Living surrounded by coastal waters, quiet timber and the slow rhythm of the island makes finding peace almost deceptively simple here. When the morning light settles over the rain-softened hills and the pace of daily life slows to the speed of the tide, presence comes naturally. It’s easy to feel grounded when the landscape itself demands quiet attention.

The true test of that peace, however, comes when you leave the shoreline behind.

This October will bring, for me, two distinct journeys far beyond the water. The first is a trip south to Phoenix, Arizona, for an intensive clinical residency requirement for graduate school — a shift into heat, high expectations and rigorous professional scrutiny.

The second, later in the month, is a trek across the country to Southeast Missouri to celebrate my older brother’s wedding, diving into the joyful chaos, crowded spaces and emotional volume of a major family gathering.

Moving from the calm stillness of my island home into two high-pressure, fast-paced environments across the country feels like a sudden shift in frequency. It’s easy to view airports, tight schedules and demanding expectations as immediate threats to internal quiet. But they only become threats if I allow them to be.

It literally took me dying for almost 10 minutes, six weeks in the hospital and a whole year of literally doing nothing for me to discover my peace, keep it and learn what it truly means to stay mindful and to be present.

In Buddhist philosophy, equanimity — or upekkha — is not an escape from the world, but a way of standing firmly within it. The Buddha taught that true peace is not contingent on external conditions; if our tranquility relies entirely on quiet surroundings, then it is merely a sanctuary, not true freedom. 

One of my favorite Buddhist teachers, Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hanh (1926-2022), often reminded his students that our real home is found in the present moment, wherever our feet happen to touch the earth. Peace is not something we stumble upon in a scenic location and leave behind when we board a plane; it is a discipline we cultivate and carry inside us.

High-stress situations only disrupt our equilibrium when we resist the present moment or attach our comfort to specific outcomes. Phoenix will bring its demands, and the family wedding will bring its noise (and Missouri attitude that I don’t miss), but neither environment has the power to pull me out of center unless I hand over the controls. Being fully present means acknowledging the rush around you without letting it set your internal tempo.

When October arrives, leaving the island won’t mean leaving tranquility behind on the dock. The peace discovered here was never tied to the trees or the tides — it was present through them. Carrying that stillness into desert clinical rooms and bustling wedding halls is simply the next step in practicing it.