We call it a hurricane, an act of nature, and then act surprised when nature does what nature does; the shock isn’t that the wind howls, it’s that our mirrors shatter roads split, roofs sail, terminals flood, and the scaffolding of certainty folds in minutes like paper soaked through.
We report it like a plot twist, but the script is older than us: sea warms, pressure falls, air spins, land yields; what hurts isn’t the storm, it’s the brittle conveniences we mistook for shelter, power grids that blink, hospitals that crack, bridges that unseat, and neighborhoods designed for speed, not mercy.
The hurricane is honest; our systems are delicate, optimized for calm and profit, not for the rare day when the sky insists on truth, and Jamaica wears that truth in uprooted trees, darkened parishes, and families crowding shelters with the quiet inventory of what can be carried.
If this feels unbearable, maybe it’s because we live as if permanence were promised, patching identities like asphalt over faults, performing certainty while knowing a single low-pressure spiral can reroute everything we love in an afternoon.
So pause: what are you propping up that cannot stand a hard wind, habits, titles, timelines, the performance of being fine and what would remain if the lights went out and the script blew away; build that.
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