We are just a few weeks away from the 25th anniversary of September 11, 2001.
Twenty-five years. It is difficult to comprehend how much life has happened since that morning—how many people have entered my life, how many have left it and how much I have changed along the way. Yet some memories of that day remain as clear as if they happened yesterday.
I remember feeling frightened and vulnerable in a way I never had before. I remember the unbearable sadness of knowing that so many lives had been lost. I remember the smell of the smoke drifting across the water and the feeling of dread that settled deep in my stomach.
And through all of it, there was only one person I desperately wanted to reach: my daughter.
She was just ten years old, experiencing the fear and loss of security that came with that terrible day. All I wanted was to get hold of her, hear her voice and tell her, “We’re okay. I’m here.”
At that moment, nothing else mattered. I simply needed my little girl to know that her father was alive, that I loved her and that, whatever came next, she would not face it alone. Of all the memories I carry from September 11, that overwhelming need to reach my daughter remains one of the most personal.
I also remember the courage. I remember the pride I felt in ordinary Americans who rose to an unimaginable moment—some knowing it would be their last. I remember people from every background reaching for one another, helping strangers and standing together as one country.
We saw what hatred could destroy. In the days that followed, we also saw what love could begin to heal.
I spent time standing outside in the darkness during those days, trying to make sense of what had happened. I felt incredibly grateful to be alive and untouched by the immediate horror, yet almost guilty that I was free to return to my life when so many others never would.
In that darkness, I understood just how fragile life really is. It can change—or end—in an instant. We know that, of course, but most of us don’t live as though we know it. We assume there will always be another day, another conversation and another opportunity to tell someone what they mean to us.
September 11 reminded me that every day, every hour and every minute we are given is precious.
That day also began my journey as an advocate. Something changed inside me. I could no longer be comfortable remaining silent when people were hurting, when institutions failed them or when those without power needed someone willing to stand beside them.
I didn’t know then where that journey would take me—into advocacy, radio, writing and public life—but I knew that simply watching from the sidelines would no longer be enough.
September 11 gave me a deeper understanding that a life is measured not merely by how long we are here, but by what we do with the time we are given and whether we are willing to use our voice for someone who may not be able to use their own.
Shortly before my mother died, she told me, “There is no death. People die only when we forget them. If you can remember me, I will be with you always.”
I have carried those words with me ever since.
People come into our lives, and people leave our lives. But the people we love never truly leave us. They remain in our stories, our memories and the quiet places in our hearts that belong only to them.
Ten Xavier graduates were killed in the attacks on the World Trade Center that morning:
John Ryan ’74
Edmund McNally ’78
Christopher Hanley ’84
Michael Andrews ’85
John Farrell ’87
James Riches ’89
Matthew Burke ’91
Sean Lugano ’91
James Coyle ’93
Charles Heeran ’96
As a Xavier graduate, their names feel personal to me. We walked the same hallways on 16th Street. We were shaped by the same traditions and taught the same responsibility to be men for others. I may not have known each of them, but they were—and will always remain—my Xavier brothers.
This remembrance is dedicated to them, to everyone we lost that morning and to those who have carried their absence for the past 25 years.
“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.”
Atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.
And forever, brother, hail and farewell.
The Valley Viewpoint 