Living In The Grey

“When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” — Haruki Murakami 

Living on the West Coast of BC means adapting to rapidly changing weather patterns. One moment, it’s calm; the next, we’re facing windstorms or blasts of cold air that plunge temperatures to unusually low levels. Sure, it’s not Midwest cold, but ask anyone here—wet cold hits differently.

This past fall, a weather event called a “bomb cyclone” swept through, toppling trees and damaging homes and property. Bomb cyclone—who comes up with these names?

Sometimes, we get a bit of warning that rough weather is on the way. The winds pick up, the tall trees surrounding our home begin to sway, and we get that sinking feeling in our gut—power outages are likely coming sooner rather than later.

Storms have a way of rushing in, wreaking havoc, and then moving on to unleash their chaos elsewhere. And when the skies clear, we’re left standing in the stillness, faced with the work of clearing debris and putting things back in order.

In a weather storm, we manage the debris collectively—neighbors helping neighbors. City hydro and power service crews work around the clock to restore power. It’s an “all hands on deck” moment to put things right.

But managing debris looks very different when the storms hit us on the inside—when a marriage storm rages, or a tragic event ends the life of a loved one. When something happens to us, out of our control, and the aftermath is chaos. We’re left picking up those pieces alone, or with a few others, while life for everyone else just moves on.

I’ve weathered some significant internal storms—seasons when suffering lingered, relentless and unyielding, leaving me breathless and desperate for relief. In the midst of the chaos, I felt unbearably lonely. Yet, standing here now and looking back, I see that all I could really do was hold on and wait for the storm to pass.

I’m wired to make sense of experiences—to find the reason why, to look for the “right” path to take to escape, prepare, or stay safe. I believed that if I could just make sense of the “why,” I could understand it—and ensure that particular storm would never happen again.

But here’s what I’ve come to realize alongside that old pattern I worked so hard to make fit. Storms come. And yes, I am older, wiser, and more aware of myself and how I navigate the world. I am stronger, more equipped to face some storms, but I cannot escape hard things. And I no longer need to force a narrative to explain why bad things happen or what happens next to make sense of it all—for my own comfort or to ease the discomfort of others.

It is a curious thing, this human need to make sense of suffering. When I look back and see that younger part of me who was suffering, I feel deep compassion for her. Her pain was real, and she felt alone in it. And now, when I feel a familiar reflection of that suffering or sense a storm brewing on the horizon, I know two things: this stuff hurts, and even when it ends, there may still be debris scattered around me—waiting to be gathered and put back in place.

Suffering, I’ve learned, is not something to be avoided—it’s a part of living. We love big, and so we risk suffering big. To care deeply is to open ourselves to pain, but it also opens us to beauty, connection, and meaning. I’m learning to live with both—to gather the pieces and rebuild, not because suffering ends, but because love is always worth it.