Flying to Safer Places
Lessons from an Uncertain Migration
Even though I knew it wasn’t good for my already fragile nervous system—and contradicted everything I invite my clients to do—I watched Hurricane Milton unfold live on TikTok last week. And while I’m a little ashamed to admit it, the posts that stuck with me the most were the ones about birds. Birds trapped in the eye of the storm. Birds walking down streets littered with bent stop signs and scattered debris. Birds landing on ships in the middle of their migration.
For a long time, I found it easier to connect emotionally with animals than with people. As I softened to my own emotional landscape, that started to shift. Now, when I find myself bursting into tears over how sad my dog looks when I leave the house, I know it’s time to turn inward and figure out what’s happening inside me. Animals often mirror what I’m repressing within myself, and that’s exactly what those bird videos did.
Here in New England, we’re saying goodbye to our seasonal visitors as they head off to faraway places for their survival. I know what that’s like. In the aftermath of losing my parents and leaving my career, I started flying to unknown places—guided by only vague coordinates.
Now I find myself in the middle of my own migration, too far from where I’ve been to turn back. Even if I could, the environment I left is inhospitable. Yet I’m not sure how much longer I need to fly until I find a true sense of refuge—the kind where your head lands heavily on the pillow, followed by a deep sigh of contentment. Some days, I’m so tired, so worn thin—I simply want to drop from the sky. Like a bird, I know I’m the only one who can get myself where I need to go, but some days my wings feel so damn heavy, and there’s a nagging sense that if I pause for too long, the cold will catch up with me.
I think back to the birds who found themselves in the eye of a hurricane or landing on a ship in the middle of the ocean, and I wonder what they would offer when asked: How do you survive such a long, uncertain migration with dwindling resources, unexpected interruptions, and no guarantee you’ll make it to your destination?
“Trust. Gratitude. Presence,” I imagine they’d say.
Trust that leaving was what you were meant to do, and that you know how to fly. Gratitude for the calm days and clear skies. Presence, so you don’t overlook the soft spots to land for a few moments, your fellow travelers, and the occasional human ready to greet you with a handful of seed.
Maybe we’re all just like those birds—trusting our instincts, grateful for the quiet moments, and always searching for a soft place to land, one uncertain flight at a time.
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