In a factory, hundreds and hundreds of products roll by on a conveyor belt. One of them is broken. No one notices.

Years ago, my guitar teacher sat across from me, with a sadness in his eyes that was undoubtedly mirrored in mine. We were talking about one of the many senseless tragedies the world has witnessed: a mass shooting.

That’s how he described a shooter.

Everyone wants to find a motive, he told me. Everybody wants to know why a shooter had picked up that gun, why their mind had only been on the trigger.

But life doesn’t work like that. Sometimes there is a reason, but sometimes, you can’t find one. And that’s the end of it, he said. But you’ll find all this media coverage trying to unravel the shooter’s life, trying to explain their actions.

People aren’t not going to find the answer they’re looking for, he remarked, while both of our hands rested lightly on guitar strings.

Music had always been a solace for me. Maybe that’s why the news of Christina Grimmie’s death hit me so hard. Maybe it was because I had seen her perform. Maybe it was because I had met her. Maybe it was because I had met her brother, and had a full conversation with the both of them. Maybe it was because I can’t comprehend the amount of courage and adrenaline it must’ve taken for him to tackle the gunman. Maybe it was because I’ve always considered concerts to be a safe place, a place to lose yourself to music and forget all your worries.

Maybe it was because, hours later, I learned about a mass shooting at an Orlando gay nightclub.

And my heartaches.

It aches for the people who have to fight just to love. It aches for the spill of innocent blood, because any blood spilled is a reason for my heart to ache. It aches for all the people who will be wrongfully accused of an association with this hate crime, for all the Muslims who will be forced to answer for the actions of a radical group. It aches for the families who will forever have to sit with a place missing at their dining table. It aches for all those who have to live with a constant reminder of who they have lost, loved ones who did no wrong, and yet are no longer with us.

There are people who still cry out that this is America, and in this country, we have a right to bear arms.

But we forget.

Years ago, as a wide-eyed kindergartener, I was taught that America is, was, and will always be a “melting pot.” Our ancestors came to this country in hopes of a better life, making homes on unknown soil, claiming it as our own, hoping for the best, and accepting everyone.

Yes, this education was full of half-truths.

Yet, I was told that America was a refuge, because we made it one.

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.”

Why else would this be on the Statue of Liberty?

We forget that America was supposed to be inclusive. We forget what our children are taught.

Because I was told that this country was made for everyone, that this country was a place that would accept me.

If, as a country, we truly believe this, I don’t understand why we pick and choose which tired, poor, and huddled masses we want.

You cannot blame an entire religion for the actions of a terrorist group and call it justice. You cannot use your own prejudice to blame an entire country, build a wall, and call it protection.

We should have learned by now: hatred only brings about more hatred.

We waited this long for love to be equal, for it to be an inherent right to our own human existence. Love won.

And now, there are families experiencing a type of grief I can’t even begin to imagine, because there was that much hate in someone’s heart, that much hate that they needed to pull a trigger and take an unfathomable amount of innocent life. Because they viewed love differently. They didn’t agree that a beating heart is a beating heart, no matter who it beats for.

To be honest, I don’t know what I’m trying to convey, I don’t know what my words mean.

I don’t know if some people are broken, unnoticed on their own conveyor belt. I don’t know if that’s how life works.

I do know that hate is a burden. It weighs you down. It is not an anchor. It does not keep you steady.

But love wins. It always wins.