After years away, I returned to the island that has always held a sacred place in my heart. What I found was a mix of heartache, healing, and the unshakable spirit of a place that still feels like home.
I woke up this morning feeling every bit of the travel from yesterday—tight shoulders, a tender back, and that stiff ache that comes with age. But even more overwhelming than the physical soreness was something much deeper: gratitude. Not the kind you casually toss around when someone holds a door open. This was soul-deep, lump-in-the-throat, tears-pricking-my-eyes kind of gratitude.
I was back.
Back on Man-O-War Cay.
Back in the place that has lived in my heart for as long as I can remember.
It’s hard to put into words what this tiny island means to me. It’s not just a vacation spot. It’s history. It’s heritage. It’s love passed down from one generation to the next. My parents—Newell and Anna—became dear friends with Marcell and Tenie Albury over seventy years ago, and that friendship bloomed into something that never faded. Even after all this time, even across miles and years, that connection endured. I’ve carried it with me my whole life.
When my parents asked Tenie and Cell to be my godparents, they chose more than just names for a certificate. They chose people who would shape me, comfort me, inspire me. People who showed me what kindness looked like. I miss them fiercely. But here on this island, I still feel them.
Yesterday, after a long journey, we boarded the ferry from Marsh Harbour to Man-O-War and I was able to catch up a bit with Connie on the ride. And then, at the end of the dock, there she was—my lifelong friend, Agnes Albury. Waiting for us like no time had passed. That’s how it is here. The years may march on, but the people—oh, the people—remain steadfast. Vanessa and Celine were also there to welcome us and Charmaine was there to help with our bags, smiles wide, like old times. The Lost and Found nestled in behind the Man-o-war Grocery was waiting for us, and when I looked around, the same bright yellow cottage what’s exactly how I remembered it and the same gentle sway of the palms was like stepping back into a memory.
We had dinner at the newly rebuilt Dock & Dine, right on the edge of the water. The air was thick with the scent of grilled crawfish—what they call lobster here—and then we joined Agnes, Blake, Karen, and Neville to watch the sunset melt into the sea. And for a moment, I forgot all the pain this island has suffered.
It hasn’t been easy here. Hurricane Dorian did its best to break this place. It tore roofs from homes, shattered boats, uprooted lives. But it couldn’t destroy the heart of Man-O-War. These people—their resilience, their strength, their love for each other—rebuilt not just the structures but the spirit.
This morning, I stepped outside and inhaled deeply. That familiar scent Man-O-War me: salt, sea, and flowers. It’s the fragrance of comfort. Of home. We’re heading to the Man-O-War coffee shop for biscuits and gravy, trying not to undo my recent weight loss. After that, we’ll ride around the island in a golf cart, eager to see what’s changed and what has stayed the same.
I know I’ll see signs of the storm—places that still bear scars. But I also know I’ll see the smiles, the waves, the quiet nods of greeting that remind me why this island feels like no other.
It is still paradise here.
But more than that—it’s a living reminder of love, of legacy, and of the power of community. I am grateful beyond words to be here again. To be embraced by this place. To belong.
And I don’t take a single second of it for granted.
