The night was supposed to be a night of good friends, laughter and memories. It was a Friday evening in May, the night before summer would grab us and draw a three-month line of separation until the fall semester would bring us back together again.

Following dinner at our usual celebration spot, La Perla, a few of my friends headed downtown for a night out, while another friend and I stayed back to watch a movie — I had an early flight home the next morning. When the time came to pick the girls up from the bar, we ditched the movie and began driving down Wisconsin Avenue.

As we neared Grand Avenue and its not-so-elegant Applebee’s restaurant, we were met head-on with pandemonium.

Cars were crookedly pulled off to the side and people were screaming, crying and gripping each other, while others were standing frozen in their tracks.

Looking 100 yards to the left, we saw what they saw: a man lying curled up on the street in a pool of crimson, which was surprisingly vivid in the night. He was struggling. He was shot.

Another 100 yards past the first man laid another, also struggling in a pool of blood.

According to the next day’s news reports, there was a third man wounded, and one of the three died.

Not even minutes after that triple shooting, my sheltered eyes became not so sheltered. Safety as I knew it flew out the window as fast as those bullets flew out of that unforgiving gun.

I returned home for the summer, dreading the day I would have to return to the city where I saw what no one should ever have to see.

I thought I had lost faith in humanity. Violence on the news became increasingly glaring after that night. I thought there was more evil than good, more hate than compassion and more violence than charity.

I thought wrong.

On Sept. 19, I went to Washington, D.C. for an internship assignment. I was to write a story on the Stars & Stripes Honor Flight, a southeastern Wisconsin organization that flies World War II and terminally ill veterans to the World War II memorial. From long before dawn to hours after dusk, I accompanied 198 veterans and another 200 volunteers.

These aging men (and women) were provided the opportunity to see their memorial, which was only dedicated six years ago. Honor Flight gave a token of thanks to veterans who possessed years of humility. The 200 volunteers were hands for support and open ears for an unimaginable number of stories.

It’s those moments that paint a realistic picture of the good in the world. I had to stop thinking evil was overtaking the good, hate overtaking the love.

This past weekend, I walked in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure with a record-breaking 16,000 participants. Everyone was there to support breast cancer research. Everyone offered a small or large donation, along with time and effort, to the Susan G. Komen Foundation.

What I thought was a lost faith in humanity was just a faith smothered by violence but relieved through several heartwarming experiences.

I realized I’ve had these experiences all along, but let the hate-fueled acts reported in the media extinguish them.

Now I was tearfully overjoyed to be walking alongside veterans — who never asked for anything — and the Honor Flight volunteers who gave them something anyway.

I was grateful to be one of 16,000 men, women and children who set aside a few hours of their Sunday morning to support the survivors, honor the victims and raise hope for breast cancer’s future, or lack thereof.

In May, I witnessed horrific, nauseating violence — one sliver of a globally chronic disease. But both before and after that night, I experienced compassion at its best and humanity in its prime.

The faith in humanity I thought I lost, never actually left at all.