Growing up in Florida, hurricanes meant one thing: no school. We’d bundle up in a warm place with endless snacks (and toilet paper) or maybe even go on a road trip to a nearby state– all while looking forward to playing in puddles the day after. My high school’s mascot was a storm. How can rain foster fear when the sight of a twister symbolizes basketball?
Hurricane evacuation orders were my version of a snow day, where everything was dark and cozy. It took me two decades to realize that it was just dark. And for that, I feel guilty.
This year, hurricane season in Florida has caused catastrophic damage. Still recovering from Helene’s debris, we are facing Milton—a storm so powerful it is nearing the mathematical limit of what the Earth’s atmosphere can produce. At 180 mph and moving from a tropical storm to a Category 5 overnight, Milton has earned the title of the second strongest storm in the Northern Hemisphere. We are being told to prepare for the worst. I am not there to help my family. And for that, I feel guilty.
The anticipated impact is devastating. Florida residents are being told to “get out now” and “leave or die,” causing gas shortages and traffic jams. As I lay awake at night praying the storm skips my home, I am covertly sending it someone else’s way. How can I reconcile that my safety comes at someone else’s harm? And for that, I feel guilty.
The collision of anxiety and guilt is a storm in itself; a feeling so powerful that I only find myself in its eyewall once a year during aseret yemei teshuva, the 10 days of repentance.
Both guilt and hurricanes have an origin and impact, but they also both have an eye– the calm amidst the chaos.
Just like how the eye of a storm is categorized by relative stillness amid the most severe weather, the eye of guilt is the potential for clarity and peace among the mayhem within.
Allowing yourself to feel guilt, especially during these 10 days, enables an inevitable opportunity to reflect on who you’ve been and who you want to be.
Aseret yemei teshuva is an opportunity to tap into the darkest parts of ourselves and transform them into perspective. After experiencing a hurricane, we restore the damage. Similarly, after feeling the storm of guilt, we must rebuild the devastation.
This hurricane season and aseret yemei teshuva, I am tapping into my guilt. I am using it as a catalyst for authentic growth toward the storm that scares me the most: my own.
