The Voices That Stay With Us, an Article by Katy Von Treskow

Every year on September 11, like so many people, I find myself revisiting memories I can recall with remarkable clarity. More than two decades have passed, yet that morning remains frozen in time. I remember the outfit I wore. I remember the coffee cart where I stopped on my way into work. Most of all, I remember the last phone call I had before the world changed.

At the time, I was just beginning my career in legal marketing in New York. I was coordinating my first major event, a CLE seminar that I had spent weeks planning. On September 10, 2001, I worked an exceptionally long day preparing for the program. By the time I left the office on 51st Street, I had been working for nearly fourteen hours. Instead of taking a cab home to my apartment on the Upper East Side, I decided to walk. I needed air and I needed perspective, so I called my mom.

She was at home in Pacific Palisades, nearly 3,000 miles away. She picked up the phone immediately, as she almost always did when I called.

We talked the entire walk home. I was anxious and convinced I had forgotten some critical details. It was my first major event, and I desperately wanted everything to go well. Like many young professionals eager to prove themselves, I was carrying the weight of wanting to get everything exactly right. My manager was exceptionally detail-oriented, and I spent much of that evening preparing myself for every possible thing that could go wrong.

My mom listened; she always listened. She knew how to make people feel heard before she ever offered advice. And when she did speak, her words were thoughtful, deliberate, and reassuring.

She had a beautiful command of language, but even more memorable was the comfort in her voice. To this day, I've never met anyone who could make people feel calmer, safer, or more understood.

When the people you love live thousands of miles away, the sound of their voice becomes something powerful. A phone call can steady you and carry you through uncertainty when nothing else seems capable of doing so.

That evening, she did what she always did.

She reassured me in the way only she could, reminding me that I was prepared, capable, and ready for whatever the next day would bring.

The next morning, the seminar I had been planning was scheduled to take place at the World Trade Center. Our speakers worked in the South Tower, and I was supposed to pick them up from their offices.

Late on the evening of September 10, however, I received a call from my manager. The event had been moved at the last minute to our midtown office. I was told to arrive early the next morning to set up the conference room and then travel downtown to redirect any attendees who had not received notice of the venue change.

That decision changed everything. Like so many who were there that day, I spent hours trying to understand what was happening around me while friends and family desperately tried to determine whether I was safe. What I've thought about most over the years, however, isn't where I was. It's where my mom was. She had no way of reaching me and, really, no one did. I cannot imagine the fear she experienced. Today, as a mother myself, I understand it in ways I never could at twenty-three years old. Back then, I was focused on surviving the day. Now, I find myself grieving for what she must have endured.

Eventually, sometime in the afternoon, a friend reached me. Through a series of calls and emails, word finally made its way back to my family that I was unharmed. Later that evening, when phone lines slowly began working again, my mom and I finally connected. I still remember the moment.

I picked up the phone.

She said, "Katy."

And we both immediately started crying.

All I wanted in that moment was to be home with my family.

Nothing else felt important.

Twenty-five years later, I still feel that way.

My mother has since passed away after a long and heartbreaking battle with Alzheimer's disease. One of the cruelties of loss is realizing that some things exist only in memory. Yet even now, more than anything else, I find myself returning to the sound of her voice and the comfort it provided on one of the most consequential days of my life.

As I reflect on 9/11, I think about grief. I think about resilience. But mostly, I think about value. To me, value is quality time.

I've spent more than twenty-five years in legal marketing since that first role in 2001. What has kept me here isn't a title or a job description. It's the relationships.

Throughout my career, I've been fortunate to work in environments where people genuinely respected one another and showed up for each other. Those experiences shaped my understanding of leadership. The strongest organizations aren't built solely on exceptional talent. They're built on exceptional relationships. When people feel valued, they contribute more. When people support one another, they perform better. When people feel connected, they remain resilient.

People often tell me I’m resilient which always makes me think of connection. Like that long walk home talking to my mom, some of the most important moments in our lives don't announce themselves as such when they're happening. They reveal their significance only with time. The older I get, the more I believe resilience is rooted in relationships: the family members who answer the phone when we need them most, the friends who find a way to reach us in moments of crisis, the colleagues who support us, and the mentors who believe in us before we believe in ourselves. Long after achievements fade and titles change, those are the things that sustain us, and those are the things that make us strong enough to keep moving forward.

My mother's voice was the last one I heard before the world changed on September 11, 2001, and her words have stayed with me through every challenge, every career transition, every loss, and every moment of uncertainty since.

As the years pass, I find myself focused on who I have shared my journey with. If there is one lesson I continue to carry from both loss and resilience, it is this: the voices of those who love us never truly leave us. They continue to guide us long after the conversation has ended.