As I sit on a park bench in my local park in Melbourne, the sun rests warmly on my shoulders and everything feels calm. The sky stretches above me in a wide, endless blue. Birds sing from the treetops, and nearby I hear the bright, carefree laughter of my granddaughter as she plays. It is peaceful — almost idyllic.

And yet my mind is not here.

It is across the ocean, with Dana and her family in Florida, facing the full force of Hurricane Milton.

While I sit wrapped in sunlight and stillness, thousands of kilometres away she is enduring what may be one of the hardest nights of her life. The news shows relentless winds battering homes, rain lashing windows, streets swallowed by water. It looks like chaos — the kind you can see but not fully comprehend. I hold my phone in my hand and it feels less like a device and more like a fragile window into a nightmare.

How can two places exist in such extremes at the same time? How can I feel warmth on my skin while my friend trembles under the roar of a storm?

The unease sits heavy in my chest. I take my granddaughter’s hand and push her gently on the swing. Her laughter rings out into the clear air. And suddenly, I feel something close to guilt. How can I stand here in peace while she stands in fear? How can my world feel steady when hers is being shaken to its foundations?

It makes me think of other parts of the world too — Ukraine, the Middle East — places where fear has become a daily companion. Lives unravel in one corner of the globe while in another we sip coffee, plan dinners, take children to parks. The contrast unsettles me. The imbalance feels almost impossible to hold.

And then I think of Dana again.

I think of how she must have felt when I was facing spinal surgery to remove my tumour — the distance between us stretching wide and helpless. She could not sit beside my hospital bed. She could only wait, worry, pray. Just as I can only do now for her.

That kind of helplessness does something to you. When someone you care about is in danger and all you can offer is hope. Hope that they are safe. Hope that the storm will weaken. Hope that life will eventually resemble something normal again.

Being on the outside is its own kind of ache. It is not the sharp, immediate terror of being inside the storm. It is slower. Quieter. A suffocating weight that presses in with every “What if?” What if they lose everything? What if someone is hurt? What if this changes everything for them?

And I feel exhausted. Emotionally drained.

Yet I am not the one huddled in the dark. I am not the one listening to the wind tear through the night or watching water seep into the rooms where memories are made. I am not the one sitting in powerless silence.

So why does it feel as though the distance between us has collapsed? As though her storm has crossed oceans and settled into my bones?

Maybe this is what love does.

Love shortens distance. It refuses to obey geography. It allows someone else’s storm to echo inside you, even while the sun is shining on your face. Even while birds sing. Even while your granddaughter’s laughter fills the air.

All can appear right with the world.

But when someone you care about is facing the storm, a part of your heart stands there with them.