Dear Remento community,

For each of the last 25 years, as this week approaches, I’ve struggled with how to articulate my thoughts about September 11th. For most of those years, I erred on the side of keeping them private.

Many of you know that 9/11 is a deeply personal day for my family, and that my own experience that morning is inextricably linked to why I started Remento. But as the founder of a company rooted in the power of sharing memories, staying silent during a milestone year like this felt inauthentic.

I was ten years old on 9/11. I was home from school with a toe infection when our pediatrician gently broke the news that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. It didn’t register to my ten-year-old mind that four hours earlier, my father had kissed us goodbye and boarded an early flight to visit his brothers. It wasn’t until we rushed home and turned on CNN that my mother looked at me with an expression I will never forget and said my dad’s plane had gone dark.

He was on United Airlines Flight 93—the hijacked flight bound for the U.S. Capitol where 40 passengers and crew members courageously fought back against the hijackers, sacrificing their lives in a Pennsylvania field to prevent an even greater tragedy.

In the quarter-century since, our family’s ritual of remembrance hasn't been in hot Lower Manhattan plazas or at the Pentagon. It’s taken us to a quiet, rural field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. In the early years, it was a raw, blackened burn pit. Over time, nature did what it always does: the scorched earth gave way to tall grass, wildflowers, and a soaring national memorial.

Watching that landscape heal mirrored my own journey. On the tenth anniversary, then-Vice President Joe Biden took me aside and offered advice that felt impossible at the time: "One day, the thought of your dad will bring a smile to your face before it brings a tear to your eye." He was right.

Today, the sharp edge of loss has smoothed into gratitude.

Over the years, I’ve spoken about my dad around our family dinner table, in boardrooms, and even stood in front of the Sharks on the TV Show Shark Tank to share how his story inspired Remento. But as I look at my own young daughter today, I’ve come to a realization that has fundamentally shifted how I view this anniversary: I am no longer just carrying my dad’s stories for myself.

My memory of his life is the bridge that connects my daughter to the grandfather she never got to meet—the man whose legacy shapes how I parent her every single day.

I want her to know about the incredible heroism displayed in the skies over Pennsylvania, but I also want her to know the man behind it.

I want to tell her about how he could famously open a bag of potato chips, eat exactly one, and put the rest away. I want to tell her about the joy he took in flying his plane, plowing the driveway with his tractor, and working alongside his own father every day. I want her to know about the bravery of the 40 ordinary people on Flight 93, and the quiet dignity of how he lived every day before it. Above all, I want her to know that he prioritized his family in a way that made me feel like I’d won the lottery—even if I only got ten years with him.

For a long time, I held those memories close, waiting for the "perfect" way to tell them. What this 25-year milestone has taught me is that the story doesn't need to be perfect; it just needs to be told. If I don't speak his stories aloud, they stop with me. By sharing them, I give my daughter the gift of knowing where she comes from.

Earlier this week, I put a few of these thoughts onto paper and shared them in a piece for the New York Times. If you’d like to read the fuller essay, you can find it linked below.