As this year marks the 21st anniversary of Sept. 11th, it holds different meaning for those that were there to those that just watched the day unfold on TV or read about it in their history books as they were too young or not born yet when 9/11 happened.

At times it can seem like a lifetime ago that these events unfolded, while on some days it is like it just happened yesterday.

What started as a crisp morning, turned dark fast for many of us. At the time I was home in New York, with my sister-in visiting from Florida—who came running into the room and told me I had to see what was on the TV.

At first, I thought I was looking at a movie, but once the realization of what was happening sunk in, I did what most of those in the military did, went into my room, put on my uniform and grabbed my go bag.

It was the first time my family actually witnessed me going off to the unknown. To them the phone had not rang yet, but to me, “I had to go.”

The next two months would become a time that those who were in New York or DC would reflect on the most about those days. Not the horror that happened in those moments, but the unselfish care and warmth we would feel for a perfect stranger. We would reflect on the idea that no one was yelling they were in charge or trying to bark orders, but merely allowing their training and knowledge to guide them to help each other. When it came to the pile during those first 72 hours, there was no rank, no ‘I am a boss’ attitude. If someone was lifting a rock and needed help, all those standing around chipped in, regardless of their status.

Many before had not hung flags on their buildings, from their windows and their cars. As we had to be in uniform all day, we often would stop to get something to eat on our way back to the armory, or between shifts. I don’t remember paying for lunch or dinner at a restaurant for the first 30 days.

Some of the newer soldiers asked me if this is what it is like all the time. I wanted to say yes, but the truth was that it wasn’t. The cynical side of me wanted to give it about a year before things went back to people being mad at each other, removing their flags or just not caring that a soldier was in the room.

Part of me wanted to believe that since this was different, at least in our current history, that things might change for the better, but having been in the military, I knew that these things had a short shelf life.

You can’t blame people for wanting to move forward. At times though it feels less like moving forward and more like moving on—at least from the perspective of the citizen soldier.

As a soldier who has been deployed to conflicts, you carry that time with you, but none so vivid as an attack on your home. For those that never faced such travesty I worried how they would get through it. I think for many of them the key was not just the acts of kindness and empathy, as many people witnessed it first hand, but also the fight over the years for those there to get the help they needed to understand and deal with the trauma.

Like many who were there, for several years I was unable to talk about it or deal with it. I wanted to shut it out and forget myself. But you don’t forget; you simply move forward. Part of the healing is talking about it and reflecting not on what was bad, but the good you saw that day.

Over the years, visiting and talking in schools has become easier, as students today were not born yet and for them, it is just another event in a history book—one no more real to them than the Vietnam War or Desert Storm.

Though you wish no one has to go through such a traumatic event in life, I often wonder how people can understand the true blessing of what we have without knowing truly how fragile all of it is.