What 9/11 Means to Me

Living in Italy part of the year, I sometimes lose track of important American dates. Labor Day can pass without a cookout. The Fourth of July feels different when there are no fireworks, no flags lining the streets, and no long weekend at the lake.

But I can never forget September 11.

Partly because it is the birthday of our dear friend, JoAnn Burchuk. And partly because of where Stephanie and I were supposed to be on September 11, 2001.

We were on our way to Italy.

Our two young children were home with our nanny and a friend who was helping house-sit. Everything was arranged. Bags packed. Plans made. We were ready for a wonderful holiday.

And then…

Instead of flying to Italy, we found ourselves back home, desperately trying to reach friends and relatives in New York and attempting to understand something that seemed impossible to understand. Two of the planes that struck the World Trade Center had taken off from Boston—the same airport from which we were supposed to depart.

Our neighbors knew we were flying out that morning. When they saw all the cars in our driveway, they immediately became concerned. They came over to check on us and cried when they saw that we were safe.

My father, my father-in-law, and my brother were all traveling across the country. With air travel shut down, each had to figure out how to get home. Like millions of other families, ours suddenly felt scattered across a country that had become frighteningly large and uncertain.

That evening, we all sat down for dinner.

Our children were happy—but confused—to have everyone home. The nanny was there. The friend helping her was there. Stephanie and I were there. This was not how the day was supposed to end, but to the kids, it probably felt like an unexpected gathering.

They didn’t understand what had happened. They only knew that their teachers had been afraid. School pickup had been chaotic. Adults were whispering. The television was showing the same terrible images again and again.

Outside, the streets were too quiet.

Inside, the tension kept building.

Then, as we were eating, Stephanie asked the children a question:

“What was the best part of your day?”

I looked at her and thought, What the hell are you talking about?

This was a terrible day. One of the worst days any of us could remember. How could there possibly be a “best part”?

Then I caught her knowing look.

“Even on hard days,” she continued, “something good happened. What was it?”

It was brilliant.

She wasn’t pretending the day wasn’t awful. She wasn’t asking us to ignore the fear, the grief, or the uncertainty. She was reminding us that terror did not have to take every single thing from us. Even on the darkest day, we could still search for one moment of goodness.

So we went around the table and shared the best part of our day.

That simple question became a family tradition. It spread to friends and relatives, many of whom still ask it at their own dinner tables. I have carried it into my work. At the end of a gymnastics camp—especially after a difficult day—I still ask my athletes:

“What was the best part of your day?”

Twenty-five years later, that may be what September 11 means most personally to me.

I remember the lives lost. I remember the families who never again had everyone sitting around their dinner tables. I remember the fear, the confusion, the silent streets, and the desperate phone calls. I remember our neighbors crying with relief when they found us safely at home.

But I also remember my wife finding a small light in an impossibly dark moment.

When it was Stephanie’s turn to answer her own question, she said the best part of her day was knowing that it was our friend JoAnn’s birthday.

That is not denial. It is resilience.

The world can be frightening. Life can change between breakfast and dinner. Planes can be grounded, families separated, and everything we thought was certain can suddenly disappear.

But even on the hardest day, something good happened.

Sometimes we just need someone wise enough to ask us to look for it.

So, happy birthday, JoAnn. Even on that terrible day, your birthday gave us something good to hold on to.

And now I pass the question on to you:

What was the best part of your day?