Collective Crisis and Personal Peace: Reflections on 9/11, Trauma, and the Human Nervous System

When Many Nervous Systems Register an Emergency

I am thinking this morning about what it feels like when a lot of people at the same time register that there’s an emergency—what it’s like when a massive number of human nervous systems register a crisis simultaneously. Of course, I’m reminded of the events of September 11, 2001, and how I so clearly remember waking up that morning to a phone call, turning on the TV, and getting pulled into watching that same image again and again: the airplane flying into the World Trade Center towers. I remember the shock, the disbelief, the ache in my body as I tried to imagine the feelings of everyone involved—the passengers, the hijackers, the people in the buildings, their families, those watching in fear and confusion, not knowing if someone they loved was safe.

I think of all the existing generational trauma that was triggered by that day, and all of the new trauma created in that moment. My awareness spiraled, trying to grasp the enormity of the pain—and yet, in between, there were small moments of wonder about whether any good might eventually emerge. There are always the helpers, the ones who rise to meet the crisis with compassion and strength.

Remembering 9/11 Through the Lens of Healing

At the time, I was in graduate school at the California Institute of Integral Studies, studying expressive arts therapy. I remember my professors giving us space to talk about what was happening—long, open conversations that felt necessary, human, and healing. A part of me thought we should be learning our curriculum, the therapy processes, the expressive art modalities. But another part of me knew this was the real lesson: how to hold space for collective grief.

And yet, I also recognize that I could have functioned if the professor had said, “Let’s move on.” I could have shut down my emotions, dissociated, and focused on the task at hand. I think about that part of myself that learned so well how to suppress feeling—to push away what was real in service of what was expected.

When Crisis Is Personal—and No One Sees It

I think about all the moments when people register a personal crisis and feel utterly alone—when no one else sees or believes that what they’re experiencing is real. Sometimes others deny the depth of another person’s pain. They say, “That’s not really an emergency,” or “You’re overreacting.”

That denial—of someone’s lived truth—hurts my heart. It feels cruel. If someone tells me how something feels to them, I want to believe them. I’m not here to decide whether their feelings are “accurate.” I can see nuance, yes—but listening without trying to fix, correct, or reinterpret feels like one of the most loving acts we can offer.

The Limits of Listening

Of course, there are limits. If someone’s crisis is rooted in hatred—if it stems from racism, sexism, transphobia, antisemitism, or any ideology that denies another person’s right to exist—it becomes hard for me to listen. I can’t participate in or validate hate speech.

And yet, if I can bear to listen long enough to understand why something feels like a crisis for them—if I can find even a sliver of empathy for the fear underneath the hatred—there might be a chance for transformation. Understanding does not mean agreeing. But it can sometimes open a small door toward healing.

Collective Trauma and the Weight of the World

It’s been 24 years since 9/11. Every September 11th, I remember that day. I think about what it meant for so many people to feel so much at once—and how that collective surge of emotion rippled through our consciousness.

And now, I wonder: are we living in an era of constant global emergencies? Between wars, natural disasters, political unrest, and environmental collapse—our nervous systems barely have time to rest. The collective points of trauma keep multiplying. It’s harder to isolate one event as “the moment everything changed,” because it feels like everything is always changing. Always in crisis.

Are we numb to it? Caught between hypervigilance and apathy? I don’t know the answer.

Returning to Peace in My Body

I do know this: I can’t live in a permanent state of crisis, and I can’t live in denial of suffering either. The only thing I can truly tend is my own body, my own heart.

My prayer is to feel peace in my body. To let myself feel what I feel, to stay curious and compassionate, to process what I can and rest when I must. I don’t know which stories are true or false, or how naïve I may be about the deeper machinations of the world.

But I do know that control is an illusion. I can’t control the world, or others, or even myself entirely. I can only try to live with integrity, tenderness, and awareness—and accept that being at peace with myself in a chaotic world is both the hardest and most essential practice of all.