Twenty-five years ago, on 9/11/2001 around 7 AM, I said “goodbye” to my father on a phone call that ended with, “See ya later, alligator,” and “It’s been real, banana peel.” I went off to the bus stop for third grade. My innocent mind couldn’t comprehend the amount of evil that would saturate my life that day. A mere hour later, my father would be jolted into the final minutes of his life. William Lawrence Fallon Jr. was a strong man. A superhero in my 8-year-old eyes. But even the strongest of men couldn’t escape the flames of the North Tower that Tuesday morning. If you know me, you know my life has been a series of messes—many self-induced—in the wake of learning just how unsafe this earth can be. I have a new appreciation for the trauma I endured now that I have an 8-year-old myself. A mini-me. Twenty-five years ago, I didn’t realize how young I truly was. I see my oldest girl now. How big she is, and yet, so, so small. So innocent. I cannot comprehend taking her to the places I’ve been. Three weeks after 9/11, the families were permitted to visit Ground Zero. I still remember the sounds. The sirens blaring—blaring at nothing. We all knew there was smoke. There was no need to alarm us anymore. The armored vehicles. The stench. The dust, everywhere. Glass covered the streets. The people. The faces they made at me. At 8 years old, I stood in a war zone, looking for my Dad. Now, I picture that scene with my 8-year-old daughter in it. Terrified. Eyes wide. Red from tears and dust. Confused. It makes me want to scream and immediately protect her. That little 8-year-old was supposed to be safe. I spent the rest of my childhood searching every corner for safety and love. Mostly, in all the quick and wrong places. I grasped at relationships for validation and affection. I strived for achievements to make my dad proud. Nothing worked to soothe the ache of all the fire my brain had seen. Until God. I was 19 when I quit running from God, after spending years creating my own fires and terror. It wasn’t perfect. But there were finally glimpses of peace. Today, 25 years later, I am 33 years old. I founded a nonprofit that provides free mental health care to military members, veterans, and first responders. I created the resource that I always needed. The one I still need. I put my pain to purpose and decided to stop fighting myself for what happened to me years ago. This year, I pray our country remembers. Truly remembers what happened. And how the 12th of September unified us. I pray we can be a people focused on putting purpose to pain and pouring into our communities. We cannot wait for another force to act against us to finally unify our nation. We can choose unity now. We can choose community now. We can choose to take the pain we have endured and use it for something greater. Twenty-five years later, I still miss my Dad. I still wish I could call him. I still wish he could see the woman I became. But I also know this: The little girl who stood in a war zone looking for her father did not stay there. She survived. She grew. She found God. And she found a way to turn her pain into purpose. And maybe that is what remembering is really about. Not just remembering how we lost so much. But remembering who we became when we stood together. And choosing to become that people again.