But it wasn’t. At least, not for me.

Chalk it up to being a wide-eyed post grad with her first big girl job. Or the fact that I’d never seen a city with so many dogs and so much cobblestone.

But Boston had a hold on my heart more quickly than I could learn how to pronounce ‘faneuil.’

Monday, I woke up anxious. Eager and impatient like a little kid on Christmas morning.

Thousands filled Boston’s picturesque streets for Patriots’ Day and a little vitamin D. Cheering, hugging, laughing. Carrying hand-painted signs, wearing wacky outfits. Parents hoisted small Red Sox-clad children up on their shoulders. College kids hooted, hollered and tripped — the giddy consequences of a few too many morning beers. Runners clenched their jaws, wiped the sweat from their brows and powered on.

Crazy, chaotic and beautiful. Magical even.Marathon Monday was no longer an oddball holiday on my benefits and compensation sheet.

As a runner, it was a spark. A challenge. An inner voice saying, “Maybe someday…”

As a former journalist and lover of stories, it was hope. Inspiration.

As a young person, it was a party. Bonding with new friends and dizzying sunshine.

As someone learning to call Boston home, it was pride. And then it was heartbreak.

At least three dead. Hundreds severely injured. Tears brought on by confusion, fear and loss, instead of triumph, pride and victory.

A simple, beautiful day that once was all about the possibility of what might be now will be a day of remembrance. A day of memorial and reflection.

The sun’s shining in Boston this Tuesday morning. The T is running (mostly) on time. We’re back to work. And the click-clack of rapid typing hasn’t died down in my office. But I can only imagine there are a lot less budget requests flying out of inboxes than “so glad you’re okay, I love you’s.”

We hugged our roommates a little tighter last night. Checked in on our favorite baristas this morning. And smiled a more genuine smile at our coworkers in silent appreciation that everyone we know is OK.

We’re luckier than most.

Boston hurts. It’s going to hurt for a while. Some lives ended and others will never be the same.

But I know that the Boston I’ve been privileged to be a part of will come back stronger than ever.

Monday’s stories of Bostonians running toward the explosions, rather than away, prove that. Boston may be a small city on a comparative scale, but it’s a mighty fearless one.

It’s a city built on fierce independence and a spirit of resilience unlike any other. Nothing but Boston can stop Boston. And no act of terror or otherwise-induced violence will ever change that.

Lauren McKown is a guest columnist at The State News and a former State News reporter and editor. Reach her at mckown1@gmail.com.