Some journeys I plan, and others seem arranged long before I arrive. Where every delay, every stranger, every gust of wind carries a quiet purpose of its own.
Mine began with a simple desire to see Piha Beach, a wild stretch of coastline outside Auckland where volcanic sand meets the restless Tasman Sea. What unfolded instead was a chain of unexpected encounters, missed flights, and a windswept moment beside a massive rock rising from the surf.
Somewhere in the unfolding of that day, the Most High was guiding my steps toward a revelation I didn’t yet know I needed.
‘New year. New day. New Zealand.’
Those were the words I wrote as I boarded a flight from Los Angeles for a short 3-day trip across the Pacific with a woman who had been my friend and confidant for years. I loved her deeply and without condition.
But the years leading to that flight had been a trial. I underwent emergency surgery that saved my life, and in that moment of vulnerability, the dynamic of our relationship shifted just as my health was declining. The desertion was real and deeply felt.
I focused on the slow work of healing. Balance always returns in its own time. I continued to move with faith in what I carry inside—and in the quiet ways correction arrives when it is needed most.
Still, major aspects of my life were being rearranged, as well as the world at large. I could feel it heighten the moment we landed in Auckland. There was a tension in my friend’s energy that I could not quite explain. I have always been able to read the emotional currents around me, but this felt unfamiliar—a quiet resistance humming just beneath the surface, amplified by the hours she spent doomscrolling through the darkness creeping across social media and entertainment streaming platforms.
I remember the instinctive hesitation I felt when she reached for my phone, a need to protect my own digital space from the shadow she was carrying. But she did use it. In the tangle of setting up our numbers together years ago, the algorithm fused us. To this day, her name still flashes on the caller ID when I reach out to the world. It is a lingering, unwanted ghost in the machine.
I spent our last trip trying to shove down a sense of dread, choosing instead to focus on the scenery.
The first thing I wanted to do after a solid night’s sleep was drive to Piha Beach—the one place I’d been talking about incessantly since before we even left.
Instead, my friend insisted we take a ferry to Rangitoto Island, claiming that Piha was too far a drive. It was a flimsy excuse; we had time to spare. But rather than argue, I let the plans change. I suspect the real culprit wasn't the clock, but fear of us driving on the left-hand side of the road.
For a moment I was upset. I had traveled halfway around the world and the one place I longed to see suddenly seemed out of reach.
Yet something unexpected happened on that ferry.
The wind coming across the harbor began to clear my energy the way ocean wind often does. I stood near the bow beside a couple and filmed the moment as the boat cut through the water. The air felt powerful, cleansing even.
It was the first sign that something larger was already unfolding.
By evening we were back in downtown Auckland. Small disagreements surfaced again. Something subtle but persistent lingered between us.
The Airport Chaos
The next morning we headed to the airport for our return flight to Los Angeles. Chaos met us at the terminal doors.
Flights were canceled. Others were overbooked. Passengers argued with airline staff across the counters while lines stretched in every direction.
Our flight was delayed and overbooked.
My friend got on the flight. I lost my seat.
Standing nearby was an older man who had just kissed his wife goodbye after learning she would be leaving without him. We exchanged the weary glance of travelers suddenly stranded in the same situation. He was from Alaska and worked as a hunter.
We sat together for hours sharing a meal and stories while waiting for standby lists to move. I asked him endless questions about life in Alaska, about the wilderness, about hunting and the rhythms of a place so different from the one I knew. For a moment, the chaos of the airport faded into the background.
Eventually he found a route home through Japan that would connect him back to Alaska. Before leaving, he tried to help me do the same, but the airline staff assisting me would not accommodate the request. Too many travelers were already attempting similar reroutes. So our paths separated there in the terminal.
I accepted what the airline told me: enjoy the day, sleep in the airport and try again in the morning. I stepped outside for a moment of fresh air.
George and the Road to Piha
Near the entrance sat a small Airstream espresso café. Grateful for something warm, I ordered a flat white and sat for a while watching the steady flow of travelers passing through.
Across the way stood a couple in their early sixties sharing a quiet embrace. Their tenderness was unmistakable. I could hear fragments of their conversation as they spoke softly with New Zealand accents about plans that had suddenly changed.
When I stepped into line behind them to order a sandwich for later, the woman struck up a conversation after noticing my leather overnight bag. I made it by hand, and she admired the craftsmanship.
Her partner’s name was George.
Soon the three of us were talking like old friends.
When I mentioned that I had traveled all this way but never made it to Piha Beach, she looked genuinely distressed for me.
Then she turned to him and said something I will never forget. “George, go out and have an adventure. Take Yasmina to Piha.”
He lived near Piha, which was only forty-five minutes away. Moments later we were driving there together.
In that moment I understood something quietly: sometimes the Most High rearranges an entire day just to place you exactly where you are meant to stand.
The Rock
Piha Beach is wild in a way photographs struggle to capture.
Wind rushed off the Tasman Sea with such force that walking across the sand felt like pushing against resistance itself. The surf rolled in heavy waves. The sky shifted in layers of gray.
And there it was.
A massive rock rising from the water like something ancient and immovable. Standing there, leaning into the wind just to stay upright, the metaphor arrived without explanation.
