9/11: Our Family Daycare's Role in New York's Darkest Hours

Ever heard a tale from your grandparents that made your current challenges seem like a walk in the park? My grandmother and mother painted vivid, almost cinematic stories of their lives during the wars in the Philippines. Hearing about their trials, I felt swathed in gratitude that my own family was spared such experiences. Yet, reflecting on the events of 9/11, I realized we too had our share of a "war" story, right in the heart of New York City, filled with scenes and emotions that were just as staggering.

Imagine this: a stunningly sunny morning, and there I was, getting my spine realigned (because parenting doesn’t come without its physical tolls, am I right?), blissfully unaware that the world was about to change. I initially thought a tiny Cessna had taken a detour onto the World Trade Center. But no, the reality was somberly different. Walking home, the streets transformed into open-air gatherings of shared grief and disbelief. By the time I reached home and turned on the TV, the Twin Towers, those indomitable symbols of New York, were collapsing.

Our home-based daycare, Honeydew (a tiny seedling of hope we planted back in '99), became a sanctuary amidst the chaos. We didn’t allow screens—our tiny attempt to shield the innocents from the world’s harsh realities—but the adults took turns witnessing the unfolding horror, weeping away from curious little eyes while frantically dialing loved ones.

My mother, working close by, witnessed the horror firsthand. She, along with countless others, became a dusty, weary trekker navigating the confusion on foot, graciously aided by the city’s open-hearted restaurants. Meanwhile, my own little ones were at school, unwitting witnesses to a history lesson no textbook could ever impart.

The stories of near-misses and tragic losses we heard in the aftermath painted a mosaic of human resilience and unfathomable sorrow. Our city’s bravest didn’t come home, leaving a void in our collective hearts.

I found myself playing a small part in our city's healing, offering my linguistic skills to bridge the gap between despair and hope for those searching for their missing loved ones. Passing the still-smoldering site daily, I was a witness to the somber unity of volunteers from every corner of the nation.

In the aftermath, New York revealed a vulnerability I'd never imagined. Yet, it was met with an unprecedented wave of compassion and solidarity. Doors stayed open. Strangers exchanged meaningful smiles and comforting hugs. Our city's very essence evolved, with security tightening its embrace around us, a poignant reminder of our lost innocence.

Curiously, this shared ordeal brought New Yorkers closer, yet it took its toll on my daycare. Many families, rattled to their core, withdrew into tighter circles, preferring the close company of their little ones. Our doors remained open late into the night, welcoming back the exhausted, dust-covered parents to the embrace of their relieved children.

Those months transformed New York into a tightly-knit community, a bastion of human strength and vulnerability. Reflecting on it, I see the parallels in the shared human experience of my family’s history—different battles, same resilience. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the most harrowing tales forge the strongest bonds, shaping us in ways we never anticipated.

As modern parents navigating our own “battles”, let’s remember the strength we carry within our stories and the resilience that unites us. Here’s to fostering communities that hold each other close, not just in times of crisis but in all the moments in between.