On the morning of Friday, October 9, I took a video of the Pacific Ocean from my balcony. The waves were unusually large, rolling toward shore in enormous ripples, one after another. The night before, I'd noticed that I could hear the waves much louder than usual. When I woke up and saw the ocean, I wondered if the conditions had something to do with Hurricane Polo, which had recently passed through the eastern Pacific.
I had no idea that, within a few hours, the ground beneath me would begin to move.
It was just before 1 p.m. I was sitting at my kitchen table, diligently working on updating the wearable art in my online shop, when my entire building began shaking violently.
This was my second earthquake since arriving in Panama in July. On August 10, I had felt the earthquake centered in Colombia, but this was nothing like that. The building was moving so violently that I couldn't believe what was happening.
I knew what I was supposed to do during an earthquake. I had learned the safety advice. But in that moment, I didn't think about any of it. I stood up and tried to surf along with the movement of the building, screaming, "No! No! No!" as though someone might hear me and make it stop.
The windows and sliding glass door were vibrating so hard I thought they were going to shatter. When the violent shaking finally stopped, I put on my shoes, grabbed my go-bag, and shoved my laptop inside.
Living through three hurricanes in Florida in 2024 had taught me to keep a go-bag ready. I was grateful for that preparation, even though, in the shock of the moment, I forgot several important things.
I ran toward the stairwell and encountered a neighbor who looked as shaken as I felt. He exclaimed, "Fuck!" I asked if he was okay. He said he was, and I told him I was heading down the stairs before another earthquake hit. He agreed, and we started down.
I lived on the thirteenth floor. As I descended, I began noticing cracks in the stairwell walls and steps. Pieces of the wall had fallen away. The farther down I went, the more damage I saw. I was frightened, but something in me kept saying to continue. I just wanted to get outside.
When I finally reached the street, a group of people had gathered across the road. I started recording a video to let my friends and family know I was safe, then walked farther away from the building in case it was damaged badly enough to collapse.
Once I was far enough away to stop and catch my breath, my legs gave out and I sat on the ground.
That was when I realized how much my shock had affected me. I had forgotten my charging cables and some of my prescription medications. I hadn't grabbed any water or food, either. All I had was what was in my go-bag and my laptop.
As I sat there talking with neighbors who had also evacuated, I learned that some people had run outside without shoes, while one person had come out wearing nothing but a towel. We were all trying to process what had happened. Someone told us that an old church in Panama had collapsed. We didn't know whether people had been injured or killed, or what the full extent of the damage might be.
I kept feeling something that I can only describe as the earth growling deep underground. It was a strange, unsettling sensation. Even after the strongest shaking had stopped, I felt as though the ground was still moving beneath me. For days afterward, I experienced vertigo, and every aftershock made it difficult to trust what I was feeling.
Then something happened that I will never forget.
A car pulled over beside the road, and an older gentleman got out. He asked if I was alone and handed me a cold bottle of water.
In that moment, he felt like an angel.
His name was Johnny, though he likes to go by Panama Johnny. He had spent nearly fifty years in Panama and told me about his military service, including his involvement in the transition of the Panama Canal to Panamanian control. He was visibly shaken himself, but he was checking on other people and trying to help.
He asked whether I had a car.
I told him I didn't.
"You do now," he said.
Those words meant more than I can explain. I was frightened, exhausted, and far from home. I had no idea what I was supposed to do next. And here was someone I had never met, offering to help me get to safety.
Around the same time, a woman named Wanda was walking up the street with a sense of urgency. Johnny called out to ask where she was going. At first, she didn't want to stop. She said she wasn't sure, but the waves were getting bigger, and she was worried about a possible tsunami.
We had already noticed how unusually high the ocean looked. When I checked my phone, I saw that a tsunami warning had been issued.
Johnny told us to get into his car so we could drive to higher ground.
We made our way toward the Pan-American Highway, where traffic was backed up as people tried to get away from the coast. A friend in Mexico City was texting me information about the tsunami because I was so overwhelmed by everything happening around me that it was difficult to sort through the information myself.
Eventually, the warning was lifted. We decided to return to the building and wait outside to figure out what to do next.
