The Day the Sky Roared: Thoughts from Inside a T10 Typhoon

A quiet corner by the window with a coffee, a folded book, a sweater, and the kind of stillness that only stormy days seem to allow

When the world shuts down, and I mean shuts down in a way that means you can't go about your daily business, you begin to notice things.

No ferries.

No buses.

No trains.

The sky was loud and low, howling with the kind of wind that demanded attention as it screamed past the windows, forcing rainwater through the slightest gap. Inside, the lights occasionally dimmed, not quite flickering, just a subtle warning that they might go out. Outside, everything had stopped - the usual parade of buses throughout the day and the occasional trucks and cars, the people going about their business; even those trying to walk their dogs were absent. Sheets of rain being driven sideways by the wind that was doing everything it could to find an entry point into the building.

On the 24th floor, the sound was something else entirely. It wasn't just loud, at times it was deafening, and it seemed as if it had a life all of its own. The wind pushed and pulled as it raced around the corridors outside the apartment, whistling up the lift shafts, singing wildly as it forced itself around the door jamb. Meanwhile, on the outside, it pressed against the glass, making them flex like a living thing, breathing slowly in and out. At one point, I could’ve sworn the building swayed. It’s done it before, and when you’re this high up, even the slightest shift feels like the world is taking a breath it forgot it needed.

For hours, the city paused. Not just people, entire systems, routines, movement. Even the people who usually can go anywhere… couldn’t.

And in that strange hush, I started to wonder…

What do we reach for when we can’t go anywhere?

When the world outside is louder than the one inside our heads?

When distraction runs out and the silence creeps in; what rises to the surface?

I imagined that some people opened books they hadn’t touched in months. Others busied themselves by rearranging shelves or cupboards, while some scrolled endlessly, or cooked meals they didn’t have to rush (as I did). But some, and I'm sure others felt it too, just sat looking out of the windows, staring, thinking.

There’s something about a day when everything halts that gives us that very rare permission to stop trying, stop rushing, stop fixing and striving and maybe, just maybe, to simply be.

Somewhere between the howling gusts and the eerie hush that followed as the eye of the typhoon crossed the territory, I started noticing the small things again, the sound of the kettle, the gentle hum of the building. Even the way the curtain moved, ignoring the fact that the windows were closed, and the rhythm of my breath.

There’s something almost sacred about being forced to stay still.

On days like these, I find myself…

Making coffee more slowly, like the pause is part of the ritual. All my appointments for the day, cancelled, leaving me with little to do. Occasionally, watching the sky without checking the time, looking down at the street through the rain when it cleared enough to see it, wondering where the buses were. Thinking about people I haven’t spoken to in a while, even re-reading old messages that meant something once and generally, letting my mind wander to quiet corners. Actually, taking the time to rest and reminding myself that resting isn’t the same as wasting time.

It’s all too easy to see these moments as empty and unproductive. Perhaps, even boring to some, but perhaps they’re not. Maybe they’re what’s underneath everything, you know, the parts of our inner being that only surfaces when the world goes quiet.

Because when the sky roars and the buses stop, and your building sways just enough to remind you that in the great scheme of things, even concrete and steel are temporary, you feel it.

That ache for stillness.

That ache for meaning.

That quiet question that's often drowned out by the noise of our hectic and sometimes chaotic lives

So, my question to you is, what do you do when you can’t go outside?

When the world presses pause, not by choice, but by storm or some other event.

Do you lean into the stillness or resist it?

Do you clean drawers, nap, binge-watch old shows, call someone unexpectedly… or simply sit and let the quiet catch up with you?

At Wellness With Ning, I’m always exploring these quiet in-between moments. Not to fix them, but to notice them and to see what they show us when the noise fades.

If today slowed you down, maybe it’s a gentle reminder: there’s space for calm, even in the storm.