By Paul Malone, Davidson Enterprise Risk & Assurance Senior Vice President
I can still remember exactly where I was on September 11, 2001. Colleagues pulled me into a guardhouse at Mitchell Grocery Corporation in Albertville, Alabama. We watched the devastating news live on TV.
Like millions of Americans, I observed our world changing in a matter of hours, but as a soldier in the U.S. Army Reserve, I knew the tragedy would not end that day. The event would ask something of people like me—and ultimately, of our families.
The call I received in April 2005 was personal. After several years training soldiers in Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri, I got word of an upcoming deployment to Iraq. Four months later, I kissed my family goodbye and joined the 502nd Personnel Service Battalion, 4th Infantry Division out of Fort Hood, as their S6 officer.
My kids were just three and five-years-old when I left. My youngest, Joshua, knew me as the father in the “puter,” since we talked via video chats, from several thousands of miles away. My toddler couldn’t quite say “computer” yet. My oldest, Caleb, was beginning kindergarten. By the time I returned home, he was finishing first grade. I saw my family just 16 days out of about 600.
That’s the part most don’t understand about military service. The person who deploys is not the only one who serves; the family does, too. My boys’ mother raised them during that long period, as they celebrated birthdays, lost teeth, and experienced first days of school. I missed them deeply.
Meanwhile, at Camp Victory in Baghdad, fellow soldiers and I shielded from incoming fire. When traveling in military helicopters, I watched adversaries shoot at us from nearby roofs.
Just days before my return home, my mind shifted out of mission mode and into what I imagined life with my family would be like in the coming days.
But my hopes were dashed. A significant accident broke my femur and crushed my ankle. My family got word a medical helicopter airlifted me, and not much more. I couldn’t reach them until three days later, so they imagined the worst.
I was seriously injured, deeply disappointed, highly frustrated, and honestly scared about what was ahead. I traveled from Iraq to Germany, to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, to Walter Reed in the same state, and then to Fort Knox in Kentucky, where doctors performed surgery and I began recovery.
So, when I think about September 11, I don’t just think about the attacks. I think about everything that came afterward. I think about the people who raised their hands and said, “Send me.” I think about the families who tearfully watched their loved ones leave. I think about the brave people who never came home—and the devastated families who had to learn to live without them.
And that’s why, 25 years later, September 11 still matters so much to me.
The night before the historic tragedy, people fell asleep expecting nothing more than another ordinary morning. Leading up to the attacks, passengers boarded flights, workers arrived at their offices, firefighters and police officers showed up for their shifts, and paramedics prepared to care for people in need.
None of them knew their ordinary morning would be their last.
Here’s the lesson I carry with me 25 years later: we don’t get to know when life is going to change, so don’t take today for granted. Love your people, call them, hug them, kiss your kids, hold your spouse a little tighter, and spend the extra five minutes together. We will all go to sleep tonight assuming we’re going to wake up tomorrow and continue our story, but none of us knows what’s in store.
September 11 taught me that tomorrow isn’t promised—and that the people we love are far more important than we realize in the busyness of everyday life.
For me, that’s what the phrase “Never Forget” means. It’s not just remembering what happened. It’s remembering the victims, the sacrifice, the surviving families, and choosing to live differently because of it.
Twenty-five years later, I’m grateful to be here. Grateful for my family. Grateful for the people with whom I served. Grateful for those who carried the burden while I was gone. And grateful for every ordinary day that we sometimes forget isn’t ordinary at all.
That’s what September 11 means to me: Remember the sacrifice. Honor the fallen. Love your family. Serve others. And never take another day for granted.
