As I sit here on a park bench in my local park in Melbourne, Australia, the sun is shining, and everything feels calm. I can hear the laughter of my granddaughter as she plays in the park, the birds singing above us. The sky is an endless, clear blue. It’s peaceful—idyllic, even. But my mind is far away, across the ocean, with Dana and her family in Florida, who are facing the wrath of Hurricane Milton.

While I stand here in warmth and calm, thousands of kilometres away, Dana and her loved ones are enduring one of the hardest nights of their lives. The news reports show relentless winds battering homes, rain lashing against windows, streets flooded—chaos I can hardly fathom. I sit, helpless, on the other side of the world, staring at my phone screen that feels like a window into a nightmare. How can two places exist at such extremes at the same time? How is it possible that in one moment, I can feel the sun on my skin while my friend trembles under the roar of a hurricane?

I can’t shake the feeling of unease. It gnaws at me. I take my granddaughter’s hand, pushing her on the swing, her laughter filling the air, and I feel a strange sense of guilt. How can I stand here, in peace, when my friend is living in fear? When their world is crumbling under a force they can’t control?

It makes me think of other parts of the world—places ravaged by war and conflict, like Ukraine, like the Middle East. People there are suffering too, every day, while others, like me, go on with our lives. I feel so small, so insignificant, knowing that in one part of the world, lives are being torn apart, while in another, we enjoy the luxury of safety and normalcy. The imbalance and contrast between these worlds is unsettling.

And then I think of Dana. I think of how she must have felt when I had my spinal cord tumour removed a few years ago, the distance between us palpable, as she worried for me from halfway across the globe. She couldn’t be there with me, just as I can’t be with her now. That helplessness—when someone you care about is in danger and all you can do is pray. Hope that they’re safe, that the storm will pass, that life will return to something resembling normal.

But this is different. When you’re on the outside, watching from afar, it’s a different kind of pain. It’s not the primal, heart-pounding fear of being in the eye of the storm, but a slow, suffocating weight. You’re desperate to help but powerless. The worry festers, spiraling into thoughts of “What if?” What if they lose everything? What if something happens to them? What if, what if, what if…

I feel spent. Emotionally drained. And yet, I wasn’t there. I wasn’t the one huddled in the shadows, listening to the wind tear through the trees, waiting for it to be over. I wasn’t there when the night grew heavy, and water and dirt started seeping into their home, flooding every corner—their spaces where they rest and gather—as the power went out. So why do I feel this way? Why does it feel like the distance between us has somehow collapsed, as if their pain has stretched across the world and seeped into my bones?

Maybe that’s what love does. It shortens the distance. It makes someone else’s storm feel like your own, even when the sun is shining on your face. Even when the birds are singing, and your granddaughter is laughing, and all should be right with the world.

But it’s not. Not really. Not when someone you care about is facing the storm alone.