Submitted by Karen Fassuliotis
As September 11, 2025, comes and goes, I find myself reflecting on why I do not attend the public observances that mark one of the worst days in American history. Twenty-four years ago, I was one of the thousands who witnessed the events of that day firsthand in New York City. I’ve written about what I saw many times over the years, but the memories remain vivid, inescapable, even when I try to push them out of my head. I saw the worst of humanity and the best of humanity that day and in the days that followed. It’s a day that must never be forgotten, just as my parents’ generation insisted we never forget Pearl Harbor. Ironically, I was born on Pearl Harbor Day, December 7th, fifteen years after that attack, and forty-five years later, I was there to witness the World Trade Center attacks. If Pearl Harbor was my alpha, I vowed that September 11th would not be my omega.
That day started like any other. I was a lowly associate at a law firm on the 57th floor of the Chase Building, having just earned my law degree the year before. I was late to the legal profession but thrilled to have landed a job in the city. It was a beautiful fall day—blue skies, fresh air—and I was scheming to leave work early for a delayed dinner to celebrate my parents’ anniversary. I took the train to Grand Central, then the number 4 subway to Wall Street. The subway was slower than usual, and I didn’t reach Wall Street until 8:46 AM, one minute after the
first plane hit the North Tower. Unaware of what had happened, I emerged from the subway to find black smoke pouring down onto the street. Papers—memos, files, even a plane ticket—rained down around me, which puzzled me. I thought the building above the station was on fire and rushed across the street. Looking up, I saw an angry black hole in the North Tower.
The streets were filled with people, and a fireman held back the crowd to let a fire truck pass. I still remember the faces of those men hanging off the truck as they raced toward the towers. That truck was later found in the debris.
We all thought it was an accident at first. I helped a woman from Deutsche Bank who was desperate to reach her husband. My cell phone worked—one of the few that did—and I brought her to my office to make the call. From the 57th floor, we could see the towers. At 9:02 AM, as she spoke to her husband, I saw a large, grey plane fly down the river, bank left, and aim directly for the South Tower. I heard it throttle down before it slammed into the building, its nose smashing through the other side. I could see the silhouettes of people in their seats just before the impact. My brain still struggles to process what I witnessed.
I started yelling to my colleagues that we needed to get out. Grabbing my briefcase, I chose the stairs over the elevator, fearing another plane might hit our building. Walking down 57 stories was no small feat, but the pandemonium outside was worse. No one knew what was happening. I called my parents, and my mom relayed real-time updates from the television. I decided to leave the area, starting the long walk to Grand Central Station. That choice likely saved my life. As I reached the City Hall area, the South Tower collapsed, and I ran as fast as I could ahead of the plume of dust and debris. I didn’t look back.
Silence followed me as I walked toward Grand Central, only to find it closed due to bomb threats. I kept going, eventually flagging down an express bus to the Bronx. I called my parents to let them know I was safe. I made it home that day, physically unscathed but mentally bruised.
In the days, months, and years that followed, I suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. I didn’t speak of that day and cried myself to sleep for months. Returning to work three days later, in what felt like a war zone, was unnerving. I avoided my usual Wall Street subway stop, taking the Fulton Street route to steer clear of the smoldering pile of rubble. The soldiers with semi-automatic weapons, the lingering smells, the closed shades in my office to block out the view of where the towers once stood—it was all too much.
I was lucky to have a patient family who helped me emerge from that darkness. I left the law firm and embarked on a journey of public service, first as an elected volunteer on the Representative Town Meeting and now on the Board of Estimate and Taxation. I’ve done countless hours of pro bono legal work for the mentally ill and those facing conservatorships, driven by a vow to make a difference. But every September 11th, I watch the ceremony at the former World Trade Center site on television, listening to the names of those who perished. I’ve done this for 19 years, and this year will be no different. I feel a duty to remember them, to honor the lives I witnessed being taken. They are a part of me, even though I didn’t know them personally.
Yet, I can’t bring myself to attend public ceremonies. The memories are still too raw, even after twenty-four years. The sights, sounds, and smells—the faces of those firefighters, the silhouettes in that plane, the dust cloud chasing me—are still too vivid. Public events, with their crowds and formalities, feel overwhelming, like they might strip away the private space I need to carry this
weight. I grieve quietly, alone, where I can process the enormity of that day without an audience.
I will never forget those who perished, and I carry them with me every day. But for now, even though you may not see me at the September 11th ceremonies in Greenwich, I will still honor them in my own way, in the silence of my own heart, where the echoes of September 11th still linger.