Just typing "September 11" makes my chest feel tight and instantly creates a somber mood.

This Survival Sunday, I want to focus on the day. Not the conspiracy theories (or conspiracy facts) but the feelings of that day.

Here's what I remember.

I lived in Canada on Sept.11, 2001. I was married and had a 6-year-old and a baby who hadn't yet reached her first birthday.

I had just walked my oldest daughter to school and made breakfast for myself and my baby. I was feeding her oatmeal and we were sitting in the playroom in front of Dora the Explorer, a new children's show at the time, that always made her giggle. Our sofa was navy blue and her little exersaucer chair was yellow. My older daughter's pet rat, Sarah, was running on her little wheel, a wheel with a little squeak at one point in the rotation.

It's funny how you remember every single detail from moments like this, isn't it?

Suddenly my daughter frowned as Dora and her friends disappeared from the screen. I watched in shock as the news interrupted with a video of the first plane hitting the tower. I remember saying out loud, "Oh my God, what a horrible accident!"

Then, as the rat continued running on her wheel, oblivious to the drama playing out in the world, I watched as a second plane hit, and then I knew, this was not a horrible accident.

This was deliberate.

My daughter continued eating her oatmeal, the rat continued running on her squeaky wheel to nowhere, and the world as we knew it changed.

All that day and the next, I watched in horror, again and again, as news outlets replayed the event. I had lived in New York City in my early 20s and had visited often. The streets that were now covered with ash and debris were so familiar yet so different.

I ached to be back home, to do something.