A strange, surreal feeling has resided over me for the past week or so, specifically since news broke of the attacks in Paris. This horrible act of terror impacted all of us; there is no doubt of that. However, it still felt so far away from my life; I did not know a single soul lost in Paris. I didn’t, and still don’t, know how to comprehend so many losing their lives so quickly, in such a senseless act of violence. How could I, when I was so physically divorced from it, claim the grief of this horrible event?

Then, in the span of two days my consciousness was redirected from the tragedies in Europe to back home when I learned of the passing of a woman I worked with. Here I was at school, trying to juggle the aching and confusion of loss while people I didn’t know mourned in Europe and people I know and love mourned at home. Every screen I came across in between phone conversations with my mom about figuring out a way to get home for Kathy’s funeral service detailed the horrible events in Paris. I had no concept of how to place these losses in a way that made them easier to comprehend.

I learned of Kathy’s passing through a Facebook status. In the sea of posts and images about Paris that all began to blur together, this post turned the world even further of its axis. After battling lung cancer for 5 years, Kathy had finally allowed herself to rest. It was a privilege, not only to call her your friend, but also to say you simply knew her. I know people always say that after a loved one passes, but it really is true. One of my first memories of meeting Kathy was when I was waiting to take a workout class she was teaching before I began working there. I was explaining to her and my mom why I hated running, saying that I just didn’t like the feeling it gave me in my throat and lungs, not knowing she had lung cancer. Kathy agreed with me, “Yeah, the lungs are my problem when running too, ” before bursting into laughter at the irony of the statement. She then went on to ask who needs running, anyway. Kathy had previously run 5 marathons. If I had the ability to run a marathon, that would probably be what I talked about most, but Kathy did not need the recognition.

When diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer in 2010 after never smoking a day in her life, Kathy beat all the odds for 5 years. 5 years. Then on Saturday, November 14, she finally allowed herself to rest. In the midst of all the violence in the world, losing Kathy seemed like an extra kick when we were all down. It wasn’t fair, was all I could think for a while. There was almost no way to comprehend the situation. The hurt was too much, but at the same time I still felt as though I had no right taking claim to any of it. As I said, I did not know a single person killed in Paris. Kathy was a mother, a sister, a daughter, a loved one, a dear friend, among many other things, but I couldn’t claim any of those relationships as my own. To Kathy, I was the teenager who worked the front desk. The kid with whom she spent 15-minute intervals of time before and after her classes with, gossiping about studio happenings. I didn’t know how to place these major losses in my life when they felt both so distant to me but also so personal. After attending Kathy’s funeral, I am beginning to see what there is to take away from these two tragedies that are so completely divorced from one another. I don’t want to say they taught me something, especially the attacks in Europe, because I don’t think any lesson can be learned from senseless violence. However, just like any tragic event, they force you to stop and think.

When Kathy received her diagnosis she wasn’t given much time, certainly not 5 years worth, but she used her time knowing it was limited. She planned amazing trips with her 3 kids, to places like the Amalfi Coast and the Caribbean, where she took every opportunity that was presented. She continued to teach until she decided she didn’t want to teach anymore, and then she didn’t. She surrounded herself with those whom she loved, her kids and her close friends, and looked for both beauty and humor in everything. I remember her, one time, telling me that she was just so frustrated because everyone thought she was so sweet when, in reality, she was “sarcastic as hell” and had a “terrible” sense of humor. Most importantly, she both emanated and surrounded herself with love in the time she knew she had left, something those killed in Paris, Baghdad, and Beirut never had the chance to do.

None of these deaths mean more or less than the others, it is impossible to even hold them in the same scope, but they offer us an insight in a time when we are supposed to be giving thanks that don’t seem to be there. Looking at both the aftermath of Kathy’s death and the tragedy in Paris, it is impossible to ignore the silent power and magnitude of love.

For every loud, angry act of evil that demands attention, there is a softer act of love that doesn’t need the recognition, much like Kathy, silently fighting her battle. While hate demands an audience, love and kindness don’t aim to prove a point to anyone or anything. Perhaps this is why we see so much hate in the world. Hate demands to be heard, in the most violent and disrespectful manor. While hate makes a spectacle of itself, love and kindness work behind the scenes to sooth the wounds hate has inflicted. Love goes beyond a filter of a French flag on a Facebook photo or a seat at a funeral for a loved one. Love is the feeling in the air in a Westfield church, as the friends and family of Kathy come together to allow her to rest, and the support they all gave to each other in their time of grieving. Kindness is the act of the citizens of France opening their doors to those impacted by the attacks, letting strangers into their homes when they needed it most.

I haven’t figured out how to move forward and place these gut wrenching events in my life, but that’s okay. I can’t focus on the sadness and bad things in the world because it would consume me. That is what you try to take away from these tragedies that aren’t fair and truly don’t make sense, if you can take away anything. With so much loud, destructive hate and senseless injustices like illness and cancer in the word, the only thing you can do is pump as much love into it as possible, just like Kathy did and the citizens of Paris are doing.