Twenty-five years ago I was standing in my bedroom in San Diego with my ex-wife. This was before flat-screen TVs, so we had a cathode-ray TV on a stand in the closet. It was early morning for us and she’d gotten up before I had. She heard on the radio about the first plane, we turned on the TV, and we stood there in shock, feeling terrible for the people in the North Tower.
The posts I’ve seen about 9/11 on social media this week have focused almost entirely on the Twin Towers in New York City.
But there was a lot more to it than is being remembered.
It wasn't just a single gut punch. It was like being in the ring with Mike Tyson, getting hit again while still reeling from the last punch.
For 102 minutes, every time we thought we understood what was happening, something else happened.
All times Eastern. In San Diego, it was 5:46 AM when the first plane hit.
8:46 AM: The first plane hit the North Tower. We thought it was an accident. Some sort of airplane part failure, a technical issue.
9:03 AM: The second plane hit the South Tower while millions of us were watching the first tower burn. Televisions had been turned on in offices and classrooms on the East Coast. And that is when we said "Oh my God, this is a terrorist attack!" We were glued to our televisions, watching it unfold in real time, listening for additional news and information.
9:37 AM: We were still trying to process what had just happened, and 34 minutes later came news that another plane had crashed into the Pentagon. This wasn’t limited to NYC. Where might the next plane crash?
9:42 AM: Five minutes after the Pentagon was hit, the FAA ordered every aircraft in U.S. airspace to land at the nearest airport. That had never happened before.
9:59 AM: Seventeen minutes later, as the country watched, the South Tower collapsed. We watched in horror as it vanished before our eyes.
10:03 AM: Just four minutes later, United Airlines Flight 93 crashed in Pennsylvania. We thought “Will there be more? Where will it hit next?” We had no idea how many planes might be involved or where they’d hit.
10:28 AM: The North Tower, the tallest building in NYC, collapsed as we watched.
It felt like we were in the middle of a nightmare with no end in sight. Uncertainty, horror, and fear all at the same time. It took a few hours with no new crashes before our adrenaline finally dropped and it seemed like it was finally over.
Then, the aftermath: 2,977 people died that day. Hundreds of firefighters, police officers, construction workers, and volunteers have died since, from inhaling pulverized concrete, glass fibers, and other toxic dust at Ground Zero.
TSA at airports. Removing shoes and belts to get through security. Scans and pat-downs. Loved ones no longer able to meet you at the gate when you arrived from a flight.
If you’re reading this you’re probably old enough to remember what happened on September 11, 2001. But if you weren’t born yet, or were just a child at the time, it’s difficult to comprehend the depth of trauma the country experienced on that day.
Twenty-five years later, I still remember standing in my bedroom, waiting to hear whether the last attack was the last.
I had no idea what was coming that morning. I had no idea what was coming in my own life over the next 25 years, either.
I didn’t think I’d end up in Tennessee, married to Mai. Stronger at 65 than I was at 45.
Ordinary life can disappear in 102 minutes. I rebuilt one that looked like it was finished. I try not to take an ordinary, peaceful day for granted anymore.
Vic built and sold ScreenRant.com and GameRant.com, then rebuilt himself in his sixties.
He writes at TheRedeemedSecondHalf.com for men rebuilding the second half of life.