I recently returned from a vacation in Spain with my kids that turned out to be far more reflective than I’d planned. In the middle of a warm and lazy afternoon, while visiting my cousin, the entire area plunged into a blackout—no electricity, no internet, no cell reception. Within minutes, the usual hum of modern life was replaced by silence, stillness, and a sense of unease. No power. No Wi-Fi. No cell service. Just… silence. 

At first, it seemed like a novelty. A chance to unplug. The kids and I decided to go visit a nearby village and strolled leisurely through the streets while hearing people chatting about a possible cyber-attack. As the hours went on, a strange vulnerability crept in. How do we communicate, get help, or even check the news without our devices? What if the speculations about an attack were true? We were far from home, not sure if there would be any flights to get back home. I couldn’t even message my cousin to let her know I was okay. That unexpected silence held up a mirror to how deeply we’ve come to rely on digital connectivity—not just for convenience, but for security, identity, and reassurance. 

Views of Frigiliana, where we spent the afternoon of the blackout 

This disconnection mirrored something else I’ve been going through: a different kind of vulnerability, one that made me retreat from writing for a while. A few months ago, my Facebook account was hacked. What began as a technical glitch quickly turned into something much more personal. Someone had access to years of memories, connections, and messages. I felt exposed, invaded, and silenced. 

For someone who shares stories, thoughts, and moments with an online community, losing that space felt like losing part of myself. I wasn’t just locked out—I felt watched, imitated, and even erased. 

In both experiences—the blackout in Spain and the hack—I found myself face to face with the same feeling: powerlessness. When you can’t reach out, can’t speak, can’t be you in the digital space, what do you hold onto? This is when you start to feel how fragile modern life really is. 

Our only source of light during the night  

But here’s the thing about vulnerability—it’s uncomfortable but also clarifying. It strips away the noise. It shows you what matters. During those silent hours in Spain, I watched the sky shift colors and shared real conversations with my kids. The afternoon turned into night and revealed a beautiful sky full of stars. And after the hack, I’ve been slowly rebuilding my digital presence with stronger boundaries and deeper intention. 

So, this is my first blog in a while. A small reclaiming of my voice after feeling shut out and shaken. I’m still here. Still sharing. Still wandering and learning. If you’ve ever felt powerless in a world that runs on power—whether electricity or passwords—know that you’re not alone. Vulnerability might make us pause, but it also gives us a reason to begin again. 

Sunrise from our balcony in La Herradura 

“Vulnerability is the birthplace of innovation, creativity and change.” – Brené Brown 

With warmth, 
Dr. O – The Wellness Wanderer