Sometimes in life, an unexpected storm appears and disrupts everything you have planned. Most of the time, it’s a metaphorical storm. Over the years, I’ve learned that so much of life is determined not by the storms themselves, but by how we respond to them.

As my dad always says, “Life is how you handle Plan B, because you rarely get Plan A.”

A month ago, I decided to do the Overnight Walk. My heart wanted to do it, and my head figured out how to make it work. Even with a work trip that would have me flying directly to Chicago and an early flight home on Sunday morning, I knew I could do it. It would require careful planning and efficiency, but I was determined.

From the very beginning, I knew time would be my biggest challenge. Getting off Navy Pier took much longer than expected because of bottlenecks and crowds. With every mile marker I passed, I found myself checking the clock. My anxiety grew as I calculated how little margin I had left to make my flight.

Then, just after mile five, everything changed.

Volunteers instructed us to find shelter immediately. A massive storm was moving in, bringing lightning and dangerous weather. Hundreds of walkers crowded into a parking garage and waited.

For an hour, we stood there. An hour that wasn’t part of my plan. An hour that made an already tight schedule feel nearly impossible.

As I stood there watching the rain pour down outside the garage, I couldn’t help but think about how often life feels exactly like this. You have a plan. You’ve done the preparation. You’ve worked hard. You’re moving toward something meaningful. Then suddenly, circumstances completely outside your control bring everything to a halt.

After the storm, it became clear that I most likely wouldn’t have enough time to complete the entire walk and still make my flight home. I knew it was reality. I knew there were circumstances completely outside my control. Still, I have to admit that I started to feel guilty. Maybe even a little ashamed.

I was walking for so many people. I had asked for support. I had committed to the challenge. And now I wasn’t going to finish all sixteen miles.

But standing there, I realized something important.

Those feelings of guilt and shame are exactly why I walk.

Our team is called Love Louder because we believe we must love louder than the guilt and shame that are so often associated with suicide. We must love louder than the silence that keeps people from asking for help. We must love louder than the judgment that keeps people feeling alone.

So my friend Jenn and I made the decision to turn around.

In the end, we walked ten miles instead of sixteen.

But we did more than walk ten miles. We showed up. We refused to be silent about suicide. We honored the people whose names were written on my shirt and luminary.

And maybe that’s the lesson the storm had for me all along.

Success isn’t always measured by crossing the finish line exactly as planned. Sometimes it’s measured by showing up when it’s hard, adapting when circumstances change, and continuing forward anyway.

The storm reminded me that we don’t control the weather, the delays, or the obstacles that appear along the way. What we do control is how we respond.

And in the end, whether I walked ten miles or sixteen, every name I carried was remembered. Every story mattered. Every life was honored. That’s what I came to do. And maybe through the storm I learned to love myself a little louder.