. was diagnosed in utero).  It is a terrifying feeling, to not know your own self.  And to feel deeply that there is no good way to come out of this, that "out" does not exist.  I had built a life, only to watch it crumble into oblivion.

Perhaps it is that feeling that pounds through me each time I watch the tape of the towers collapsing. That there is no way to undo the damage, no way to return to what was before.  Rebuilding the towers will not bring back the people who inhabited them.  The brick, steel, concrete will be similar, but never, ever exactly the same.  Leaving the space alone will only stand as a stark reminder of what we have lost.

Even turning back the clock, stopping the terrible thing from happening, would only cover up our knowledge that it did actually happen.  Our memories could not be so easily deceived.  Only marching forward - sometimes stumbling, sometimes resting our weary feet - will do.  There is no way out, under or around.  There is only through, bearing witness to the trauma, ingraining it into ourselves, so that the rebuilding looks newer, stronger, taller, prouder, fiercer than before.

(Editor's Note:  These are my own reflections, at a time when everything inside of me felt painful and vulnerable.  I didn't know anyone personally in the towers, Pentagon, or planes, and I know with absolute certainty that my pain at the time would in no way equal the pain of their families and loved ones.  What I take from this today, 13 years later, is that we can look back - I can look back - and see that we continue to come through this, to rebuild, to be a stronger, prouder, fiercer nation.  And that I am a stronger, prouder, fiercer mother.)