Jenna, who I spoke of in my post yesterday, has honored us with a guest post for the “inspire: personal stories” section. September 11th affected us all very differently, and this beautiful essay captures the anguish- and love- she experienced when she visited Ground Zero on the 4th anniversary of the attack. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please see the guidelines under “what is inspire?”.

I moved to New York with an apartment waiting for me that I’d never seen before – I just knew it was downtown, a bit of a commute from where I go to school. As we emerged from the tunnel and started navigating the streets, using our mapquested directions to try and find the address, my dad remarked, “I think we’re pretty close to Ground Zero.”

He was right. My apartment lies just two and a half blocks away from the site of the tragedy. Friends asked if I would be scared to live so close by, but I was more saddened than anything else. Political insanity and hoopla and hype aside, September 11 was tragic. Think of losing someone you love. Magnify that loss by thousands. Think about seeing a tangible reminder of that kind of loss every time you buy new jeans or want to walk to the movie theater or go to the post office that stays open ’till midnight.

The fourth anniversary of the attacks rolled around shortly after I’d moved to the city, and I was unsure of how to mark the day. In the morning, I chose to simply continue with my every Sunday actions, committed to being a part of the toughness of New Yorkers who’d decided that, no matter what, life went on. But as evening fell, the Tribute in Light was lit – two spotlights stretching miles into the sky that originate, and fill the place on the skyline, where the towers once were. They speak of hope and light and goodness and life going on. But they also speak of absence. They evoke the magnitude of what once was there, in my neighborhood – that life, those people, those buildings – and what isn’t anymore. I went to the site to see for myself.

I sobbed. I sobbed for all the obvious reasons. I sobbed because they were playing Josh Groban. I sobbed for the group of people who read every single New York Times profile of every single victim out loud, from dawn to dusk. I sobbed because of the flowers left and the other people sobbing. I sobbed because my brain kept flashing on a line from an old poem: “Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world…”

And in the midst of it all, a woman, a stranger, came up to me, made eye contact with me, and gently, reassuringly, gripped my forearm.

It sounds so simple, even when I write it now. A woman saw that another woman was hurting and made a gesture of kindness to her. But in New York City – in life – to step out of your box is a risk. To approach a stranger is a risk. To be vulnerable is a risk. To show love to another person – always – is a risk. Sometimes the women who inspire us perform Herculean feats. Midwives deliver our babies, therapists and friends deliver us from mental anguish, pastors and spiritual leaders deliver messages of hope and love through their actions. And sometimes, we’re touched and inspired by the smallest of gestures. We’re touched and inspired by simple acts of love and kindness. I took my comfort from that woman, who never spoke to me and who I’ll probably never see again, because she took the time to be kind, to show tenderness, to love in a city where disconnection and a stiff upper lip are the norm. She took care of me. And she reminded me to always have my eyes open, to look for ways to care. Life goes on in Manhattan when we remember to live it fully, sharing love in any way we can. I’m so glad she was there.

–Jenna, of “Defying Labels, Gravity, and Sleep Deprivation”