Twenty-five years ago, I worked for U.S. News & World Report in Washington, D.C.
I was part of the “new media” team, reporting to both the editor of new media and the magazine’s design director. My work focused on the user experience and design of the magazine’s website and the emerging digital experiences around it.
“New media” sounds like an artifact from another era now. In 2001, however, it described work that was rapidly changing how a publication reached its readers.
On September 11, that responsibility became very real.
Watching from an airport terminal
When American Airlines Flight 11 struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center at 8:46 a.m. Eastern time, I was at the airport in Jackson, Mississippi.
I had been visiting family over the Labor Day holiday and was on my way back to Washington—back home and back to work.
The first impact had already occurred when television coverage drew everyone’s attention to the screens in the terminal. We watched smoke pour from the North Tower as reporters tried to understand what had happened.
Then, at 9:03 a.m.—17 minutes after the first impact—we watched United Airlines Flight 175 strike the South Tower live on television.
The terminal fell silent.
In that moment, the uncertainty disappeared. This was not an accident. Something unimaginable was happening.
Shortly afterward, airport officials announced that the airport was shutting down as the nation’s airspace was closed.
I called the office and began looking for another way back. I considered renting a car. I looked into taking a train. I tried to find any workable route to Washington.
Nothing worked.
Commercial flights did not begin to resume until the morning of September 14. I remained in Jackson while my colleagues in Washington responded to a story none of us could have imagined covering.
Publishing from Mississippi
Fortunately, I had my work laptop with me.
From my parents’ house, I connected to the internet using the laptop’s modem and their telephone line. Remote work in 2001 bore little resemblance to what we know today. There were no cloud-based workspaces or constant video calls. We relied on telephone conversations, email, and files that could take a long time to transfer over a slow and sometimes unreliable connection.
I stayed in contact with the new media team and contributed to the online work from Mississippi as the coverage developed.
At the same time, the assignment facing the entire magazine was enormous.
In less than three days, the U.S. News team had to report, write, edit, design, produce, and distribute a complete special print edition and its online counterpart. Editorial decisions, reporting, design, production, and development all had to move at once while the events themselves were still unfolding.
By September 14, the special report was on newsstands and online.
It was a tremendous feat of journalism and collaboration. But it did not feel like an ordinary professional accomplishment. The reason the work was necessary was too horrific.
Returning to a changed Washington
Once flights resumed, I made my way back to the Washington area.
During the flight, I remember looking down and seeing the Pentagon still smoldering, with a huge gash in the building. It is an image I have never forgotten.
The next day, I returned to our office in Georgetown. Military vehicles and armed personnel were visible throughout the city. Washington was familiar, but it no longer felt like the place I had left.
The first special report had been completed. The work, however, was far from over.
From breaking news to remembrance
The next special edition, dated September 24, carried the words “Under Siege” across its cover.
By then, the story had expanded beyond the attacks themselves. We were reporting on the people affected, the response taking shape, and a country trying to understand what had happened.
I worked with my colleagues on that edition and on the continued expansion of our digital coverage. We also developed a memorial microsite dedicated to those who had lost their lives.
In 2001, online news was still establishing its role alongside print journalism. We were learning in real time what it meant to serve readers who expected information to change as events developed.
That ability carried a different kind of responsibility.
The number on the screen
One of the saddest responsibilities I had was updating the death toll on the website as new information was confirmed.
In production terms, it was a straightforward change: receive the latest number, update the page, and publish it.
But it never felt like data.
Every increase represented another person whose death had been confirmed. Behind that person was a family, friends, colleagues, and an entire life suddenly reduced to part of a count.
I remember needing the website to be accurate and current while wishing there were no new number to enter.
Of everything I worked on during those weeks, that task remains one of the things I remember most clearly.
The tools changed. The responsibility did not.
Digital publishing has changed almost beyond recognition since 2001.
Information now moves continuously across websites, mobile devices, social platforms, live video, and countless other channels. Publishing systems can distribute an update around the world in seconds. Automation and AI can make that process faster still.
But speed does not remove human responsibility. It increases it.
A number may be a field in a publishing system, a value in a database, or a line of text on a screen. It can also represent a human life.
That lesson has stayed with me throughout my career in digital experience, product, technology, and leadership.
Every interface reaches someone. Every system reflects a set of decisions. Every update has a consequence beyond the screen.
The work may be digital, but its meaning is always human.
What stays with me
It was an extraordinary time to work for one of the nation’s largest news magazines. It was also a horrific moment in our history—one I will never forget.
Twenty-five years later, I still remember the airport terminal falling silent.
I remember watching the second plane strike the South Tower. I remember working from my parents’ house over a slow connection, trying to contribute while trying to find a way back to Washington. I remember seeing the damaged Pentagon from the air and returning to a city that felt changed.
I remember the two magazine covers.
And I remember the number on the screen that none of us wanted to see increase.
Today, I remember those we lost, the families who carried that loss forward, and the colleagues who worked through circumstances none of us were prepared to face.
Some assignments end when the edition ships.
Others stay with you forever.
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