By Marilyn D. Anderson
September 2026
Twenty-five years have passed since September 11, 2001, yet for many families, that day remains suspended in time. Millions of people remember where they were when they learned of the attacks. I do too. But for me, the memory is not defined by history books or documentaries. It is defined by one agonizing question that echoed through my mind for hours:
Is my mother alive?
On that Tuesday morning, I was far away, a political science student in Rome, Italy, sitting in an auditorium with classmates at La Sapienza University. Like millions around the world, I watched in disbelief as television screens filled with images of smoke, fire, and unimaginable destruction at the World Trade Center in New York. But for me, the horror unfolding before the world’s eyes was intensely personal.
My mother was there, in the heart of Manhattan, under the shadow of the Twin Towers.
She had recently arrived in the United States from Albania as a political asylee, determined to build a future in a new country with dignity and hope. Unemployed at the time, she was trying to navigate New York City’s Public Assistance system. Only months into her new beginning, she found herself caught in one of the most devastating tragedies in modern history.
While the world watched a national tragedy unfold, I watched with the terrifying realization that my mother could be somewhere beneath that cloud of smoke.
The hours that followed were the longest of my life.
Every passing minute without any knowledge of my mother’s fate felt like a suffocating eternity. I knew she was on her way to an appointment at a New York City Public Assistance office that morning, and as reports poured in from New York, uncertainty became its own form of suffering. I remember staring at the television screen, unable to look away, while the silence grew heavier with each passing moment. The immense weight I carried that day remains etched in my memory forever.
My mother survived.
Speaking those words fills me with gratitude. She escaped the immediate danger, but the events of that day left wounds that time cannot completely erase.
Surviving such a catastrophe is not a destination. It is the beginning of a long journey. For countless September 11 survivors, survival came with consequences that have lasted for decades, carrying not only the invisible scars of trauma but also profound physical and emotional burdens.
There are dates that do not remain mere numbers on a calendar. They become a dividing line between what came before and what came after. For me and my family, that date is September 11, 2001. The world changed that day, and so did we.
As the nation marks the 25th anniversary of the attacks, memories return with extraordinary force and clarity. The images, the sounds, the uncertainty, and the grief remain vivid, for the American people as well as the entire world. For me, it is more than a moment of collective remembrance or an international headline. Amid the smoke, panic, and chaos in the heart of Manhattan, beneath the shadow of the Twin Towers, stood my mother. This is the story of a woman who had just arrived in a new country seeking safety and the opportunity to rebuild her life when history suddenly placed her in the middle of hell.
Major anniversaries invite reflection, and this one carries particular emotional weight. For me, it is a deeply personal tribute. It is a tribute to a mother who stood in the shadow of the Twin Towers and emerged with the courage to keep going. Her survival remains a testament to her strength, perseverance, and determination to move forward despite her wounds, and to the resilience she demonstrated in the face of the many challenges that followed. Like so many who lived through the attacks and their aftermath, she has carried both the visible and invisible effects in body and soul. The trauma of witnessing such devastation never fully disappears. It becomes part of a person’s story, woven into everyday life in ways that others may never see.
Twenty-five years ago, our lives were shaken by circumstances beyond our control. Yet love endured. Hope endured. In history’s darkest moments, the human spirit can still rise.
Today, I am profoundly grateful that my mother is by my side. Her strength, dignity, and determination remain an inspiration not only to me but to everyone who knows her story.
As the world pauses to remember the lives lost on September 11, I also remember the lives forever altered by it. I honor the survivors who continue to live with the consequences of that day. Above all, I honor my mother and her unwavering strength.
The shadow of that day remains. But so does the light she carried through it.