We spent much of the day waiting. Sirens were sounding at our condominium because some residents had refused to evacuate, and the building administration was trying to get everyone out. Aftershocks continued, sometimes only fifteen to thirty minutes apart. Each time the ground moved again, we were reminded that we had no idea what might happen next.
And somewhere in the middle of all that uncertainty, something unexpected happened.
The three of us, Johnny, Wanda, and me, began sharing parts of ourselves that we might not normally reveal to people we'd just met. We talked about our lives, our experiences, and the things we'd been through. Wanda was a Veteran who had served in the Gulf War and Afghanistan. Johnny had his own history of difficult experiences. As we shared our stories, we recognized something familiar in one another.
We were all dealing with our own fears and past traumas, and now we were facing something frightening together. We didn't know how safe our homes were or where we would sleep that night. We didn't know what the next aftershock would bring.
But we weren't alone.
I think there is something about a shared crisis that strips away the usual barriers between people. The small talk disappears. The things we normally use to define ourselves become less important. What matters is whether the person beside you is okay, whether they have somewhere safe to go, and whether you can help each other through the next hour.
Around 3 p.m., the building administration announced that one person from each condominium could go upstairs to collect essential belongings.
I was terrified at the thought of returning to my apartment. But I also knew I had forgotten things I needed, so I decided to go.
I ran up thirteen flights of stairs, entered my condo, and began gathering what I could. I left my suitcases and most of my clothes behind. As I moved through the apartment, I kept thinking that if the building were declared unsafe, I might never be allowed back inside. I had to make quick decisions about which of my remaining possessions I was willing to leave behind.
After spending so much time living with less, I had already learned that I didn't need many things to feel at home. But making those decisions under the possibility of losing everything was different. I was looking at the small collection of belongings I had chosen to carry through this chapter of my life and wondering which ones I could bear to lose.
Then I ran back down the stairs.
By the time I reached the lobby, everyone was gathered inside, but I didn't feel comfortable staying there. I went back outside, where Wanda joined me. Johnny chose to remain upstairs. He was older than Wanda and me, and the effort of navigating the stairs had been too much for him. Wanda, who lived on the twenty-third floor, had made an even longer climb.
Wanda suggested we walk to a little restaurant nearby to get something to eat while we waited to find out what was happening with our building. I'm so glad she did, because that was where I met Judy and Stormi. They had the same idea.
I hadn't eaten all day, and I knew I needed some protein to help me keep going. It was incredibly hot, and Judy had eaten her food quickly and had a few drinks to calm her nerves. Before long, she began feeling faint. I started fanning her while Wanda went to get ice to put on her neck. Thankfully, Judy soon began to feel better.
As we sat together, we discovered that we had more in common than the frightening circumstances that had brought us there. Judy and Stormi were also single women traveling the world on their own, just like Wanda and me. We were all around the same age, each of us out exploring the world independently, and suddenly we were navigating an experience none of us could have anticipated.
It was strange how quickly we began looking out for one another. We had only just met, but there was already a sense of familiarity between us. We were all shaken, exhausted, and uncertain about what would happen next, and being together made the waiting a little easier.
At one point, some of the other people gathered there began dancing to relieve the stress. It was such a surreal moment. We were all strangers brought together by something frightening and completely unexpected, and somehow, in the middle of all that uncertainty, people were dancing. It was a reminder that even when we don't know what will happen next, we can still find moments of connection, laughter, and relief.
By about 6 p.m., we were still waiting for the fire department to inspect the building. When the firefighters arrived, they said they couldn't complete the inspection while significant aftershocks were continuing. They left, and we were once again faced with an uncertain situation.
I had gotten to know Sandra, the building administrator, a woman from Venezuela. When she saw me, we embraced. She looked exhausted. I sat beside her and asked for an honest update.
She explained that only a handful of people in Panama had the expertise to inspect a building like ours and determine whether it was safe. She had no idea when an inspection would happen. The homeowners' association had decided to open one elevator for residents to use, but they couldn't guarantee the building was safe. Anyone who chose to stay would be doing so at their own risk.
I already knew I couldn't stay there. But with so many people displaced, I had no idea where I would go.
Sandra told me that a friend of hers had converted a large house into a hostel and had one room available. I decided to take it.
