The Day the Sky Was Clear: Remembering September 11th

By Kelly Rae Robertson, NCC, CCTS | Mindful Coast Counseling

The day started out so innocently.

It was clear. Warm. Sunny. There was absolutely no indication of what was to come. People were milling about the streets of New York City, grabbing coffee, heading to work, catching flights to visit loved ones—just another Tuesday in early September.

At the time, I was a newly minted reporter, working for a small-town newspaper just outside Morgantown, West Virginia. Before that, I had spent three years freelancing for one of the major newspapers in Pittsburgh—cutting my teeth on real stories, real deadlines, and real bylines. But now, I had finally landed a full-time job. A real desk. A real phone extension. And—most exciting of all—my very own email address. That part mattered. It made everything feel official.

I was still finding my footing—driving in every day from Pittsburgh to the sleepy hills of Waynesburg, trying to navigate this new world of journalism. I’d only been there a few weeks when I walked into the newsroom one morning and asked, completely seriously, “Who are the Mountaineers?”

Everything stopped.

Like a record scratch in a movie. People turned. Stared. Blinked. I think someone dropped a pen.

“They’re the team from West Virginia University,” someone finally said, stunned.

“Oh,” I replied, oblivious. Then I went to my desk and unpacked my things like nothing had happened.

By the time I got settled into my chair, ready to start the day, I looked up and noticed—everyone was still staring at me, standing in the same spots, frozen, jaws on the floor.

“They must take football seriously here,” I thought as I logged onto the ancient newsroom laptop they gave me—pretty sure it was from the Lincoln administration.

In fact, not only did that Tuesday start off innocently, but that entire summer felt innocent. I had just graduated from Duquesne. I was finally done. Finally able to support my blind mother and myself a little better, I hoped.

But that particular morning, September 11th, 2001, I woke up at dawn with a raging migraine. I’ve had them since I was five. I called off, popped some Excedrin, and crawled back into bed. A few hours later, I got up, still groggy and blurry-eyed, stumbling around trying to find aspirin. I called for my mother, who, despite being blind, was somehow always better at finding things than I or my fully sighted father had ever been.

As I stood in the bathroom unscrewing the lid, my mom mentioned—almost casually—that there’d been an explosion at the World Trade Center. She said a small private plane had crashed into one of the towers.

I walked into the TV room where she was listening and looked at the tower. “That’s strange,” I thought. “It’s so clear. How did the pilot not see the building?”

Like most people watching the news that morning, I suddenly noticed something on the screen—far in the distance, growing larger.

It was a plane. An airliner. Flying fast. Flying low. And then—into the second tower.

I screamed, “OH MY GOD!” and tried to describe what I saw to my mom. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, and she repeated my words. The anchors screamed. The phone rang. It was my Aunt Lisa. She was screaming too. Then my other aunt was beeping into the line on call waiting. The three of them did that for almost the entire day.

As I watched the TV, unable to look away, I noticed a surreal quality to it all. I was explaining what I was seeing, but I wasn’t fully processing it. There was a sense of panic and urgency, but also a strange stillness—a freeze response.

As I tried to describe the unfolding horror to my mom, I saw a man and woman—both in business suits—jump, holding hands. Then another person. And another. One was too many.

As anyone old enough to remember knows, the day just kept getting worse. First, the second plane hit. Then the Pentagon was attacked. Not long after, the South Tower collapsed, followed by the North. And then came the news of United 93 crashing just outside Pittsburgh. The local station cut into the national coverage, reporting that the plane had flown right over the city. I couldn’t help but wonder—was anyone downtown looking up at that moment? Did they notice anything… different?

Eventually, my mom and I had to get out of the house. We drove up to Cranberry, about 25 minutes away. I flipped through radio stations. There was no music—just news. We walked into King’s Family Restaurant—our usual spot—and saw the late edition papers already in the vending boxes. I’d never seen that before.

“This is your JFK,” my mom said to me quietly.

We ordered food but couldn’t eat. We tried chatting with our favorite waiter, but none of us had much to say.

Back home, the silence was eerie. We turned the TV back on, but there wasn’t much new—just wave after wave of horror. Eventually, we turned it off to try and sleep. I actually felt guilty for doing that—for turning it off, for pulling away. People were still trapped, still suffering, and here I was, about to get into bed. Safe and sound. It seemed so unfair. But I had to work in the morning and needed some sleep. Still, I was too afraid to be alone. I asked my mom to stay with me, and she offered to sleep on the floor beside my bed.

Just as I finally drifted off, I was jolted awake by the sudden sound of her moving. My heart jumped. I shot up, disoriented and on edge.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING???” I yelled.

“To the bathroom,” she said gently.

“Are you coming back?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I laid back down and eventually fell asleep.

A few hours later, she woke me up, shaking me gently. “Kelly! Kelly! Kelly!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Can I come to work with you? I don’t want to be here alone. I’ll sit in the car all day. I’ll hold my pee.”

“Okay,” I said, without hesitation.

But by the time my alarm went off, she was already awake. It was getting light out. She was talking to my aunt on the phone and had the radio on.

“I’ll be okay,” she said. “It’s light out. I’ll be okay until you get home.”

