09/11/2026
25 years. Never forget. 🇺🇸
I grew up in Rockaway Beach, Queens, with this view in the distance; only about 25 miles from the World Trade Center, yet seemingly a world apart.
I went to high school in Manhattan and had visited the World Trade Center. Rockaway is a blue-collar town, home to many firefighters and first responders. Many who died that day came from my hometown. So did kids from my elementary school who later worked at Cantor Fitzgerald, and even classmates from Yale. Like so many New Yorkers, I knew far too many people by only a degree of separation who never came home.
But on 9/11, I was in Washington, D.C., beginning my first year of medical school at Georgetown. I remember sitting in medical ethics class when we learned what happened.
The senior medical students went to the ER and waited for casualties. They never came. There were too many fatalities that day.
The rest of us sat outside on that breathtakingly beautiful September day, trying to comprehend how so much hatred could exist in the world while we were beginning lives devoted to helping and healing others.
Rockaway would endure more tragedy—Flight 587 crashed into our neighborhood just two months later, and Hurricane Sandy devastated it 11 years after that. Maybe growing up there, and living through so much loss, gave some of us a certain toughness: a little rough around the edges, perhaps, with some armor built along the way.
Twenty-five years have passed. I became a doctor, got married, had two wonderful children, made countless friends, cared for so many patients, and lost my own father. Life continued.
But nearly 3,000 innocent people never got those 25 years—the ordinary, extraordinary moments that make up a life.
Perhaps one way we honor them is simple: Be kind. Give people grace. Help when you can. Tell the people you love that you love them.
Kindness costs nothing. And 25 years later, I still believe there is far more of it in this world than hate.