After 9/11: Why Connection Still Matters
Every generation has that one moment where everything changed. For mine, it was 9/11. I know exactly where I was standing aboard USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN-71), who was in the room, and the emotional overload as we processed what was happening. In the shadow of those attacks, something remarkable happened: we pulled together. Neighbors helped neighbors, strangers helped strangers. Patriotism wasn’t about flag-waving. It was about showing up in tangible ways to support in whatever way we could.
My carrier strike group deployed nine days later, and the outpouring of support through care packages, media coverage, USO tours, and well wishes from around the world was incredible. It felt like the entire world supported our mission, and those of us in uniform.
As the years passed, a divide emerged. For those of us who served—whether in Iraq, Afghanistan, at sea, or anywhere else—that war shaped everything: our families, our futures, our sense of self. For most, life slowly moved on. That divide between those who carried the load of war and those who didn’t left too many veterans isolated.
By my second deployment, only a year after we returned home from the first, things had already started to shift. The morale on the ship plummeted, primarily because we hadn’t been scheduled to deploy - and leadership hadn’t told us we were deploying when we’d left on a training exercise. On top of folks dealing with the repercussions of that to their families left behind, there wasn’t the huge show of support for our mission at the exact time we really started to need it. By my third and fourth deployments, it seemed like we were fighting for a public who didn’t care about what we were doing, or what it was costing us as individuals. No more care packages from strangers, no more feeling like people actually cared about our experiences, no more invites to talk to schools or local organizations. We were now a separate entity, with needs too messy for people to want to deal with while also often perceived as too damaged to be worth trying to reach out to.
That isolation isn’t just uncomfortable. It’s dangerous. Since 2001, nearly 4.4 million Americans have served in uniform and support systems have expanded to meet our needs. Yet rural veterans die by suicide at higher rates than their urban peers. Distance from care, limited resources, and that quiet feeling of not being understood all play a role. The antidote? Not just therapy or fixing the access issues to VA benefits. It comes down to real, honest, messy human connection.
Reaching across that gap of lived experiences isn’t easy. For someone who hasn’t served, it’s natural to worry you might say the wrong thing. For veterans, even beginning to explain experiences can feel awkward, anxiety-filled, and untranslatable. So we stay silent and stew in a feeling of being “other”.
Silence is exactly what isolation feeds on, and breaking it doesn’t require perfect words. It takes presence: showing up, asking, listening, making space at the table—or just sitting in the awkwardness until it eases.
9/11 should always be a day of remembrance: both for civilians lost in the cowardly attacks, and for those who died in the wars that followed. It’s also a day to recommit: to bridge the gap between the 1% who served and the 99% who we protected. It’s an opportunity to remind veterans their sacrifices matter, their stories matter, and their lives still matter.
The most powerful act isn’t a program—it’s one person reaching out to another saying: You’re not alone.