Today is the anniversary of one of the most tragic events in American history. On September 11, 2001, 2,605 Americans lost their lives. As an American, and a New Yorker, I always find this day to be a difficult one.
People in Scotland, where I live, do not mark the date at all for some reason. Although 67 British people died that day (the most of any nation except America) and a total of 372 foreign nationals from 61 countries other than the U.S. died, 9/11 is an American tragedy. The immensity of it – of so many families cleaved apart, of children losing parents and parents losing children – is more than the heart can bear. Yet, my own marriage, my children, would never have been if not for 9/11.
I only met my husband because he was in NYC on holiday from Scotland and his 9/13 return flight was grounded. So, for me, this is a very personal day. It is a part of me. And when I mourn those who were lost, I also thank them: for the courage they showed, for the gifts they were to others, and, most of all, for the sacrifice they made so I (and others like me) could have a happily ever after.
I hope that what has grown from the wreckage in the form of my little family is some small consolation to those whose futures were irrevocably changed that day. I pray that it is.
Editor's Note: This post was originally published on September 11, 2018.
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