09/11/2026
Twenty-five years ago, on September 10, 2001, I turned in my resignation.
That day, I announced my intention to leave not only my news service job, but also the journalism career I had gone to college for and poured my heart into — a career that had been a source of both pride and pain.
I gave my boss a month’s notice, mindful of my role as managing editor of a unique digital news product in a nascent Internet world and committed to wrapping things up responsibly. My decision to leave to pursue training in coaching and organizational development felt both well-researched and totally impulsive. I had thought about it for a while, but I had no idea exactly where it would lead.
The next morning, September 11, I arrived at my office in the National Press Building, just a few blocks from the White House, by 8 a.m. As I did habitually every morning, I turned on CNN on the television behind me and began pulling together the day’s work.
Then I heard unusual activity coming from the TV.
I turned around and saw the first tower burning. My mind raced with ways to make sense of it — it must be a terrible accident, of course. A short time later, I watched the second plane hit. At that moment, any question of what this was had vanished. I sat there stunned and disbelieving, watching with one other colleague who had arrived as early as I had.
It quickly became clear this would be no ordinary workday. People in other departments soon began filtering in, ready to support newspapers around the globe. When a third plane hit the Pentagon, the atmosphere shifted. We were now under attack, too. The head of the news service declared it an all-hands-on-deck situation and told us to stay.
Rumors began to fly across Washington. In those days before cell phones were ubiquitous, I couldn't reach my husband, who was working at the Navy Yard. We didn’t know what else might happen or where.
My immediate co-workers got assigned to help other departments with the crisis coverage. But my boss, still annoyed that I was leaving, directed me to keep our regular operation running and prepare the piece scheduled to be published the following day: a profile of Barry Bonds, who was closing in on the single-season home run record.
I had never felt as though I was doing something so utterly meaningless.
Of course, my small newsroom moment was insignificant compared with the devastating losses of that day and everything that followed. But against the backdrop of so much horror and uncertainty, it crystallized something I already knew: I could no longer spend my working life in a profession I was no longer passionate about.
When I finally left the office, Washington was eerily quiet. It was a gorgeous September day, which made everything feel even more surreal.
In the months that followed, I began my trainings and got pregnant with my first child. I wish I could say that I quickly found my calling and confidently built the practice I have today. I didn’t. My newborn child's mystery mix of medical diagnoses commandeered most of my attention for a while, and it took time to find my footing in the coaching world. There were eventually two children, a few changes in direction, and years of iterating, iterating, iterating. My practice kept evolving as I did.
Today, as a trauma-informed ADHD coach, I am in the most professionally fulfilling period of my life. I get to bring together so much of what I’ve learned — about people, stories, systems, struggle, resilience, and the courage it takes to make a change when the next chapter is far from clear.
I would never frame September 11 as something that happened to give me clarity. The magnitude of the loss and trauma is far too great for that. But it put into stark relief something I had already begun to understand: how much I wanted my work — and my life — to feel meaningful.
The path from there to here was far from direct. It unfolded through training, motherhood, unexpected challenges, still more training, and more reinvention than I could have imagined on September 10, 2001.
So on this 25th anniversary, I honor, first and foremost, those whose lives were lost, those who risked their lives to help others, and all those who still carry the impact of that awful day.
I’m also, in a small way, remembering the person I was on September 10: proud of what she had accomplished, uncertain about what came next, and somehow confident enough to take the first step.
Twenty-five years later, I can see that turning in my resignation wasn’t the moment I found my new path. It was the moment I gave myself permission to begin looking for it.
On this difficult anniversary, I wish all of us a measure of peace. And for anyone uncertain about what comes next, I wish you the same permission to begin looking for your path, even if you can’t yet see where it will lead.
