My mother always said, the older I get, the faster time flies. Remembering today that eight years have passed since my indescribable 9/11 experience, it has become painfully apparent just how wise my mother can be.
At only 19 years old, as I nervously prepared for my New York LaGuardia-bound flight, my mom had the most unexpected request.
Looking at me with stern, pleading eyes, she said, "Promise me you won't go near the World Trade Center. I don't know what it is, I just have a feeling something is going to happen. Just promise me you won't go."
Since I am not a woman of business and money, I stared at her, dumbfounded, wondering how she could make such a ridiculous request.
"Um, okay yes, I promise," I said.
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Two short weeks later I would find out firsthand why she said what she did.
On Sept. 11, 2001, during my second week of classes at the Fashion Institute of Technology in midtown Manhattan, I arrived at Bryant Park at about 6 a.m. to help set up for the Tommy Hilfiger fashion show, part of Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week.
As I wearily set up chairs, a show director ran in yelling something about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center.
Assuming she was either hopped up on coffee or just losing her mind, several of us ventured outside at her command.
Curious onlookers were pouring out of surrounding buildings, wondering if their peers were also crazy.
A throaty whirring noise became louder and as I looked up in disbelief, I realized it was in fact another plane bee lining for the other tower.
Upon impact, time seemed to stop. Pictures, sound clips, videos and words cannot give justice to witnessing what has been my most life-changing event.
Then, the madness began. Blood-curdling screams, sirens, dust, papers and fear filled the air. As a classmate of mine and I ran shoulder to shoulder back to campus, I felt comparable to Jackie Joyner-Kersee.
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As a part of the massive running crowd, I thought maybe I was in a King Kong movie. People around me were covered in white dust and blood, with only the bright cufflinks of their midnight black business suits shining through.
Back at my dorm, a man in his mid-30s stood at the dorm check-in counter, painted with dust and blood streaked across his face, crying and pleading to see his sister.
A few hours later, with buildings still smoldering and unable to get a phone call through to my family, I stood in utter disbelief watching as a tower collapsed and screams once again emitted among the plume of dust.
That night, the streets fell silent -- deafeningly silent. Not one single car or human graced Seventh Avenue leading to Times Square, and for New York City to be silent, well, that's just unheard of.
For the next few months, helicopters swirled around and rumbled my dorm all hours of the day, their blinding lights waking me at night.
Out of sheer stubbornness, the pleas of my family did not immediately bring me back to North Dakota. I stayed and finished the school year.
After landing at the Bismarck airport in June 2002, we began what was normally a dreaded, desolate drive back to Dickinson.
As I peered out the back seat car window at the farmers' warm and golden wheat fields, I was finally filled with peace.
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For the first time since my typical, bitter adolescence ended, I was proud to be from North Dakota. I was home.
