Twenty‑five years after September 11th, the burden of that day continues to affect us in ways that are difficult to express. It was a moment of profound loss, but also one that revealed both the vulnerability and resilience of our national fabric. The memories remain vivid for many of us: where we were, what we felt, and how the world appeared to change in an instant. Even now, a quarter century later, the impact of that morning continues to shape how we understand our country, our responsibilities, and our relationships with one another.
To help us all reflect on that day, I invited four contributors to the Fulcrum to share reflections not to revisit the tragedy, but to commemorate the ways it has persisted in our consciousness twenty-five years later.
The meaning of 9/11 has evolved alongside America itself. The grief, unity, questions, and enduring tensions all reflect the ongoing effort to build a healthier democracy. These reflections remind us that citizenship is not a static role; it is a daily practice shaped by the moments that challenge us most. My hope is that this collection encourages us to examine honestly where we are today and to recommit to the mission of strengthening the bonds that unite us.
Beyond the initial shock of the attacks and the inevitable changes to our collective psyche, I have several sharp memories of the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. First was a deeply personal call with my sister. She was witnessing the posters of missing people as she walked the streets of Lower Manhattan, while I sat in a pizza parlor in California. The dissonance was palpable. A few days earlier, her phone call alerted me to the attack, as she checked in to say she was OK. I remember hearing stories in the days that followed from friends whose friends had miraculously missed being in the Twin Towers. Another friend missed the Boston flight. As a result, the attack felt deeply personal. Many friends also grieved those who had been lost. Upon reflection, it may have been my disappointment with Congress that our political unity was so short-lived, which contributed to my entry into good governance organizations in 2003. I'm still dedicated to that cause, 25 years later.
On September 11, 2001, I was a young father and seminarian, still figuring out what it meant to lead and serve. The day started like any other—dropping off my child, heading into work—until everything changed. News spread faster than understanding. Words failed. In those first hours, I searched for something to hold onto—some meaning, some comfort.
But in the days that followed, what stood out wasn’t only fear or sorrow. I remember neighbors praying, strangers helping, communities leaning on one another. In the midst of tragedy, ordinary people showed remarkable care.
Twenty-five years later, remembering alone isn’t enough. This anniversary asks what we’ve done with our grief, what we’ve learned, and who we’ve become. We are summoned to a way of being I call weaving: drawing together memory, pain, difference, and hope to create a more compassionate common life. Our healing—and our democracy—depend on remembering honestly, empathizing deeply, and working together. That is the living memorial we owe the future.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, my daughter’s neighborhood playgroup gathered at our home. Four four-year-olds were picking apples on a perfect late-summer day.
I watched the little girls playing as the television blared the same images over and over again: planes exploding into New York City’s Twin Towers, the aftermath of the crash into the Pentagon.
These contrasting scenes: innocent children playing in an orchard under a clear blue sky, and the terrible evil unfurling as the towers collapsed and the smoking skies darkened…an unfathomable juxtaposition.
How could both exist in the same country at the same time?
Now, twenty-five years later, those little girls grown, I still wonder. How can so many believe in our nation, and so many disparage it?
That very long day unraveled into that very long week. The plight of Flight 93 unfolded, the story of its brave passengers instigating a takedown, their intentional sacrifice.
Leading the charge to seize control of the plane, Todd Beamer’s words still thrill and inspire me: “Let’s roll!”
Yes. Let’s do.
In New York on 9/11, I was working as a journalist when the first tower was hit, and the city I knew so well became unrecognizable in an instant. I didn’t go home for days. I stayed in the newsroom, trying to make sense of what we were witnessing as we documented the grief unfolding around us.
When I finally returned home, I remember stopping in place. House after house on my block had raised an American flag—it felt like the neighborhood was exhaling together after holding its breath for days. The first thing I did was put up my own flag.
It wasn’t an act of patriotism as much as a gesture of mourning and connection. In that moment, the flag became a way to say, We are still here. We belong to one another. We will find a way forward.
David L. Nevins is the publisher of The Fulcrum and co-founder and board chairman of the Bridge Alliance Education Fund.