That drive to work felt surreal. Still no music. Just talk radio and news. My route took me past an area near Pittsburgh International Airport. Usually, planes would fly low overhead every few minutes. But that day, the sky was still. Except for one—on September 12th, I saw a fighter jet fly by La Roache College near my house. That’s something you don’t see every day, I thought.

The days that followed were a blur. The story of the heroes on Flight 93 began to emerge—my God—all those poor people. Thousands of innocent lives lost in the most unthinkable ways.

And yet—amid all the fear and sorrow—something else began to rise.

Love.

That Friday, I needed a break from the constant news cycle. I slid in a Dave Matthews Band CD and went straight to the final track—“Everyday,” the song I always turned to when I needed something to lift my spirit.

Pick me up, love, yeah.

Pick me up, love, every day.

All you need is. All you want is. All you need is love.

I played that song over and over on my drive to and from work. That night, I came home to an empty house—my mom was out with my aunt and cousins. For the first time in my life, I was afraid to be there alone. I ran across the street to my friend Dawn’s house, and we got in her car and just… drove. That’s what you did back then. You drove around the city, showing off your car and blasting music we’d probably stolen from the internet.

Dawn loved her car—tinted windows. Floor mats covered with towels, which were protected by waterproof liners, which were protected by—you guessed it—more floor mats. She had beaded necklaces dangling from the rearview mirror (despite having never been to Mardi Gras), and her car always smelled like a Bath & Body Works exploded inside. I wasn’t allowed to touch anything. I’m surprised she didn’t make me wear gloves or ride on the roof.

We drove through different neighborhoods that night and saw yards glowing with red, white, and blue lights. American flags waved from porches and balconies. Hand-painted signs said things like, “Honk if you love America.” So, of course, Dawn honked—as I excitedly yelled out the window, waving to anyone who looked our way. That evening has stayed with me ever since, clear as the night it happened.

But it was more than decorations. People were outside, talking to neighbors they may have lived beside for years without ever really speaking. Strangers smiled at each other. Everyone was holding doors open, nodding, waving—finding comfort in the presence of someone else. It felt like we were all quietly saying the same thing: I see you. I’m with you.

That quiet unity showed up in the most unexpected places. When flights finally resumed, a large commercial airliner landed at an airport. As the plane taxied down the runway, the pilot opened the cockpit window, stuck out an American flag, and waved it proudly. It was a simple gesture, but one that carried the weight of hope.

In the days and weeks that followed, that same spirit of solidarity spread across the country. There was a desperate need for supplies and donations to support the recovery efforts—not just in New York City, but also in Somerset County, Pennsylvania. Even the recovery dogs needed tiny boots because the smoldering rubble was burning their paws. Schools held drives for bottled water, dog food, work boots—anything that might help.

I wanted so badly to be at one of the sites. To hand out sandwiches to first responders in New York, or to sit beside the families of the passengers on Flight 93 —those who had come to see for themselves the place where their loved ones had died. But I couldn’t. And I felt so helpless.

So, I did what I could: I started running daily ads in the newspaper listing exactly what was needed.

We need water. Dog food. Money. Boots of all sizes.

Donations were being dropped off at the local police station, where I had already spent much of my time. I had made a habit of popping in and out during my shift, bugging the officers to see if there was anything I could write about. They didn’t seem to mind. I have always held an immense respect for first responders and veterans, and that respect only grew during those weeks.

One day, while I was chatting with Chief Hawfield, an older woman walked into the station. She held a folded newspaper in her hands.

“I saw in the paper today that they’re collecting donations for New York,” she said. “I don’t have any boots, but I read I could write a check. The article didn’t say who to make it out to, though. Do you know?”

Chief Hawfield smiled and pointed toward me.

“Why don’t you ask the girl standing to your left? She’s the one who wrote it.”

That moment made me smile. In a very small way, I was helping.

It might sound strange, but I’m grateful I was there to witness it all. The horror was real—but so was the unity, the compassion, and the way we showed up for each other when it mattered most.

Twenty-four years later, nearly everything in my life has changed—but the lesson of that crystal-blue morning has stayed with me.

Those of us old enough to remember that day carry it in our bones. We remember the fear, the outrage, the heartbreak, and the silence. But we also remember the way people came together—how strangers became neighbors, and neighbors became family.

To those who weren’t old enough to remember, or who weren’t yet born, I’m telling you now: trauma doesn’t happen just once. It weaves itself through our lives in many forms—loss, betrayal, and disaster. And it can leave you feeling desperately alone. But you're not. You never are.

There is strength in numbers. There is power in unity. There is healing in connection. When the darkness creeps in, don’t retreat—reach out. Keep fighting. Keep going. The world can feel heavy, but there is still so much light. Sometimes, all it takes is one voice, one hand, one flag waving from a cockpit window to remind you: we’re in this together.

And together, we are unstoppable.

9/11, 2001

If the memory of September 11th still stirs grief, anxiety, or reflection in you, know that you are not alone. Collective trauma leaves a quiet echo, and it’s okay to still feel it. Please email me at mindfulcoastcounseling@gmail.com or call 412-376-3479.

I’m here to hold space for your story, your sorrow, and your path toward healing.

—Kelly Rae Robertson, MS, NCC, CCTS

Grief, Trauma & EMDR Specialist

Owner & Founder, Mindful Coast Counseling

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The content of this post does not replace professional medical or mental health treatment or diagnosis.