SMILING AFTER THE SURGE

Sometimes the most meaningful photographs catch us in moments of perfect contradiction. This is about one such photo, taken in October 1995 on Pensacola Beach. It's about what a simple smile can mean after a hurricane, how broken pottery can become something beautiful, and why the darkest storms sometimes reveal our brightest blessings.

October 1995, Pensacola Beach, Florida (Actual Photo)

Paradise (Re-imagined)

Because here’s what you wouldn’t guess: when that picture was taken, my world—and all of Pensacola Beach—had just been turned upside down. We’d come through one of the fiercest hurricanes to ever hit the coast. Pensacola Beach had been turned inside out, the landscape completely transformed. Entire homes were gone or reduced to skeletons, streets buried under sand and debris, and the ground was strewn with memories, both broken and buried. The beach looked like a different world, with crumbled houses and belongings scattered like driftwood. And yet there I was, smiling—a calm, almost defiant expression against a backdrop of destruction.

In the middle of it all, there’s a photo of Mike standing beside the remains of our house, a lone figure against a backdrop of splintered wood and twisted roof shingles. He looks small, almost lost beside the collapsed structure. This wasn’t just any house—it was the dream we’d worked for, filled with memories. Now it lay in ruins, its walls and roof crumpled like paper, the sand reclaiming it. You can see in Mike’s posture the weight of it all, the disbelief, but also the resilience. He stood there, a calm anchor against the chaos, as if grounding himself and reminding me that we would rebuild, one way or another. That image of him is etched into my mind—a reminder of what it means to weather the storm together.

October 1995, Pensacola Beach, FL

Oddly enough, that response wasn’t unique to us. Many of our neighbors, standing beside the ruins of their homes, wore similar expressions—a mix of shock, sadness, and something else, too. For those of us who could, it was as if gratitude itself had stepped in to lighten the load. We were safe, our loved ones were safe—and everything else, in that moment, felt like just “stuff.” It’s a perspective not everyone could hold onto, but for some of us, that sense of relief and gratitude was enough to find something worth smiling about.

In the days that followed, friends came to help, even down on their hands and knees in the sand, helping me dig up fragments of my beloved Fiestaware collection—shattered, scattered, but somehow still precious. We collected them carefully into a bag, the pieces tinkling softly like wind chimes, the sound mixing with the gentle surf returning to shore. Each fragment held a memory, a bit of color from a chapter I wasn’t ready to let go of just yet. We stored those pieces away, and years later, when we rebuilt, Mike and I took them and created a mosaic floor for the new beach house. It became a way to honor what we’d lost and, just as much, a way to give it new life.

The Gulf behind me that day was like a masterclass in second chances—peaceful, innocent, almost apologetic in its calm. The same waters that had surged 17 feet high, reshaping our coastline and our lives, now sparkled like nothing had ever happened. Just like life itself, it reminded us that no storm, no matter how fierce, gets to have the last word.

I still had most of my hair then—black and thick, the spoils of youth. I had my health and, most importantly, the love of my life beside me. What the photo really captures isn’t just a smile; it’s a deep-rooted belief in the goodness of the world, unshaken even after nature’s strongest punch. And what I’ve learned is this: resilience isn’t about being unbreakable—it’s about being surrounded by people who help you piece things back together. And joy? Real joy isn’t the absence of struggle; it’s the presence of gratitude, even when things get rough.

Looking at that photo now, I see a reminder that life’s biggest blessings often come disguised as challenges. The storm that tried to take our home ended up showing us exactly what "home" really means—not just walls and a roof, but the incredible web of human connections that hold us up when the winds are strongest. That’s what put that grin on my face.

And yes, the storm left us one unexpected gift: my garage, swept over by that 17-foot surge, had never been cleaner. Sometimes you have to laugh at the ironies life throws your way. When you can find humor in chaos, you’ve already won half the battle.

So next time life throws you into the deep end, remember this: look for the helpers—they’re always there. Count your blessings—they often multiply in the darkest times. And most importantly, never underestimate the healing power of a genuine smile. Sometimes it’s the first piece in rebuilding not just a home, but hope itself. Because in the end, happiness isn’t about having everything—it’s about being grateful for what you have, even when life doesn’t go to plan.