This is part 2 in a short series on how noticing and bearing witness during difficult times shape creativity. Read Part I here.

Arrival

I arrived in Houston late. My connection out of Denver had been delayed by thunderstorms over the city. I could still see lightning strikes in the distance as we landed—bright flashes, impossible to ignore from my window seat. I’m a fair-weather flier. By the time the plane was on the ground, I was already off balance.

Inside the airport, everything hit at once. Sound bounced off concrete and garage walls. People were loud. Voices cut across one another. Traffic attendants blew whistles and waved their arms, shouting for everyone to get behind the line. Shouting, as if I was supposed to know what I was doing. The lights were too bright, the night was too dark. Everything and everyone was too damn loud. I leaned against a pillar while waiting for the Uber, too much to take in at the same time.

The driver couldn’t find me and sent a notice through the app saying I’d be charged for missing the ride. When I finally found him, he was parked in the wrong place, already convinced the problem was me. He spoke with certainty, irritation riding just under the words. He’d gone to the wrong place, but it didn’t feel like the moment to correct him.

It was late and I needed a ride. So I got in the car and asked him about himself. Where he was from. How long he’d been driving. Whether he liked working nights. As he talked the tension eased. I stared out the window watching the city slide by—lights, concrete, overpasses stacked on top of one another. It was late, it was dark, I had no idea where we were going. I needed to connect with this stranger’s humanity for my own sense of safety.

The Door

He apparently didn’t know where we were going either. Shooting past the front door of the hotel he turned a corner and rather than doubling back around the block, he dropped me off in an alley. I stood there with my bags, watching him drive away and prayed this was the right place. I took a breath and walked the rest of the way alone.

The hotel door was locked. Inside, the lobby was lit, a woman working behind the counter. I waited a moment, then waved when I caught her eye. I felt a huge sense of relief when she buzzed me in. Being seen. Being acknowledged.

The First Night

My room was on the tenth floor. Everything inside it felt…beige. The little kitchenette, the sofa, the bed. Everything carefully neutral. It was a place to stay, nothing more. The first thing I did was close the blinds to shut the city out.

And then I called home. It had been a long day. I needed to reassure my family I had arrived. I needed to hear something familiar. To know that somewhere, some people in my life were still healthy. That life was still ordinary. That the world hadn’t narrowed everywhere.

The blinds were closed, but they were thin enough that the city still came through—lights blurred into one another, sirens cutting through the night. Even shut, there was no real separation. At home, I sleep with the shades up, windows open. Welcoming moonlight, the outline of trees, the hooting of owls. Here, there was no place for the dark to rest.

I climbed into bed. Alone. No dogs. No husband. Just the unfamiliar weight of the room, and my thoughts turning back to my son, still under post-surgical sedation, out of reach in every possible way.

In the morning, a friend would come and drive me to the hospital. For now, there was just the waiting.

That first night, staying here was the only thing I could do.

Creative Prompt: Arrival

When you find yourself somewhere unfamiliar—physically or emotionally—pause before you try to make sense of it.

Notice what’s loud. What’s bright. What feels out of sync in your body.

Don’t interpret. Don’t make meaning. Just name three details that tell you: I am here.

That counts.

This post is Part 2 of a short series on how noticing and bearing witness during times of difficulty shape creativity.

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