I was a young woman at the time, living in a historic apartment complex in the West End of Hartford. It was September 10th, 2001—a day that, for most, held no particular weight. For me, it was just another day. I decided to visit the gym in my building, expecting nothing more than a routine workout. The gym was empty, and I hopped on the elliptical machine, no music, no distractions. Just me, the rhythmic hum of the machine, and my thoughts.
As the minutes passed, my mind drifted, as it often did when I zoned out during a workout. But this time, it wasn’t just a wandering thought. I found myself deep in what felt like a daydream—only this vision was disturbingly vivid.
I was in one of the Twin Towers, clear as day. The first floor was bustling with people, moving about their business. Then there were a few well-dressed people who blended in but were moving differently as if they had a mission to complete and needed to disappear. What stood out to me were the duffel bags they abandoned. They weren’t randomly scattered. They were placed with intention, and were positioned at key structural points and pilars. And just as fast as these people arrived, they left—vanishing into the crowd, completely inconspicuous.
Then, in my mind’s eye, there was chaos. Explosions. Mayhem. Destruction. It was as if everything unraveled at once, the duffel bags igniting the horror I saw unfold before me. And then, just like that, my vision ended. I blinked, returning to reality, feeling unsettled but brushing it off as another made up movie scene in my head. Back then, I wasn’t fully aware of my psychic abilities. I had no idea that the flashes I sometimes saw weren’t just daydreams, but glimpses of something much deeper.
The next morning, September 11th, I showed up early for the first day of my new temp assignment, feeling no different than I had the day before. It was at the Keebler Company. I was being shown the phone system so I could settle into my role as a receptionist. Then, everything changed. One of the directors rushed out of his office with his voice booming loud and intense: “They bombed the Twin Towers... and the Pentagon. My son-in-law was in the Pentagon, and he didn’t make it!” Everyone gasped. There I was, surrounded by nostalgic Keebler Elves commercial art from my childhood as the world went dark. It was morbidly surreal.
The news hit me like a wave, drowning my thoughts. My mind instantly raced to my friends, family, everyone I knew in New York. I had gone to college in the city and still had many connections there. My step-aunt worked in the financial district. Was she okay? I was frantic, unable to focus on anything but the fate of those I cared about. I was restless and couldn’t stay at work. They let me leave, and like so many others, I glued myself to the live television broadcasts, trying to comprehend the magnitude of what had just happened.
As I watched footage of the planes crashing into the towers, my mind drifted back to my vision from the day before. The duffel bags, the explosions—they didn’t seem to fit. The towers were brought down by planes, not bombs, right? That’s what we were all told, and for years, I believed it. I put my vision aside, chalking it up to being a miss more than a hit.
But here we are, 23 years later, and things aren’t so clear anymore. There are theories—alternative explanations—that suggest maybe, just maybe, the official story isn’t the full truth. These whispers of a controlled demolition, of explosives within the towers, have resurfaced, and suddenly, my vision doesn’t feel like a missed target anymore.
I’ve kept this story to myself for years, sharing it only with a few close friends. I wasn’t even sure what to make of it. I’m not saying I have all the answers, and I’m certainly not claiming to know everything that happened that day. But what I saw—the explosives, the careful placements, the destruction—it feels eerily close to the alternative stories that have emerged since then. It feels closer to the truth than I initially believed.
I used to question the purpose of visions like these. What’s the point of seeing something if I couldn’t change it, couldn’t prevent the tragedy? What’s the point if I had to stand by helplessly as the world crumbled? It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times over the years, not just about this vision, but about others.
Maybe, though, the point wasn’t to stop it. Maybe the point was simply to *know*—to understand that sometimes, things aren’t what they seem. That the world is full of hidden truths and half-told stories.
As I look back now, I see that my vision, while imperfect, may have been a glimpse of the deeper, darker layers of that day’s tragedy. And while I can’t say for certain what truly happened, I know that what I saw was far more than just a fleeting daydream.
God bless those who lost their lives that day. May they rest in peace, and may their families have found some measure of solace. And may we all find peace as we continue to seek the truth, whatever we may accept it to be.
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