This is one of the most difficult pieces I’ve had to write. Thinking of the frame to present this in is far from easy. This is based on my own story, but it is also about telling others’ stories.

It has been four years since the UK dealt with its deadliest terrorist attack in a decade. In 2017, the cowardly and horrific acts of ISIS were carried out by one man who attempted to murder not just himself, but everyone attending Manchester Arena for a concert that night. 22 lives were taken from us. Men, women, and children. Over 800 were injured and left with lifelong physical injuries, and among 10,000 of us were hit with the most lasting injury of all – memory.

Years ago, relating to news stories would have been unreal. But that night my mum and I were among many who were left with the scar of memory. And it is truly one I wouldn’t wish on anybody. I often wish my senses were taken from me before attending the concert, so that my ears wouldn’t have heard, my eyes wouldn’t have seen, my nose wouldn’t have smelt, and my mouth wouldn’t have been able to ask my mum the questions of survival that she could not answer.

Going into depth would be too personal as my story is also someone else’s; thousands of someone elses out there. But I do need to tell the story of the victims’ families who suffered more than just the death of their loved ones, the grief, the sorrow, and the flashbacks. They were also trying to ensure that one of the terrorists who planned the attack was sentenced – which took much longer than it should have.

I have listened to the likes of brave Figen Murray whose son, Martyn, was taken from her on that night. Figen successfully campaigned for ‘Martyn’s Law’, which states that all arenas and large venues should have the correct amount of security to avoid this happening again. She is one of many victims’ families who has bravely pieced herself back together in order to do something that is so far from cowardice, so far from the evil they faced, in memory of the one they lost.

To many this night never seemed real. It only ever washed over me in huge waves months after. From then on comes the processing. I find myself thinking from time to time, ‘I was only 11’. I was just a child and, unfortunately, I was among thousands of other children that night (some younger than myself). One very young, who was brutally taken from the world, eight-year-old Saffie Rose, who would now have been 11. Also, Nell Jones, Sorrell Leckowski and Eilidh MacLeod who were all under 15. Just children. I still haven’t processed, and never will, how somebody could feel they needed to do this. They took the chance away from these children to leave secondary school, to have children, to achieve their dreams. It is something I will never understand.

When something as big as this happens, there comes a mass of attention. For me, that was never good. It was as though, for a short while, I was consumed by the event. Defined as “the girl who was THERE”. Speaking to other survivors, this was a mutual feeling we had, a mutual experience we shared. I have spoken to many, all with different memories of that night, but not one person said “it was easy”, not one person said “I never had nightmares”, not one person said “I was never scared to go out”, not one person, even those not physically present did not feel a certain loss. My family and closest friends were at home and were woken by the news. My social media was flooded with messages, friends waiting for a reply which they only received in the late morning. With no idea of whether I was okay, my friends had to wait most of the morning until I replied to know that I was alive. So the experience had an effect on everybody. Nobody was left without a scar.

But I am lucky enough to have seen the city of Manchester heal and unite. I have the privilege today to be able to do that myself. Not only that, I’m here. There are people who aren’t. It is a gift that I survived something which many didn’t, and I will continue to live every single day for the ones who can’t.

For the survivors, the injured, the PTSD-ridden, my mum, the families, friends who I have connected with, and for Manchester – I am so proud, beyond words. Thank you for showing me how to love again.

And for the 22, this is for you – forever. Always remember. Never forget. Forever Manchester.