September 11, 2001, was for my generation what the JFK assassination was to my parents’ generation — a day forever burned into our minds and onto our souls. I still recall the day with clarity, as most Americans do.

It was a warm and sunny Tuesday morning here in the Midwest. What clouds were in the sky gave the appearance of being animated. And the breeze, along with the color of the trees, confirmed the impending autumn season.

I had a houseful of children that morning, as I did every morning. I still remember the way the breeze felt on my face when I walked out to the end of the drive as the kids met the school bus, and how excited I was for the change of seasons. Then I got busy putting dinner in the crock-pot and micro-managing cranky toddlers. It was a typical Tuesday morning in my world. I also remember that my oldest son was 11 on September 11, 2001.

A few minutes had passed after the first plane hit the north tower of the World Trade Centers at 8:48 a.m. before I even realized what had happened. I remember thinking how awful it was that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center as I stopped and stood briefly in front of the television.

I must admit, I have always been kind of a disaster junkie. Not in a twisted way, just in the way that they fascinate me. But I was busy and continued on into my morning.

I got down on the floor to change a diaper and happened to look up at the television just as the second plane came into view, and in the literal blink of an eye, tons of steel and fuel were buried deep into the heart of the south tower. The clock read 9:02 a.m.

We all know the rest of the story. An attack on America unfolded on television as the world watched in horror. The attacks continued. Not much later, a plane into the Pentagon. And then the heroic actions of the passengers of United Flight 93 that crashed into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

What children I was watching that didn’t belong to me were retrieved by anxious parents I spent the afternoon, concerned for my children who were in school, and holding the little ones who were at home a little closer than normal. The television stayed on throughout the day, which was a rarity. I can still remember the intense sonic boom that rattled my home, and caused my heart to jump in fear as a formation of fighter jets passed overhead on their way to the east coast later that afternoon.

The landscape changed that day. Our psyches were perplexed, and a nation was on edge wondering what would transpire next. The attacks came to an end and in the coming days the carnage, the total devastation and loss of life would begin to be realized. I recall the heat of the tears on my face as then-President George W. Bush stood atop a massive pile of debris among a throng of New York City firefighters and declared “…I can hear you! The rest of the world hears you. And the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon”. I had no idea what an impact that statement would make on my own life, and the life of my son, a decade later.

On September 20, 2001, President Bush declared “war on terror,” and there were first boots on the ground just weeks later as Operation Enduring Freedom began to take shape.

Since that day, 15 Septembers ago, 6,852 United States service members have died as a result of the war on terror, and there are tens of thousands who have returned home wounded. My son, who was just 11 the day of the attacks, would find himself in the deserts of Afghanistan just over a decade later as he willingly took his place in Operation Enduring Freedom. I had no idea how the events of that Tuesday morning would impact us.

My son served 270 days in Afghanistan. Those were long, dark days as the parent of a soldier. They were even more so for my son who still fights his own war today.

More than anything, I am saddened by the fact that the effects of the attacks 15 years ago continue to ripple outward. Not only do we still have troops in Iraq and Afghanistan, there are wounded veterans who aren’t able to receive the help that they desperately need, and profoundly deserve. Even more devastating are the cases of “9/11 related cancers” and other illnesses attributed to the attacks, and the clean up thereafter. To date, some 5400 individuals have died as a result of a cancer inflicted upon them for the days, weeks, and perhaps months that they spent at Ground Zero as part of the recovery and clean-up efforts, and it is believed that the rates of these cancers and other illnesses directly related to 9/11 will continue to increase exponentially for at least another five years…20 years after the attacks.

What can we do as Americans to honor those who gave their lives that day? Never forget. Truly.

Never forget each and every first responder who made the choice to go back into the building knowing they might never see their families again. Never forget the families of the passengers of United Flight 93 who made the courageous decision to take over the plane that was likely turning back to our nation’s capital. Never forget those who stayed at Ground Zero for days, weeks, or months who now, years later, are losing their lives. Never forget those who made last calls from their cell phones in smoldering stairwells to say one last “I love you.” Never forget those lost in battle, who when the time came to defend our nation, they went. Never forget those who still suffer today, whether it be from the loss of a loved one that September day, or from the scars of the war they fought to tell those who brought down our buildings that the United States will not go quietly.

Never forget September 11, 2001.