Life had been gathering force around me in much the same way. Relationships, work, identity. Everything moving under pressure.
Yet the rock did not move.
It simply stood.
The Exchange
During the drive, George told me he had recently been pushed out of his teaching job because of his age. What he feared losing most was his connection to literature and his students.
So I suggested something he had never considered before. I told him he could start a YouTube channel where he could set up a potential new revenue stream while continuing to stay connected with students worldwide.
Teaching had changed. The classroom had simply expanded. By the time we returned to the airport that evening, George had a clear path forward. I walked him through the practical steps he would need to begin. My background leading interactive design teams in a corporate environment proved invaluable this day.
He gained a sense of direction.
I gained a perspective shift: that 'inconveniences' are often just divine appointments in disguise. It was a mutual rescue; we each carried the key the other needed most.
The Storm Arrives
I slept in the airport that night. Peacefully. Full. Grateful.
Morning arrived, and the terminal was alive with the hum of travelers who, like me, had been tossed onto the standby lists from hell. I was certain I would get on the first and only flight out to Los Angeles. But certainty was a luxury I would not have.
The flight did not materialize. I faced another night at the airport, resigned to a chair as my bed. Coffee became a necessity. When I went to pay, I realized my credit card wallet had been left in my friend's carry-on bag. The Alaskan traveler had covered our meal, and I used the cash in my pocket to pay for my coffee and sandwich from the day before. I hadn't needed my credit card once—until that moment. I was stranded in a foreign country with almost nothing. Panic bubbled for a moment but I remembered Piha Beach, the wind, the rock, and the energy. Those memories steadied me.
I reached out to my friend. Her phone had been off, and when I finally connected, her response was flat: “You’ll be fine, sit tight, you’ll get on a flight. Just don’t leave the airport.”
I caught the silence beneath her words, and just like that, the veil fell. It’s funny how the universe waits until you’re at your limit to show you people for who they really are. I didn't want to worry my family, so I stayed quiet. My friend knew I’d try to fix it alone, so she just... waited. If it were her in this nightmare, I would have been in "make it happen" mode before she could even finish a sentence. It was a hard thing to admit, but I finally saw the distance between us. We weren't cut from the same cloth at all.
I spent the day meditating, reading, and reviewing the photos from Piha Beach. The next morning, the same uncertainty awaited me. This time, the ticket agent, sensing my strain, offered a route—though it would take me away before bringing me home. I would fly to Australia, spend the night, then connect to Los Angeles. Patience became a quiet practice, and I accepted the unknown.
Arriving in Australia, the airport was chaotic. Flights were rerouted, seats scarce. I found a quiet spot, shut my eyes, and succumbed to exhaustion. My regular intermittent fasting was a saving grace, though the travel was still grueling. I slept deeply, until an old man literally shoved me awake. When I opened my eyes, the world had shifted. The terminal, once buzzing, was now so quiet you could hear a pin drop. I was alone—save for the old man vacuuming the floor. Eternally surreal. Another sign from the Most High—a gentle jolt, a precursor to the shock awakening I would experience a year later.
“Hey! You can’t be here. You must go.”
I had no idea travelers weren’t allowed to remain overnight. Options seemed gone. Then my friend called. Calmly, I asked her to kindly secure a hotel room for the night under my name, complete with breakfast and transportation back to the airport in the morning. She did, but the attitude in her voice was unmistakable. I understood the lesson: the small signs had been ignored, so the bigger ones arrived. The Most High had orchestrated it all—not to punish, but to illuminate me. What would possess her to treat me so poorly? I didn't have a name for it until after my awakening: I was witnessing a dark, inverted energy taking hold of someone I loved.
That night, I prayed. For us both.
Coming Home
The next morning, I felt renewed. The last standby seat on a non-stop flight to Los Angeles was mine.
After days of uncertainty, I finally returned home.
But something fundamental had shifted inside me.
Life would soon balance the scales of injustice. Harm left unchecked is never overlooked by forces beyond human understanding.
The Lesson of the Rock
Piha Beach was not just a destination. It was a warning.
It marked a significant chapter in my awakening journey: becoming, aligning, and stepping more fully into my purpose. Some lessons cannot be learned from books, nor can they be borrowed through shortcuts like a God-forsaken ayahuasca trip others choose. Awakening is a blessing, though it rarely feels like one while walking through the challenges that illuminate our way back to oneness.
It is formed by moving through it all—the unimaginable betrayals, the sudden jolts, and coming out the other side holding more peace, grace, and alignment than ever before.
Like the passage in the Gospel of Luke where the shepherd allows the sheep to wander yet brings them home before the storm fully breaks, I believe the Most High placed that moment before me as preparation.
The wind.
The sea.
The unmovable rock.
They showed me exactly what was coming.
Life would soon prune away what no longer belonged in the next season of my journey. Some relationships would fall away. Some illusions would dissolve.
But something stronger would remain.
Truth has a gravity to it. When you live in alignment with it, the universe moves to restore balance around you in ways human logic cannot always see.
The rock at Piha stands unmoved by the wind.
And in the hardest seasons of life, that is the invitation placed before us: become the thing that stands.
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