It’s late. I am exhausted. 4 trips to the kids school and a sports meeting have left me little time to reflect on today.


This day creeps up on me every damn year. And even though I can recall every moment of it 12 years ago with insane clarity, there is one moment that defines the day for me. When my husband came home from work and saw me sitting on the floor, holding our not quite one year old son, sobbing as I watched the images over and over again on the little 13 inch screen tv we had, he didn’t wrap me in his arms. He didn’t pick up our son and tell him mommy was ok. No, what my husband did was the most heroic thing he could ever do.

He marched across the room, turned off the tv, unplugged it, took it in our bedroom, came back out and said “No more for you.” It wasn’t done out of hate or sadness or even love. It was done because he knew it had to be done. Because he knew I didn’t have the strength to do it myself. Because if I watched that plane hit that building one more time, I was going to have a nervous breakdown.

Sure, I was shaken to my core about all the events that day, and the implications it all held for our country, but my husband’s simple act that evening saved me. I was able to sleep that night. And I was able to get up the next morning, and every morning since.