It is with a very heavy heart that I write this article. In fact, I probably won't be able to get more than a sentence out without disappearing into a puddle of tears. But, putting my emotions aside, I feel as though it is my duty as an author to write about the things that matter—the lives that matter.

On Friday, Nov. 13, 2015, French authorities reported that three terrorist teams carried out highly coordinated attacks on the streets of Paris. The horrific events that took place, accredited by Islamic State militants, hit a concert hall, a major stadium, and various restaurants and bars. These attacks resulted in 129 deaths and more than 350 wounded individuals.

Now, I am not a reporter for CNN, nor am I an anchor for NBC, so I don't want to get into excruciating details about the tragedy; that isn't quite the purpose of this article. However, if you would like to know a little bit more about the situation before you continue reading, you can click here, and if you want to even go as far as to learn more about the Islamic State, you can also click here.

Thinking about all of the lives lost that night, the countless families mourning at this very moment, and the unimaginable fear that so many felt and probably still feel, is simply heartbreaking. Being thousands of miles away from Paris, none of us will ever be able to fully understand what, exactly, it felt like to experience such an atrocity. But Isobel Bowdery does.

On Saturday, Nov. 14, 2015, just one day after the attacks, Bowdery gave a very personal account of her experience via Facebook:

you never think it will happen to you. it was just a Friday night at a rock show. the atmosphere was so happy and everyone was dancing and smiling. and then when the men came through the front entrance and began the shooting, we naively believed it was all part of the show. It wasn't just a terrorist attack, it was a massacre. Dozens of people were shot right in front of me. Pools of blood filled the floor. Cries of grown men who held their girlfriends' dead bodies pierced the small music venue. Futures demolished, families heartbroken. in an instant. Shocked and alone, I pretended to be dead for over an hour, lying among people who could see their loved ones motionless. Holding my breath, trying to not move, not cry -- not giving those men the fear they longed to see. I was incredibly lucky to survive. But so many didn't. The people who had been there for the exact same reasons as I -- to have a fun Friday night were innocent. This world is cruel. And acts like this are supposed to highlight the depravity of humans and the images of those men circling us like vultures will haunt me for the rest of my life. The way they meticoulsy [sic] aimed at shot people around the standing area i was in the centre of without any consideration for human life. It didn't feel real. i expected any moment for someone to say it was just a nightmare. But being a survivor of this horror lets me be able to shed light on the heroes. To the man who reassured me and put his life on line to try and cover my brain whilst i whimpered, to the couple whose last words of love kept me believing the good in the world, to the police who succeded [sic] in rescuing hundreds of people, to the complete strangers who picked me up from the road and consoled me during the 45 minutes I truly believed the boy i loved was dead, to the injured man who i had mistaken for him and then on my recognition that he was not Amaury, held me and told me everything was going to be fine despite being all alone and scared himself, to the woman who opened her doors to the survivors, to the friend who offered me shelter and went out to buy new clothes so i wouldnt have to wear this blood stained top, to all of you who have sent caring messages of support -- you make me believe this world has the potential to be better. to never let this happen again. but most of this is to the 80 people who were murdered inside that venue, who weren't as lucky, who didn't get to wake up today and to all the pain that their friends and families are going through. I am so sorry. There's nothing that will fix the pain. I feel privileged to be there for their last breaths. And truly beliving that I would join them, I promise that their last thoughts were not on the animals who caused all this. It was thinking of the people they loved. As i lay down in the blood of strangers and waiting for my bullet to end my mere 22 years, I envisioned every face that I have ever loved and whispered I love you. over and over again. reflecting on the highlights of my life. Wishing that those i love knew just how much, wishing that they knew that no matter what happened to me, to keep belieivng [sic] in the good in people. to not let those men win. Last night, the lives of many were forever changed and it is up to us to be better people. to live lives that the innocent victims of this tragedy dreamt about but sadly will now never be able to fulfil. [sic] RIP angels. You will never be forgotten."

There really aren't any words to say after you read something like this.

I think that it is important to thank Isobel for sharing this; it takes so much strength and an incredibly strong spirit to be able to, not only share about an explicitly traumatic experience, but also to speak about it with such warmth and hope.

Bowdery is right; the people who lost their lives that night will never be forgotten.

But to the people like Isobel who were fortunate enough to survive that night, neither will you.

This is not just a matter of those who lost their lives, this is not just a matter of those at the concert hall and the restaurants during the attack, this is not just a matter of terrorism, and this is certainly not just a matter of Paris.

It is also a matter of unity.

It is hard to get images, like the ones described by Isobel, out of your head. It is nearly impossible to not tear up at the thought of two people in love knowing they have only minutes—maybe even seconds—to live, and saying "I love you" one last time. The fact that so many people said goodbye their sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and best friends that night, without even knowing it, is absolutely heart-wrenching.

But, in the midst of all of this, there is still hope.

Seeing the world, despite history and differences, come together in solidarity is so overwhelmingly powerful and exemplifies that, even though bad things happen, there is so much good left in world.

No matter what we do and no matter how many precautionary measures we take, it will never stop tragedy from striking. Attacks like the ones in Paris are terrible, and the loss of lives will forever impact those around us. But, even though we could not stop this from happening, we do get to choose how we react.

"Turning the lights on for Paris" may seem small, but its meaning speaks volumes. That night, we were not dozens of different countries and we were not millions of different people. We were one, and one is what we will continue to be.

To those who lost their lives, I am sorry that you were not kept safe, and I genuinely hope that your journey home is a soft and peaceful one.

To those who lost someone they love, I pray that, with time, your pain will lessen.

To those who survived the attacks, I thank God that you are here, and I ask Him to heal you in any way that he can.

To Muslim individuals everywhere, I hope that you can still be proud of your religion and who you are without feeling threatened or shameful. We know that this isn't your fault.

To everyone all over the world supporting Paris, I pray that this sense of unity lasts. I hope that, no matter how hurt and angry and empathetic you may be feeling, you still believe that there are genuine people out there. I hope that you still see the world as the bright place that it is, and don't let an elusive group of people take that away.

And to the people responsible for 129 deaths, millions of changed lives, and countless broken hearts, you didn't win.

Yes, you carried out your plans, and, yes, you've devastated a lot of people, but this isn't it for us. While very shocked and very hurt, no one is broken and no one is bitter.

We may not be able to predict your every move, we may not be able to prevent your every action, but we may— no, we will— choose to remain strong and unified.

As for me, personally? Well, I am just one person looking at this situation from the outside, in; perhaps I don't quite mean much in the grand scheme of things. But, if it's any consolation, there is one book quote that comes to mind when I think about everyone involved in this situation— victims, loved ones, witnesses, outside citizens, and even attackers:

"It's really a wonder that I haven't dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can't build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again." - Anne Frank, "The Diary of A Young Girl"