The Story Beyond the Ashes

What twenty-five years taught : collective trauma, collective healing, and the stories we need to tell.

Twenty-five years after September 11, we were invited to a private reunion and exhibition opening at the National September 11 Memorial & Museum. It was not a public commemoration, but a gathering of former campers, counselors, artists, volunteers, camp directors, spiritual leaders, and staff from America's Camp—a place created for children whose parents and loved ones were killed on September 11, 2001.

As we looked around the room, we no longer saw the children we had first met in the years following the attacks. We saw adults. Many had families of their own. Most had become teachers, nurses, social workers, counselors, first responders, peacebuilders, community leaders, and professionals dedicated to serving others. What struck us most, however, was not what they had become, but that they had remained deeply connected.

The evening was filled with hugs, laughter, and stories. At one point, someone reflected on why they had returned to camp every summer for nearly a decade.

"We recharged our batteries."

Outside of camp, many had spent years being known simply as the 9/11 kids—an identity they had never chosen. At camp, no explanations were necessary. They returned each summer not simply to attend camp, but to return to one another, finding joy while making meaning of both their personal grief and their shared experience of loss.

As we listened that evening, we realized we were witnessing something we could never have understood in those first years after September 11. We were seeing the long—and terribly beautiful—arc of a community's life together. Their resilience was evident not only in what they had overcome, but in the relationships they had sustained over time.

It reminded us that the story of September 11 did not end when the dust settled.

Beyond the Epicenter

The story of September 11 rightly begins with profound loss. It belongs first to the survivors, the families and loved ones of those who never came home, the first responders and recovery workers, and the communities forever changed by that day.

Yet a collective trauma, such as this, extends far beyond the epicenter. It ripples through families, communities, institutions, systems, and generations. Most Americans, and beyond, can still remember where they were and what they were doing when they first heard the news. We remember the shock, the uncertainty, and the feeling that the world had fundamentally changed.

When we first arrived at America's Camp, we believed we were there to help children heal. Looking back, we realized the children were teaching us something much larger.

Healing did not emerge from a single activity or intervention. It grew through interconnection, consistency, and a community that faithfully returned year after year. Camp counselors, artists, nurses, clinicians, first responders, volunteers, camp directors, kitchen staff, and countless others each held different roles, yet together created something no individual could have accomplished alone—a place where children could once again experience safety, belonging, joy, and hope.

The Story Beyond the Phoenix

Each summer concluded with a collective work of art that emerged through listening—to the children, to one another, and to the life of the community itself. Looking back, we realized these works became more than creative expression. They marked the community's evolving journey through grief. 

None illustrates this more beautifully than Phoenix Rising.

Today, millions of people will encounter the Phoenix. Most will recognize it as a symbol of hope and renewal. Yet symbols can only carry so much.

Symbols invite us to remember. Stories help us understand.

The Phoenix tells the story of a community that learned to grow through grief while passing hope from one generation to the next.

That same year as the Phoenix, some of the original campers returned as Counselors-in-Training (CITs). Reflecting on what they remembered most about camp, they spoke not of one activity or tradition, but of what they simply called the magic—the feeling of being seen, cared for, surprised, and surrounded by belonging. They wanted the younger campers to experience that same gift.

As part of the closing ceremony, the Counselors-in-Training imagined something no adult had designed. They created a giant egg to be hidden beneath the Phoenix Rising sculpture. When the Phoenix was lifted from its nest, the egg was revealed. Inside were hundreds of hand-folded paper cranes, each carrying a handwritten message of hope from a past camper to a younger one. The CIT’s then personally placed a crane into the hands of each younger camper, symbolically passing forward the hope, belonging, and care they themselves had received years earlier. The Phoenix reminds us that healing is not only something we receive—it is something we pass forward.

What This Means Today

Twenty-five years later, we understand far more about collective trauma than we did in 2001. We have also come to understand that healing, like trauma, ripples outward. When communities intentionally nurture safety, connection, belonging, shared purpose, and hope, they create the conditions not only for recovery, but for people and communities to flourish together.

The focus is not simply on responding to trauma, but on strengthening the human conditions that allow people to reconnect—with themselves, with one another, and with the communities they call home.

The National September 11 Memorial & Museum preserves the history of one of the darkest days in American history with extraordinary care and reverence. Phoenix Rising reminds us that another history also emerged in the years that followed—not only in the lives of those directly affected, but within the community that chose to walk beside them.

America's Camp became more than a place to remember. It became a place where memory was transformed into collective healing action. The children who first arrived carrying profound loss eventually returned to care for those who followed them. They did not leave their grief behind; they learned to carry it together while creating something larger than themselves. In doing so, they discovered that collective healing is not a passive outcome—it is a transformative act that strengthens communities, inspires future generations, and turns remembrance into collective action.

In a world marked by uncertainty, polarization, fragmentation, and isolation, perhaps our greatest responsibility is not only to remember collective trauma, but to sustain the conditions that allow collective healing to endure. When we choose to keep showing up for ourselves and one another—with courage, compassion, and belonging—healing becomes more than recovery. It becomes part of the culture we create and the legacy we leave.

If collective trauma can leave fractures that span generations, collective healing can become the force that slowly weaves them back together.

Perhaps that is the enduring lesson of Phoenix Rising. The symbol invites us to remember.  

In a time when so much pulls us apart, perhaps there is no greater responsibility than to sustain the conditions to bridge what has been divided, strengthen our shared humanity, and create communities where everyone has the opportunity to belong.

Bruce St. Thomas, Ed.D., ATR-BC, and Marie Sheffield, MA, LCPC, served as mental health consultants and art therapists at America's Camp, where they helped facilitate the community art process. They are co-founders of Bridge to Belong (bridge2belong.com) and co-authors of Collective Healing and Human Suffering: Energizing Systems Toward Collective Healing Action (2024).