Weathering the Storms We Know

"She stood in the storm, and when the wind did not blow her way, she adjusted her sails."
— Elizabeth Edwards

I’m moving back to Florida in the middle of hurricane season. Most people would think I’m crazy. The Gulf is warm, the winds are unpredictable, and the peak of the season looms just as I plan to reclaim the home I left behind. But I’m not afraid of the storms—not anymore.

I’ve lived through three hurricanes already. I understand the tension that arises as the sky darkens and the silence before the first gust of wind. I know the ritual of filling bathtubs with water, taping windows, and listening to the radio long after the power goes out. I’ve learned how to prepare—but more importantly, I’ve learned how to remain calm. Because some storms can’t be avoided; they can only be weathered.

This isn’t just about hurricanes. It’s about the storms we experience in life—the ones that come uninvited and rearrange everything. The ones that strip away what we thought we needed and reveal what truly matters. The storms that test our foundations and remind us who we are when the lights go out.

I’ve known heartbreak—the kind that doesn’t always stem from romance but from misplaced trust, lost dreams, or the realization that the version of life you worked so hard to build doesn’t love you back. I’ve experienced the ache of a dissolving marriage and, later, the slow grief of watching identities fall away—partner, provider, even dancer—each one asking me to let go of something I thought defined me.

I’ve experienced burnout. The kind that creeps in even when you're competent, even when you're praised. Especially when you’re praised. I’ve shouldered the weight of other people’s pain for decades in medicine—triaging lives while slowly losing parts of my own. I’ve sat in rooms lit by fluorescent lights, listening to monitors beep, and wondered if I’d ever hear my own heartbeat again.

And I know reinvention. The brave, terrifying decision to start over—at an age when most people are settling down. Reinvention sounds noble until you're knee-deep in boxes, unsure of where you belong or what comes next. I moved to Virginia, hoping for a fresh start, a meaningful job, a place that would feel like “after.” But what I found was a system that didn’t welcome me, a role that drained me, and a loneliness that echoed louder than I expected.

Sometimes the best-laid plans don’t just fall short—they fall flat. And when they do, it’s tempting to blame yourself and feel foolish for hoping. However, what I’ve learned is that failed plans aren’t signs of weakness—they’re the friction that reveals what we truly need. Virginia was never a mistake. It was a mirror. And it showed me what I refuse to live without: dignity, belonging, vitality, and peace.

So now, as I prepare to return home, I’m not expecting calm seas. I’m just ready to meet the waves differently. Some part of me knows: I’ve already faced the worst of it. If another storm comes, I won’t crumble. I’ll light a candle, make tea, and hold space for the wind to pass through.

We can’t control the storm. But we can decide who we will be inside of it.  And this time, I choose grace. I choose steadiness. I choose to come home.