Today I pause. Not because I want to, but because I have to. September 11th isn’t just a date on the calendar—it’s a scar that never fully healed.

Twenty-four years ago, I was in Brooklyn, managing properties. The TV was on, and the news came through that a plane hit the World Trade Center. At first, they called it a “small plane.” I remember saying to the plumber working in the building, “Did you hear this?” We both stopped mid-stride. No more clanging of pipes, no more conversation—just staring at the screen.

Then the second plane hit. And in that instant, everything changed. The bullshit stopped. The city that never slept went silent. You could feel it in your chest—the weight, the fear, the disbelief.

New York has always been gritty, always loud, always moving. But that day? It was broken. Vulnerable. Bleeding.

I carry that day with me, and I write about it in my upcoming book. Because 9/11 wasn’t just something I saw on TV—it was the air I was breathing, the people I was standing next to, the city I called home. You don’t forget the smoke, the panic, the endless sirens, or the way strangers looked at each other like family for the first time.

Today, I stop again. I remember the ones who didn’t make it home, the families torn apart, the firefighters and cops who sprinted toward hell when the rest of us stood frozen.

Twenty-four years later, I can still hear it, still feel it. And I’ll never forget.

Till tomorrow.

-Michael -Truth in the Trenches