Long before I ever set foot in New York, I knew I was a New Yorker.  Perhaps it was all the Judy Blume books I read during my formative years.

On my first visit to New York, I turned the corner onto Hester Street on the Lower East Side and knew I'd been here before.  I'd come home.

Having just moved to New York for the second time, I had my doubts after September 11th. I floundered for several months, but after becoming "not a good fit" at my job and having the time to explore the city, I fell in love all over again.

Walking through the neighborhoods, particularly my own.  If I'm depressed or stuck on a problem, sometimes I grab my camera and head for Central Park or just wander around my neighborhood. An hour later, my head's more clear and I can look at the issue with new eyes.

I also learned to use all the wonderful, and often free culture and fun the city has to offer -- museums, movie screenings, public atria, soaking up the a/c on the bus on a sticky, New York summer day.

I was already at work when the first plane hit.  I'll never forget the moment my coworker came in and told us.  We hoped it was an accident; I sensed otherwise.  I spent the day answering calls from friends and relatives of co-workers, members and guests.    

There was a Finance committee meeting that morning and I was too stunned to interrupt to tell them, which I regret.  I told my boss when he came out for a few minutes, but his response was that "we're OK, so finish that board book!"  

I was at my desk the entire day, so I did not realize that the towers had collapsed completely until I went to a friend's apartment after work at 9 p.m. and saw replay after replay.  I walked 10 blocks and then called my mom in front of the Newsweek building and cried like a little girl.

I'd had an uneasiness about the WTC throughout the summer of 2001, which I didn't feel the first time I lived in New York.  When I lived in Brooklyn, I hated when my train stopped below it.  I told myself, "that's silly -- they tried it once and failed.  It's safe."  

My 30th birthday was 2 weeks before September 11th; I went to Century 21 the weekend before that to find an outfit.  The only way I knew to get there was by exiting the WTC through the Barnes & Noble.  That weekend, however, felt anxious and I left through the first exit, not caring if I got lost downtown for half an hour.

A week before the attack, on Labor Day, I moved into Manhattan and was glad I no longer had to take that train ride.  The Sunday before, I sat on the roof, uncharacteristically facing south, toward the WTC, instead of north toward the Empire State and Chrysler buildings.  That's the last time I saw the towers.

I didn't go to work for the rest of that week, September 12-14th, an "emotional reaction," my boss said, but I could not cope. I had only a few friends in New York at the time -- 2 weren't leaving their apartments at all, one went upstate and the last was going to Vermont.  I went along, because I couldn't stand the thought of being alone in the city.  I came back briefly on September 12, but the sight smell of the destruction made me utterly sick and panicked.

The thing I most remember in those first few weeks after September 11th was, as Jen put it, that everyone looked you in the eye and New Yorkers don't look you in the eye.  Strangers on the street asked how you were, if you'd lost anyone and said, "Thank God," if you hadn't.

For a few months, I didn't leave the house much. It was less a matter of fear than of mourning.  It didn't seem right to have fun for a while afterward.  Initially, I found comfort in small things -- sitting down and writing a batch of checks, watching children, petting animals, cooking for friends.  

Gradually, I finally shook the sense of dread that this wonderful island was too good to last.  Eventually, I refused to continue wasting my life away, I refused to work 12 and 16 hours a day, sacrificing my art, my health, my self.  I was fired as a result, a blessing in disguise.

I spent 3 1/2 months exploring the city, enjoying Central Park, visiting the Met, making friends in my building, painting, writing and otherwise creating.  It's been the most creatively productive period of my life.

I also spent that time applying to colleges.  I'd decided I didn't want to remain at the bottom of the heap for the rest of my life.  I was denying the world my gifts and myself a decent quality of life.  Eventually, I was accepted to San Francisco State, New York University, Columbia University and Hunter College of the City University of New York.  Columbia was my first choice -- the combination of access to the resources of an Ivy League University, a sense of community, a Seven Sisters college and, most importantly, the opportunity to remain in New York were irresistable.  A full scholarship, received on my birthday no less, removed any possibility of doubt that this is where I belong (even when my fellow Columbians clearly disagree).