I still mother them….

September 11, 2001.

I think if you were old enough to remember that day, you can probably still tell me exactly where you were when you realized something was terribly wrong.

I can.

We watched things happen that we couldn’t even process. We watched people running for their lives while first responders were running directly toward the very thing everyone else was running away from.

Nearly 3,000 people left their homes that morning and never came home.

That sentence hits me very differently today than it did 25 years ago.

Because they were just having a normal morning.

Someone poured a cup of coffee. Someone was running late. Someone kissed their spouse goodbye. Someone probably yelled “love you” while walking out the door. Parents sent their kids off. Kids said goodbye to their parents.

Nobody knew it was the last time.

I know what it is like to have a last conversation and not know it is the last conversation.

The night before my son Vincente died, I talked to him on the phone. We ended that call with, “I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.”

Tomorrow never came.

And on April 3 of this year, I lost my daughter Gabriella.

There are now two days on my calendar that changed who I am forever.

So when I think about the families of September 11, I think about that part differently now.

I think about the phones that never rang again.

The empty chair.

The clothes still hanging in a closet.

The birthday that still comes every year.

The holidays where someone is very obviously missing.

And I think about how the rest of the world eventually goes back to whatever normal is supposed to be, while the people who loved the person who died learn how to live in a world that looks exactly the same to everyone else and completely different to them.

That is grief.

There is before.

And there is after.

But there is something else I remember about September 11.

I remember September 12.

We showed up for each other.

People checked on their neighbors. Strangers helped strangers. People stood in lines to donate blood. First responders kept going when there was absolutely nothing left in the tank.

For a little while, we didn’t care about all the things that usually divide us.

Someone needed help.

So you helped.

I wish we remembered that part more often.

Tomorrow is September 12, and more than 1,000 people will come through Delcastle Recreational Park for Overdose Awareness Day Delaware 2026.

I would never compare the tragedy of September 11 to the overdose crisis. They are completely different tragedies.

But grief has introduced me to families I never wanted to have something in common with.

Parents who have buried children.

Children who have buried parents.

Brothers and sisters who still pick up the phone wanting to call someone who isn’t there.

People who can tell you the exact date, the exact phone call, the exact moment their life became before and after.

Tomorrow, many of those people will be standing together at Delcastle.

I will be one of them.

But tomorrow isn’t only about the people who died.

It is about the people who are still here.

There will be people celebrating three days in recovery and people celebrating 30 years. There will be treatment providers, harm reduction workers, law enforcement, recovery organizations, mental health resources and community organizations.

There will be people learning how to use Narcan.

And maybe someday one of those people will be standing next to someone who is overdosing.

At that moment, I don’t care how that person got there.

I don’t care what they used.

I don’t care what mistakes they made.

I don’t even care if you know their name.

You have the opportunity to save a human life.

You do it.

Because somewhere there is a mother who doesn’t deserve to get that phone call.

There is a child who doesn’t deserve to lose a parent.

There is a family that doesn’t need another empty chair.

If we can prevent one family from learning what “before and after” feels like, we do it.

Tomorrow we will remember the people we have lost. We will celebrate recovery. We will talk about harm reduction. We will put Narcan into people’s hands. We will connect people with resources. We will say names and tell stories.

And at the end of the day, 20 doves will be released into the sky.

But today belongs to September 11.

Today I am thinking about nearly 3,000 people who didn’t come home.

And I am thinking about the people who loved them who have now lived 25 years of birthdays, holidays, weddings, births, graduations and ordinary Tuesdays without them.

I understand that kind of missing someone in a way I wish I didn’t.

So when we say “Never Forget,” I don’t think it should only mean remembering what happened that morning.

Remember the people.

Remember the families.

Remember how we treated one another afterward.

Remember how quickly we showed up when another human being needed us.

Because 25 years later, people still need us to show up.

There are still families we can spare from receiving the phone call that changes everything.

There are still lives worth saving.

Never forget.