I've been through so much, especially coming from New Orleans

Host: The sunset spilled across the horizon in long ribbons of amber and rose, reflecting off puddles left behind by a recent rainstorm. The streets of the small New Orleans café shimmered with a kind of haunted beauty — the kind born from survival. The air smelled faintly of wet asphalt, coffee, and jazz drifting from a nearby balcony.

Inside, the walls were adorned with photographs: the old city before the storm, black-and-white portraits of brass bands, painted murals of broken houses and blooming magnolias. The music was slow, soulful — the kind of tune that could only come from a place that had known both grief and grace.

At a corner table by the open window, Jack sat, tracing the rim of his glass absently. His eyes, grey and distant, reflected the fading sky. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, her fingers trembling slightly, though her voice, when she spoke, carried a soft steadiness — like the calm that follows years of rebuilding.

On the wall above them, framed and handwritten, was the quote:
“I’ve been through so much, especially coming from New Orleans where there was Hurricane Katrina in 2005. I had to pick up. We had to move, make new friends, and I think my family was just strong for me as well because we had to start completely over again.” — Normani Kordei.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How starting over can sound so simple when you say it out loud, but it’s really the hardest thing in the world.”

Jack: “Simple words are always born from hard lives.”

Host: His voice was low, heavy, but not cold. He looked out the window, where a child rode a bicycle through the wet street, laughter cutting through the stillness like light through clouds.

Jeeny: “When I first heard her say that, it broke something in me. The way she said ‘we had to start completely over again’ — it’s not just about moving or loss. It’s about losing the story you were in and being forced to write a new one.”

Jack: “Or being forced to live one you never chose.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She paused, her fingers tightening around the cup. A faint breeze drifted through the window, bringing with it the smell of wet earth and lemon blossoms.

Jack: “You ever had to start over?”

Jeeny: “Twice. Once after my father left, and again when I realized I wasn’t the same person anymore. But those were small storms compared to hers. Katrina didn’t just take homes — it erased entire maps of identity.”

Jack: “Still, she stood up. She found her way. That’s... something.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than something, Jack. It’s survival with grace. To rebuild your world after it’s drowned — that’s a kind of quiet heroism most people never see.”

Host: The light dimmed further, shadows stretching across their table. The café owner switched on a string of golden bulbs, casting a gentle glow over the old photographs on the wall. Each picture — a house, a family, a street — seemed to carry both heartbreak and hope.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always hated that word — ‘resilience.’ People say it like it’s a gift. Like those who suffer are lucky to get the chance to prove how strong they are.”

Jeeny: “You think resilience is a burden?”

Jack: “It is. Because it means you had no choice but to endure. No one calls you resilient when life’s easy. They only say it when you’ve survived hell.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s true. But maybe resilience isn’t what happens after the storm. Maybe it’s what gets you through it.”

Host: The wind picked up again, rattling the window slightly. Outside, a street musician began to play — a slow, mournful trumpet that seemed to echo their conversation.

Jeeny: “When I was younger, I watched footage of Katrina. I remember the faces. The people standing on rooftops, holding signs, waving for help. I didn’t understand it then — the feeling of losing everything. But now, when I listen to Normani talk about it, it’s not tragedy I hear. It’s transformation.”

Jack: “You think pain transforms?”

Jeeny: “I think pain introduces you to yourself. Stripping everything away leaves only truth. And rebuilding means deciding which parts of yourself are worth saving.”

Jack: “That’s a heavy price for self-discovery.”

Jeeny: “Every real discovery costs something.”

Host: Jack looked down at the condensation on his glass, tracing a slow circle with his thumb. His reflection swirled in the amber light — fragmented, incomplete, but still present.

Jack: “You know what gets me? The way she said ‘we had to move, make new friends.’ That word — we. Even in loss, she didn’t make it about herself.”

Jeeny: “Because healing’s never a solo act. Families, communities — they rebuild each other. That’s what New Orleans is. A city that hums with ghosts and still dances anyway.”

Jack: “Dances on the ruins.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But that’s not tragedy. That’s courage.”

Host: Her voice carried a kind of reverence, like she wasn’t just speaking of people but of a spirit — the one that refuses to be erased. The music outside shifted from sorrow to rhythm, the kind that makes even tired souls tap their fingers on tables.

Jack: “I remember when my neighborhood flooded — not Katrina, but years later. It wasn’t as bad, but for a while, it felt like the end of everything. Watching the water crawl up the walls, knowing every photo, every book, every piece of memory was about to disappear. I stood there and thought, ‘This is what helplessness feels like.’”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are.”

Jack: “Yeah. But I can’t say I rebuilt anything. I just kept walking.”

Jeeny: “That is rebuilding, Jack. One step at a time. You don’t have to reconstruct everything you lost. Sometimes survival itself is the architecture.”

Host: The candles flickered as if nodding in quiet agreement. Jack looked at her, and for a brief moment, the lines of cynicism around his eyes softened.

Jeeny: “You know what I admire about her story? It’s not the survival itself. It’s that she didn’t carry bitterness with her. She said her family was strong for her. That’s what love looks like — the kind that doesn’t lecture you to be brave but just stands there beside you until you are.”

Jack: “You think love’s enough to survive catastrophe?”

Jeeny: “Not by itself. But without it, survival’s just endurance. Love makes it rebuilding.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because I’ve seen it. My mother once said, ‘A home isn’t the walls. It’s the people who wait for you when the walls fall.’”

Host: The silence that followed was gentle, not empty. The rain had stopped completely now. The sky outside was clear, glistening, the moonlight stretching across the wet pavement like forgiveness.

Jack: “You know, I think maybe that’s what defines strength. Not holding everything together — but knowing how to start again when it all falls apart.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Strength isn’t the wall. It’s the hands rebuilding it, even when they’re shaking.”

Jack: “Then maybe we all have a bit of New Orleans in us.”

Jeeny: “We do. Because everyone, at some point, has to rebuild their own city.”

Host: The trumpet outside shifted again — this time to something joyful, bright, alive. The sound filled the café like sunlight after a storm. Jeeny closed her eyes, letting it wash over her, while Jack finally took a sip of his drink, smiling faintly.

Jeeny: “You know what’s beautiful about her words, Jack? She didn’t just talk about loss. She talked about motion. About moving, meeting, making again. That’s life. Starting over isn’t tragedy — it’s proof that we’re still capable of creation.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what healing really is — not returning to what was, but making peace with what will be.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And knowing that, somehow, you’re still strong enough to build something new from the wreckage.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly now — past the flickering lights, past the mural of a reborn city, out into the quiet New Orleans night.

The music swelled — a mix of hope and history. The café lights glowed like fireflies against the dark.

And on the wall, Normani’s words lingered like a prayer, written not in ink but in resilience:

“We had to start completely over again.”

Because the world breaks —
but sometimes, in the hands of those who refuse to stay broken,
it also begins again.