I am a Massachusetts girl, born and raised. Living just 40 minutes south of Boston, I took frequent trips into the city, first with my family as a child, and later with my friends. I have been to all the touristy places of this great city, I have walked the Freedom Trail multiple times, I have visited all the great museums, been to the theater countless times (including a trip to the Boston Ballet a couple weeks ago), and I have taken part in the Walk For Hunger, which spans 20 miles through the city and outskirts. The city is so rich with history, it is hard not to be attracted to it. 

When I heard news of the Boston Marathon bombings, my heart sank. When I heard there were casualties, I frantically texted my best friend, who’s boyfriend moved here from New Jersey to go to grad school in Boston. He lives right there on Boylston Street. My mind instantly thought of her saying to him on that gorgeous Monday afternoon, “Let’s go down to the finish line and cheer on the runners!” After all, it is a joyous event in this city, and one that everyone should take part in at least once. 

How could this happen to our city? 

When I eventually heard from her later that night, it was certainly a relief. However, it was difficult to be that relieved when 3 were dead and 170+ injured. Why?

I spent last week just feeling sad. I tried to cry, to somehow relieve myself of the pain, but I couldn’t do it. When photos were released of the suspected bombers, my anger set in. How dare you?

When my boyfriend woke up Friday morning and started getting ready for work, I checked my email on my phone. 12 CNN Breaking News alerts. It seemed like a blur as I read them, I couldn’t process the information. He came back to the room after brushing his teeth and all I could tell him was that something really bad was happening again in Boston. We turned on the news and sat in silence as they replayed footage of the shootout that occurred earlier that night in Watertown. Watertown. I work just over the line, in Newton. I eat lunch there on occasion.

I spent the rest of the day glued to the television. I didn’t know what else to do. It was an emotional roller coaster all day long. Police running from house to house, scared residents being evacuated from homes, and that dreadful video of the gunshots played over and over again. It is scary to see this happening, seemingly in my own backyard. My sister and I locked the doors and windows. The city of Boston, along with surrounding communities, was in lockdown but we felt that too. I traveled up to my boyfriend’s parents’ house for the weekend, listening to news coverage the entire drive.

I got to his house and spent the remainder of the afternoon watching the coverage with his dad. Neither of us knew what to say or do. We finally turned off the tv when they had the press conference, raising the “stay in place” policy. I felt even more unsafe once that ban was lifted. How can you lift the ban and assure everyone that they are safe while one of the suspects is still at large?

As we were getting ready to go to dinner, I saw on Twitter that he had been located in a boat in someone’s backyard in Watertown. Again, I planted myself in front of the television, as minute by minute passed. I was watching when live gunfire was exchanged and I was horrified. 

When he was finally captured, alive, I felt a brief sense of relief. The terror was over. But is it really over?

My heart is broken for this city and its people. While I was laying in bed with my boyfriend that night, I struggled to put my feelings into words. He looked at me and said, “I realize how lucky I am now to have someone like you in my life”. In that moment, I knew that he was feeling everything that I was feeling. He was struggling for words as well. We spent some time trying to hash out how we truly felt. The conclusion we came to is that we just felt sad. All week. We both wanted to cry for the city, for the victims, for the witnesses, for all the innocence lost. But we couldn’t.

We are in this weird generation, where 9/11 happened but we were just a tad too young to recognize the full terror but we knew something was wrong. Now we fully recognize the terror but don’t quite know how to deal with it. 

I was in 6th grade that year. As tradition, 6th graders are taken up to the woods in New Hampshire for a week of camping, science, history, and friendship. This was before the time of cell phones. I don’t remember which classes I took that week and I don’t remember my camp counselor’s name, but what I can recall is the feeling of unity. We sang and we laughed and we played. Tuesday, September 11th, 2001 came and passed for us like any other day. As did Wednesday and Thursday. We continued to sing and laugh and play. 

When we stepped off the bus that Friday into our parents’ arms, we were loaded with stories of our week. The excitement could be felt by all of us, but we didn’t notice the same excitement in our parents. Looking back, my mom tried, as all parents did, to share in our excitement. How heartbreaking that must have been for her to figure out a way to tell me that our world had changed.

I don’t even remember how exactly she told me what had happened. All I can recall is sitting in front of the television, watching planes fly into the World Trade Center buildings and seeing them collapse. I couldn’t process it, so I simply didn’t. 

As we returned to school the following Monday, it was apparent that none of us knew what to think or do. The same questions kept popping up- Why? Who? How?

After a few weeks, we began to realize life as we knew it was over. Our innocence had been lost and fear had set in. However, I am incredibly grateful for those extra few days in September 2001, when I was able to sing, laugh, and play as a carefree 11-year-old. I cherish that time.

With the attack on Boston, I feel that same sense of innocence lost. Once again, we are back to being extremely cautious, practicing safety in crowds and on planes, and struggling to come to terms with the fact that we are not invisible. 

We will recover and we will rebuild. The fear that this will become a cycle is a real one, but it can’t stop us. 

Instead, we continue to look for the good. I know Mondays are usually Good News Monday, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. However, there is good news among all this hate. As has been said, many people ran towards the explosion sites, instead of away. They risked their safety and lives to helped the bleeding and injured on the streets. Medics at the finish line, who were there to relieve muscle cramps and aches, were instead put to the task of handling bloodied victims, and in some cases, victims without limbs. No one cried and said I can’t do this. They sprang into action. This, to me, is the best news to hear.

I have such pride in my city. I have faith in the unity of this country. We have proved our resilience before and we will prove it again. I am so thankful to all law enforcement for keeping us safe and doing their job of protecting each and every one of us.