01/18/2026
Blown Back to Whole Foods
Sarasota decided to cosplay as Chicago this morning.
A full-on winter storm rolled through, and while the real snow stayed up on I-10 in the Panhandle, the wind made its presence very known down here. As a born-and-raised Floridian who is normally built for 90â100 degrees and ocean humidity, I usually vote for heat over cold. But as I get older, Iâm learning to appreciate the novelty of winter⌠as long as itâs brief and doesnât involve shoveling anything.
Mom and I stuck to our usual Sunday ritual. I picked her up, and we headed downtown for our three-and-a-half to four-mile walk. We parked, layered up, and stepped out of the garage like two people who thought they understood wind.
We did not.
The second we rounded the corner toward Whole Foods, we were smacked with what felt like a 25â30 mph gust. The kind that doesnât ask permission. Mom physically took a step backward, I grabbed her elbow, and she said, âNo, no, no. I donât think we can walk in this.â
And I said, âYeah⌠youâre probably right. Letâs just go get coffee.â
So we turned toward Whole Foods.
Correction:
We were blown toward Whole Foods.
There is a difference.
Mom, in her camouflage Elmer Fudd hat, and me, in my epic Alf hat, leaned into the wind like two cartoon characters in a hurricane. At one point we werenât walking so much as being escorted by the atmosphere. We didnât stroll back to Whole Foods â we were delivered there.
And we laughed. A lot.
Those are the moments I know Iâll miss someday. The ordinary, ridiculous, tender ones. The ones where nothing âbigâ happens, but everything meaningful is there: love, shared time, humor, and the quiet awareness that this is a gift.
Twelve years ago, on January 26th, my mom was given the gift of recovery. And because of that, I get mornings like this. Coffee dates. Wind battles. Elmer Fudd hats. Honesty. Laughter. Presence.
My mom is raw. Sheâs unpolished. What she thinks usually exits her mouth without consulting a filter. Sometimes it makes me pause. Sometimes it makes me laugh. And always, at the end of the day, it makes me love her even more. She is a rare breed â the kind of authentic, resilient, imperfect, deeply good human that the world doesnât produce in mass quantities anymore.
She has survived a lot. She has grown a lot. And she is exactly who she is supposed to be.
I love her so much.
She is one of the kindest, most caring, most thoughtful people I will ever know.
And today, we didnât walk the miles we planned.
But we were blown exactly where we needed to be. đ
by: Dr. Kimberly Benson LMHC