Twenty-five years after 9/11, I’ve decided to tell a story I don’t often tell—the story of what it was like to live just across the Hudson River from New York City as the towers fell. Twenty-five years later, this story continues to evolve. Memory changes. Perspective deepens. What remains constant is gratitude—for life, for healing, and for the reminder that even in the midst of uncertainty, we still have choices about how we meet the world.Join w/Jenni Tooley at www.jennitooley.com
Hey everyone! I did this video live so that I wouldn’t try to go back and edit it or fix it in any way. And guess what? It still took me 5 days to decide to post it! I’ve been on the fence about it for a loooong time but after spending 4 hours at CarMax with a 23-year-old salesperson who kept asking me questions about what 9/11 was like because “he had never met anybody who was there”, I suddenly realized that I am now “somebody who was there”. I also realized that he hadn’t even been born when this happened… so here it is. Raw, real, and off the cuff.
In September 2001, I was living in Weehawken, New Jersey, a single stop outside Manhattan. From the cliffs overlooking the river, I had an unobstructed view of the New York City skyline. On that beautiful September morning—blue skies, monarch butterflies, a cool breeze—I watched smoke pour from the World Trade Center and saw both towers collapse.What stands out most in my memory is the surreal contrast between the beauty around me and the horror unfolding across the water. Butterflies floated through the air while buildings fell. The river sparkled while people were running for their lives. My mind struggled to reconcile what my eyes were seeing.
In this episode, I share what it was like to witness those events from a distance close enough to see, but far enough away that the full reality took years to process. I talk about the days and months that followed: the fear, the uncertainty, the military presence, the missing-person posters covering subway stations, the smell that lingered over the city, and the way trauma can settle into the nervous system long after a crisis ends.
I also reflect on an unexpected lesson that emerged from that time. While riding through the Lincoln Tunnel in the months after the attacks, consumed by fear and hypervigilance, I realized I had a choice. I could spend my life anticipating disaster, or I could choose to be present for the life I was actually living. That realization became one of the most important gifts hidden inside an otherwise devastating experience.
A decade later, during the Bastrop wildfires in Texas, a dream and the smell of smoke triggered memories I didn’t even realize I was still carrying. What followed was a profound release of grief, fear, and shock that my system had been holding for years.
This isn’t a historical analysis of 9/11. It’s a personal remembrance of what it felt like to be there, how trauma can echo across decades, how communities respond in times of crisis, and how healing sometimes arrives long after we think we’ve moved on.
Most of all, it’s a reflection on survival, resilience, and gratitude.
Twenty-five years later, I’m grateful to be alive. Grateful for the healing that’s happened. Grateful for the people I love. And grateful for the reminder that even after immense loss, joy is still possible.
Sometimes we don’t process a life-changing event when it happens. Sometimes we survive it, keep moving, and only years later discover what our hearts and bodies have been carrying. Healing doesn’t always happen on our timeline. But when we’re ready, what has been buried can finally rise, move through us, and become part of our story rather than something that controls it.You are loved:)Jenni
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