Expat Life in Thailand: The Monsoon and the Moment I Stopped Pushing

It’s been two weeks since I published a blog post.

No one sent a strongly worded email. My site traffic didn’t nosedive. But that inner voice? Loud. Pushy. Slightly judgmental.

“Two weeks, don't you know better?”

Of course I do . . .  

More importantly, what I know to be true right now is: There are limits to forcing clarity when you’re tired, solo traveling internationally, building a business, filming stories, troubleshooting equipment and software issues, editing clips—and doing it all while living in a country where it’s impossible to find leave-in conditioner!

I've been pushing.

Hard.

Then came that surprise monsoon.

Not a cute, misty, cinematic monsoon

An actual monsoon.

I went out for a quick errand after my early a.m. run.

Still in my running shorts and bra-top, I was on a mission to buy a frying pan so I could stir-fry some veggies for lunch. My backpack had just enough room for the pan, but more importantly, it held my umbrella and poncho.

Thunder cracked open the sky. Two seconds later, I felt the juicy, menacing clouds falling toward my shoulders. Still, I walked. Determined. Focused on that (darn) frying pan.

Fool with mother goose. Never fool with Mother Nature!

She had other plans—and they didn’t include me getting back home anytime soon.

Before my next blink, I was standing dead-center in a full-blown storm. A storm where the air feels electric and the water rushes in from nowhere.

Thunder boomed. My thick-soled running shoes already squishy, with my feet sloshing around in them. Was I going to float away, like in one of those TV news stories?

I walked up and down the same stretch of street looking for a way to safely cross. Nothing. Water had already filled the roads. Curbs disappeared. The one I was standing on—my temporary stronghold—flooded with me standing on it.

I could sense locals and seasoned expats curiously watch me from under their protective awnings and behind dry glass. They stared as I zig-zagged in a flapping plastic poncho, trying desperately to outwit a storm that had no intention of being outwitted.

Still, I hop-scotch across the street, thinking the opposite side was slightly higher. Wrong move. That side dipped, too, and I found myself boxed in. Yes, I was going to float away, just like I saw people doing on the news.

How ironic that straight ahead, at precisely 12 o'clock, was my apartment building. As I stood watching the flood waters rise, it might as well have been miles away.

Monsoon season: what makes it terrifying?

The power lines.

In Southeast Asia, it’s not unusual to see power lines hanging low over the sidewalk.

Some just coil on the ground—snakes of cable and possibility.

Others sag so low they meet you at eye level and can snag your neck if you’re not paying attention. I’ve nearly been clotheslined more than once just walking to get groceries.

And while I’ve since learned that many of those wires are cable or telephone lines, no one’s labeling them. You see, in a storm, all it takes is one live wire down in rising water to change everything.

So I waited.

Stranded on a shrinking patch of beach—the only space not fully underwater yet.

I situated myself beneath a bunch of coconut trees, gripping an umbrella that stopped mattering.

To make my situation more interesting, I was flanked by half a dozen stray dogs, some of them side-eyeing me for invading their regular shelter area.

I waited for nearly three hours.

• For the water to recede

• For my nerves to settle

• For a better plan that never came

Eventually, I waded through the water—heart pounding, eyes scanning for wires I couldn’t see.

What gave me courage wasn’t logic. It was a song—an African American spiritual echoing in my head like a lifeline: “Wade in the water… Wade in the water, children...”

It hit me all at once: gratitude, deep and unshakable

• Grateful I wasn’t wearing flip-flops

• Grateful for my hooded poncho

• Grateful that bunch of pissed-off dogs, just looked at me

I waded. Not toward the camera or my content calendar—but toward myself.

Let grit kick in, especially when you feel like giving up

You’re close to where you’re trying to go—but the road is buried under doubt, noise, bad lighting, and heat so sharp it pinches your skin. Occasionally there’s very real fear that something might hurt you if you make the wrong move. 

Sometimes you stand still.

Sometimes you create anyway.

Sometimes you channel your inner badass and lean in to the woman who once jacked a man up by his collar for cornering her friend in a ladies’ restroom.

Sometimes you can't wait for backup. You must handle things.

You move your body, not because conditions are ideal. Because you didn't float away.

You exercise your mental—and when necessary, your physical strength. You choose forwardness. Despite being stuck.

Grit. Commitment to doing what you set out to do.

You become a monsoon survivor

I did not float away

After making it home safely, my first stop: to my not-so-nice shower.

Second stop: downstairs, to the sidewalk-lined cafés that seem to smile at me, no matter the situation of the day.

I return to my favorite chair and table.

There’s 'Meema', the 78-year-old woman who takes my hand.

Mother, earth-angel, and anchor when the world tilts.

There's the café owner who asks, “You need more coffee? You want music? Hey—you comfortable? This is the relax zone.” Then she turns on the fan and points it toward me.

There’s Da, my friend from Cambodia who hugs me out of the blue, just because.

Da is the kind of person who leads with his heart—he hugged me the first time we met. No reason. No hesitation. Just human kindness, on instinct.

There’s the Australian who calls me Love.

There’s the young woman who quietly approaches my table with a loaf of bread and says, “Madam, please take some.”

There’s Eric, a fellow Washingtonian along with a host of other happy, drinking-professionals.

And my 'cuzin' Connie, from St. Louis, by way of Atlanta, who helps me find a frying pan and some make-do leave-in.

All of these people—infinitely special—have somehow become my unexpected international family.

They speak to something beyond language—a steadiness, a warmth, a way of noticing that says, you’re one of us, whether you expected to be or not.

Cuzin' Connie and I scour 7-Eleven for a frying pan and leave-in.

How blessed I am 

I’m not only safe—I’m seen. That’s what living in Thailand feels like. 

I’m seen by people who recognize my vulnerability and reflect back genuine kindness.

People who make the world feel okay and right again, just as it is.

This is what finding ground feels like.

If you’ve been waiting for a sign that showing up soaked, shaken, and imperfect still counts—this is it.

You’re allowed to wade through dirty water up to your knees.

You’re allowed to be scared of low-lying power lines.

You’re allowed to skip a week to take care of you.

You’re allowed to pivot when your well-organized set-up feels wrong.

You’re allowed to be unhinged—because holding it all together isn’t the only way to be strong.

It’s your turn

To remember a time you kept going—even when the water rose.

To name the strangers who showed up like family.

To say the thing you’ve been holding.

I’m listening. Really.