On Saturday, March 24th, I attended the March For Our Lives, a student-organized march dedicated to advocating for gun control that took place in downtown Cleveland. Together, along with hundreds of others, I listened to impassioned speakers, held my head high, clutched my sign, and marched.

I stood in the crowd and listened to kids, most of them in their early teens, speak loudly and proudly about who they were and what they stood for. I stood frozen to my spot in a sea of hundreds and listened to their fears, their hopes, and their determination to bring about change.

I listened to the mother of a 15-year-old Marjory Stoneman Douglas survivor as she recalled the grueling four hours it took for her to finally have her son in her arms after the shooting. In those four hours, she had no idea whether or not her son made it out unharmed. She was angry, and rightfully so. I listened to her emotions bubble over when she told the crowd that her 15-year-old child would never be the same after attending the funeral of his 14-year-old classmate and friend.

I listened to a poem written and recited by a 16-year-old student. I listened as she stated that school used to be her favorite place. I listened while she explained how gun violence has turned a place she once loved into a place that now inspires fear. I listened as she retold a story she’d heard about a little girl who refused to wear her favorite light-up sneakers to school because she was afraid that in the event of a shooting, her shoes would give her away. I listened as her voice shook and tears fell from her eyes, and her words will forever echo in my mind.

I listened to a speaker emphasize the importance of the Black Lives Matter movement. I listened as she spoke the names of Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, and many other young African American boys whose deaths fall under the category of gun violence.

I listened to a girl my age as she bellowed into the microphone that this generation, our generation, would be the ones to bring change.

I listened as the crowd became a sea of voices chanting and echoing, “Not. One. More.” and “Vote Them Out."

As the lineup of speakers ended I was sure that I couldn’t possibly be more inspired than I was in that moment, but then we started to march. We marched around Public Square and through the streets of a city I’ve been in for months now, but that day I saw it in a whole new light.

I marched for the 17 individuals who lost their lives in Parkland, Florida and for every life before that day that was lost to gun violence. I marched for the students in my former high school, the students at my university, and students everywhere, hoping that they’ll never have to learn what it feels like to be in the midst of gunfire at their school.

I marched for change, for elected leaders to stop giving just their thoughts and prayers, and start giving new policies to regulate guns in America. I marched for common sense gun laws, for children to have the right to feel safe while getting an education.

The feeling of unity was so strong, and the atmosphere was unlike anything I’ve ever been a part of. With the amount of people by my sides as we marched, I felt like we were making change. That we were being heard.

Originally, I was wary of attending the march. I’m a person whose mind often drifts to the worst scenario that could possibly occur, so I was nervous to say the least. But looking back, I’m so glad I went. It was a great experience, and there’s no feeling like standing up for what you believe in.

That day I listened, I marched, and when the time comes, I'll vote.