Twenty-five years have passed since the windows of my family's apartment in Battery Park City burst inward, shattering the quiet routine of our lives. My twin brother, Jacob, and I were just shy of 4 years old, with birthday party invitations already sent for a celebration at Chelsea Piers. We were watching "Franklin" on TV when a deafening boom shook our world.
On the other side of the apartment, my mom, jolted awake by what felt like an earthquake, ran to her window facing the World Trade Center's south tower. She saw a "raging fire" — flames leaping from the building. "It was like 'The Towering Inferno,'" she recalled recently. "It's not like you saw fire inside. You saw the flame coming out."
Our housekeeper, Donna, panicked, holding my 2-year-old sister, Rachel. My mom called the fire department and was told to stay put. She called my dad at his midtown office, who echoed the advice. In the chaos, my mom found us three kids on the treadmill in her bedroom, watching the emergency vehicles stream in below. Both towers had been hit, but neither had yet fallen.
My memories of that day are fragmented, some of the earliest I have. I remember counting 14 firetrucks below, then looking up to see an avalanche of debris as the south tower began to collapse. My mom yelled for us to follow her to the kitchen as the windows crashed in and darkness flooded the apartment.
For a child, the terror took on fantastical shapes. I remember being chased by "monsters" — what I later understood as the dust and debris from the collapsing tower. I remember my mom telling Jacob and me to stay in the kitchen while she ran back to get Rachel, who she later found clutching the bed, covered in glass. And I remember Jacob turning to follow her, leaving me alone.
For years, my nightmares replayed that moment: me standing alone in the kitchen, facing a monster crashing through the window. The individual moments were real — I did stand alone, and I did flee the dust clouds — but when I revisited the apartment years later, I was surprised to learn no window faced the kitchen. My mom had led us there precisely because it was windowless.
After what felt like an eternity, Donna found the front door. She scooped me up while my mom carried Jacob and Rachel, and we joined the stampede down 21 flights of stairs, darkness chasing us. I remember the panic when Donna took me from my mom — I was bigger than Jacob and knew she couldn't carry all three of us.
In the lobby, a retired police officer directed us to the boiler room. My mom, still in a towel and biker shorts, tried to breastfeed Rachel, who was too stunned to eat. Someone threw her a T-shirt and a ripped sleeve to breathe through when the dust got thick. I remember Jacob showing us how to use it.
When the north tower collapsed, the boiler room ceiling began to crack, and we moved to the mailroom. I needed a bathroom, and a dog walker gave us a plastic bag. Later, we made it to the boardwalk, only to see families torn apart because there was no room on the evacuation van for everyone. Men were told to stay behind. My mom remembers a single father parting with his daughter, pleading with other women to keep her safe.
We boarded a crowded boat to a shelter in New Jersey. I don't remember the fear that the boat might sink under the weight of so many people, nor the quiet sadness my mom felt as she turned to see our "whole neighborhood going up in flames." She said, "You're at what you think is safety — you are at safety — and you're just overcome with the magnitude of the loss."
In the weeks after, law enforcement tore apart buildings searching for evidence. My dad and grandfather salvaged some belongings from our 21st-floor apartment, avoiding the looting that hit lower floors. It was hard to track down friends, but our birthday party went ahead at Chelsea Piers — which had just reopened after serving as a temporary morgue — as a final farewell. Few of our close friends returned to Battery Park City after 9/11. We stayed with cousins in New Jersey before moving to a hotel.
This personal story underscores the human cost of the September 11 attacks, a day that reshaped American policy and security. As we reflect on that morning, it's worth remembering how policy decisions affect children and families in times of crisis. The evacuation of Battery Park City was a harrowing ordeal, and the resilience of survivors like my family remains a testament to the human spirit. Today, as new debates over children's safety emerge, the lessons of 9/11 continue to inform how we protect the most vulnerable.
