Some have said that the coronavirus pandemic will be for my generation what 9/11 was for the last. There are plenty of differences, of course, but the two events share one fundamental thing in common: their devastation will be forever known as paradigm-shifting alterations in the fabric of our time.

Sept. 11, 2001, is my very first memory — I was so young that my mother doesn’t believe me when I tell her that I remember the events of that day. But I recall, though the picture is hazy, coming down the stairs in our suburban Massachusetts house and wondering why my parents were staring at the television, transfixed by the rush of images on the screen. Two pairs of teary eyes, watching the same blurry video play over and over again: a plane crashing headlong into a tall tower, followed by another, shattering the comforting bounds of possibility in a single dreadful moment.