My family made it through Hurricane Sandy. We have water, power

Host: The sky hung heavy with the smell of the sea, thick and metallic. The boardwalk was still broken in places, wooden planks warped by the last storm. Along the edge of the pier, the lamps flickered weakly — one every ten feet — like the pulse of a city that refused to die. It had been months since Hurricane Sandy tore through the coast, yet the air still carried that uneasy quiet that follows disaster.

Jack and Jeeny sat on a low bench facing the dark ocean. Between them, a single thermos of coffee steamed faintly, its scent mixing with salt and memory. The waves crashed in slow, tired rhythms, as if mourning what they had taken.

Host: The wind was cold but gentle now, brushing Jeeny’s hair across her face. Jack stared at the horizon, his jaw set tight, the light from a distant boat glinting in his eyes.

Jeeny: “Alysia Reiner wrote something after Hurricane Sandy that’s been sitting with me.”
(she pauses, her voice nearly carried off by the wind)
“She said, ‘My family made it through Hurricane Sandy. We have water, power, and a roof, but the survivor’s guilt makes me want to hide. Sneak away from the brilliance of life. It shouts at me: Don’t enjoy anything too much; people are suffering.’”

Jack: (quietly) “Yeah… I know that feeling.”

Host: His voice was low — not soft, but dulled, like the sound of boots on wet wood. He rubbed his hands together, staring down at the sand below.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How guilt can survive when everything else doesn’t.”

Jack: “Survivor’s guilt isn’t strange, Jeeny. It’s honest. It’s the part of us that knows the dice could’ve rolled differently.”

Jeeny: “But it’s cruel. You’re alive — shouldn’t that be enough reason to feel grateful?”

Jack: “Grateful, sure. But you can’t feel pure gratitude when someone else’s house is gone and yours is still standing. You start questioning the fairness of existing.”

Host: The wind picked up, whistling between the broken slats of the railing. Somewhere, a dog barked. The town below the pier was half-lit, half-dead — a patchwork of repaired homes and dark windows still waiting for return.

Jeeny: “But guilt doesn’t rebuild what’s lost, Jack. It only adds another kind of ruin. A hidden one.”

Jack: “Maybe. But it keeps us human. You think conscience is convenient? It’s supposed to hurt.”

Jeeny: “Then what — we just stay broken because it’s moral?”

Jack: “No. We stay aware.”

Host: His voice cut through the air — sharp, deliberate. The kind of tone that carries both belief and fatigue.

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “When my apartment was spared during the flood, I couldn’t sleep for days. I’d walk the streets — everything was dark, silent, except for generators humming in the distance. I kept thinking, ‘Why me?’”

Jack: “Because you were lucky. And luck’s a thief. It takes from others to give to you.”

Jeeny: “But should luck make us ashamed?”

Jack: “It should make us humble.”

Host: The waves hit harder now, scattering cold mist against their faces. The sound was relentless, like the past refusing to rest.

Jeeny: “I don’t know, Jack. Sometimes guilt feels like pretending to mourn while life waits outside the door. Like you’re afraid to laugh because laughter feels disrespectful.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “That’s the trap. You think grief has a moral compass — that joy dishonors pain. But the truth? Grief and joy come from the same root. You can’t silence one without killing the other.”

Jeeny: “Then how do you forgive yourself for surviving?”

Jack: (quietly) “You don’t. You just learn to carry the silence differently.”

Host: The words hung there — heavy, unmovable. The ocean swallowed the last of them, its rhythm steady and cruel.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve lived it.”

Jack: “I have. After the quake in Haiti — years ago. I was working with a relief team. One morning, the hotel next to ours collapsed. Everyone inside… gone. Our building barely cracked. And all I could think was, ‘I shouldn’t be here.’ Every meal felt stolen.”

Host: His hands trembled slightly as he spoke, though he hid them in his pockets. The lamplight caught the edge of his jaw, drawing shadows that seemed older than the night itself.

Jeeny: (softly) “And how long did that last?”

Jack: “It still does. But it’s quieter now. You make peace by doing something with the time you didn’t lose. You help rebuild, you tell their stories, you live harder. You make the guilt earn its place.”

Host: The tide pulled back, the sand glittering faintly under the moon. Jeeny’s eyes followed the slow retreat of the water, her expression half sorrow, half thought.

Jeeny: “You think guilt can be sacred, don’t you?”

Jack: “It’s the shadow of gratitude. You can’t have one without the other.”

Jeeny: “But Alysia said it made her feel childlike. Like the world’s brilliance was too much to look at.”

Jack: “That’s because innocence and guilt are closer than people think. When you’ve seen destruction, even beauty starts to feel violent. Too bright. Too undeserved.”

Jeeny: (gazing at the waves) “Maybe that’s why she wanted to hide — not from the world, but from her own happiness.”

Jack: “Exactly. Because happiness after tragedy feels like betrayal.”

Host: The silence between them deepened. The stars began to appear faintly through the thinning clouds — small points of stubborn light scattered across the vast darkness.

Jeeny: “But isn’t joy also a tribute? To live fully when others can’t — isn’t that honoring them?”

Jack: “If it comes from remembrance, yes. But not if it’s just escape. There’s a difference between living for someone and living away from what happened.”

Jeeny: “So what’s the right way?”

Jack: “There isn’t one. There’s just the honest way — the way that hurts but keeps you moving.”

Host: A small boat drifted in the distance, its light bobbing like a tiny lantern against the black water. Jeeny took a sip from the thermos, her hands trembling slightly.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think maybe guilt is proof that we’re still connected? That empathy didn’t drown with everything else?”

Jack: “Maybe. But it can’t be the only proof. At some point, you’ve got to let the dead rest and let the living breathe.”

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) “Then maybe survivor’s guilt isn’t something to erase. Maybe it’s something to transform.”

Jack: “Into what?”

Jeeny: “Gratitude. Purpose. A reason to be gentle with what’s left.”

Host: Jack looked at her, the faint wind brushing across his face, his eyes softening — grey turning silver beneath the weak moonlight.

Jack: “You really believe we can turn guilt into grace?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But sometimes, yes. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow — but eventually. Because if pain can destroy us, maybe it can also remind us to live honestly.”

Host: A wave rolled higher, splashing their shoes. Jeeny laughed — a quiet, startled sound that seemed to wake something in the night. Jack smiled faintly, his first in a long time.

Jack: “You’re right. Maybe the brilliance of life isn’t something to hide from. Maybe it’s what keeps us from turning into ghosts ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We can’t give the storm more power than it deserves.”

Host: The moonlight caught the edges of the broken pier, turning ruin into something almost beautiful. The wind carried away the last scent of the sea, replacing it with the crisp stillness of dawn.

They sat there in silence, watching the first pale light stretch across the horizon. The ocean seemed calmer now, as if listening.

Jeeny: “We survived, Jack. That has to mean something.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “It means we get another chance to do better. To live — not despite the storm, but because of it.”

Host: The sun began to rise — faint, fragile, but insistent. The world, still scarred, glowed gently beneath its light.

And for a brief, breathtaking moment, both of them simply breathed — not in guilt, not in sorrow, but in awe of what remained.