When I first heard about the bombing at the Manchester Arena in England, I was understandably shaken and distressed. Bombings are horrific, especially in crowded places where a swift escape can feel impossible. But when I learned it occurred during an Ariana Grande concert, my heart sank even further. My mind immediately raced to the audience—predominantly young women and girls, some accompanied by their parents, others venturing out on their own. Anyone who would target a concert filled mostly with young females, many of whom were children, clearly harbors a deep-seated disdain for women.
I’m acutely aware that these acts are not random. They are premeditated and calculated. The attacker (or attackers) knew they’d be facing an audience largely made up of young girls and women. What is it about women that incites such hatred? Young girls represent our future, the ones who will challenge the status quo and reshape society. Is that what terrifies these men? Do they feel threatened by the power an arena full of spirited young women can wield? That question keeps swirling in my mind.
To be clear, I would feel heartbroken and enraged no matter the venue or the audience, but this particular act of violence felt so targeted, so violating. Then, a chilling realization settled in: That could have been me. My first concert was at 12, almost 13. My best friend was just a year older. Her parents dropped us off in New Jersey, telling us to meet them outside when it was over. Throughout my teen years, I attended concerts without adult supervision, always dropped off by someone’s parents, who waited in the parking lot while we enjoyed ourselves. They never seemed particularly worried about our safety; they were thrilled we were having fun.
After ninth grade, my mom, who used to accompany me occasionally, stepped back. My parents figured if I could navigate school on my own, I could handle waiting in line for a record signing or an episode of MTV’s TRL. By then, we were seasoned concert-goers—no chaperone was needed. My friend and I had no fear then; we were more concerned about snagging the best tour merchandise than any potential danger.
On September 11, my friend and I were supposed to attend an O-Town concert in Manhattan. I planned to go straight from school to secure our spots in line, and she would meet me there. Of course, the concert was rescheduled due to that tragic day. Yet, despite the horror, we still felt no fear about attending the rescheduled concert alone the following month, and our parents were equally unbothered. They simply reminded us to stick together and keep our phones handy for emergencies—standard rules for our outings.
But now, I’m not just a carefree teenager; I’m a mother. The world feels much scarier through this lens. Seeing photos of terrified parents searching for their missing children is gut-wrenching. That could easily be me. I have a toddler who, like me, loves a good live show, and we frequently bond over concerts. But if terrorists are willing to attack a concert full of teens, what’s to stop them from targeting even younger audiences next time?
I shouldn’t dread taking my son to see The Wiggles because something might go wrong. When I spoke with my father about the bombing, all he could say was, “What if you were at that concert?” Because to him, I’ll always be his little girl, and the thought of me in that situation is unbearable.
I have tickets to see Harry Styles with a friend this fall, and I shouldn’t be anxious about attending, fearing I might leave my son without a mother due to some unforeseen tragedy. Sure, the odds are in our favor that everything will go smoothly—we’ll have a blast and return home safely—but my worries, fear, and anger don’t just vanish. It all feels too close, too real, too heartbreaking.
Music venues should be sanctuaries of joy. Music connects people from all walks of life, encapsulating the human experience. It has always been my refuge, especially as a teenage girl. The thought that a disturbed individual would invade what is meant to be a safe haven for Ariana’s fans is revolting. These were someone’s children, and he knew it. You just don’t mess with someone’s kids. Ever. I wish we could all agree that children are off-limits.
Still, amidst this darkness, there’s a flicker of hope. The coverage from Manchester is heartwarming; these girls are supporting one another, demonstrating resilience in the face of adversity, and showing that they are a force to be reckoned with. Despite this horrific act, they are proving that love and light can conquer darkness. They are making their country, and their parents, proud. They are making me proud too.
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Summary: The tragic bombing at the Manchester Arena deeply resonates with me as a woman and a mother. The targeted attack on a space filled with young girls and women raises unsettling questions about the perpetrators’ motivations. It brings back memories of my carefree teenage concert days, now overshadowed by fear for my own child’s safety. Yet, amidst despair, the resilience and unity shown by the victims remind us of the power of love and community.