As I waited for a taxi, Judy reached out to me. She was visiting from London and considering a move to Panama. She had returned to her condominium but was frightened by the continuing aftershocks and needed somewhere to sleep. I told her where I was going and offered to share the room with her.
She accepted.
That night, we slept in shifts. Judy slept first, and eventually I managed to fall asleep, too. Later that evening, another magnitude 6.6 earthquake shook the building where we were staying. We were both grateful that we weren't back in the high-rise.
The following morning, Judy decided to return to the condominium. I extended my stay at the hostel for another night, but I went back with her to collect the rest of my suitcases. I had also made arrangements to leave Panama earlier than planned. I had originally intended to stay another two weeks, but after everything that had happened, leaving Panama early felt like the right decision.
Before leaving, I ran into Wanda and another woman I'd met, Stormi. They were planning to stay. We exchanged contact information, and I gave them the food I'd bought just hours before the earthquake. We promised to keep in touch, and they talked about possibly visiting me someday.
In the days that followed, I began to understand just how fortunate we had been. The magnitude 7.7 earthquake was an enormous event, yet no fatalities were reported as of writing this. At least 27 people were injured, and buildings and infrastructure sustained significant damage in parts of the country. Even so, Panama had been spared the loss of life that can accompany earthquakes of this scale.
I couldn't help feeling that it was a miracle.
I also found myself thinking about the architects, engineers, and construction professionals who design and build Panama's high-rises. I have enormous respect and appreciation for the people whose expertise goes into creating buildings that can withstand powerful forces. Watching my own building shake so violently was terrifying, and seeing cracks and fallen pieces in the stairwell left me questioning its safety. At the same time, I couldn't help reflecting on how much engineering knowledge and careful design matter when people are living and working high above the ground.
I know a building's safety can only be established through a proper inspection, and I don't know what ultimately determined how individual buildings performed. But I felt deep gratitude for the professionals who work to make these structures safer, and for the knowledge and standards that help protect the people inside them.
I also learned that the main earthquake's epicenter was on land, rather than offshore. That detail stayed with me because of the tsunami warning we had received. A powerful earthquake beneath the ocean can displace the seafloor and generate a tsunami, depending on its location and the movement involved. We had no way of knowing in that moment how the ocean might respond. We saw the waves, heard the warning, and had to act on the information available to us.
I keep thinking about how different the situation might have been if the earthquake had originated offshore in a way that generated a destructive tsunami. We were already frightened by what was happening on land. The possibility of the ocean becoming another source of danger was almost too much to comprehend.
I know all of us who experienced that day will carry it with us in different ways. But I will also carry the people I met and the ways we showed up for one another.
Johnny stopped his car and gave me water when I had forgotten to bring any. He offered me a ride when I had nowhere to go. Sandra helped me find a place to stay. Judy and I shared a room and took turns sleeping. Wanda, Johnny, Stormi, and I shared our fears, our stories, and our determination to get through the day.
None of us had planned to meet. None of us knew that morning how much we would come to rely on people who had been strangers just hours earlier.
I've spent much of the past year thinking about how life rarely unfolds the way we expect. I've written about disappointment, resilience, and learning to trust the path even when I can't see where it's leading. But this experience brought those ideas into a much more immediate and visceral reality.
In the face of something we couldn't control, we had to focus on what we could do next. We had to make decisions with incomplete information. We had to accept help, offer help, and trust one another.
I don't know why these particular people crossed my path that day. I don't know whether there is a larger meaning to be found in the timing of it all. But I know how I felt when Johnny handed me that bottle of water. I know what it meant to have Sandra help me find a place to sleep, and to share a room with Judy when we were both frightened and exhausted.
I felt supported. I felt cared for. I felt less alone.
Life can change in an instant. Sometimes it takes something enormous to remind us how little control we actually have, how fragile our sense of safety can be, and how much we depend on the kindness of others.
I hope I never experience another earthquake like that one. But I will carry the people I met that day with me, along with the reminder that even in our most frightening moments, connection is possible. Sometimes the people who help us through a crisis are the ones we never expected to meet.
And sometimes, without realizing it, we become that person for someone else.
I am deeply grateful that, when the earth moved beneath us, we found one another.
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