On the morning of September 11, 2001, I woke up in my parent's house. It was a few weeks before my sophomore year of college started, and I'd spent the summer lifeguarding before moving back to campus. I was tan, well rested, and excited to see my boyfriend again.

I remember my mom coming into my room, then words like "New York" and "terrorism" and "planes" hitting my ears. I moved to the couch, curled up with a blanket, and listened to everything Peter Jennings had to say. He was wearing a l...