Amelie Brazelton

Author: AGBrazelton

  • Anna Maria Island- Through the waves of time

    Anna Maria Island- Through the waves of time

    “Think of the worst snow storm, except it’s sand,” said Kim Carlin, describing the wreckage that had ruined their home on Anna Maria Island, Florida. 

    In the fall of 2024, Hurricane Helene followed by Hurricane Milton historically wrecked the Tampa Bay area, an event that residents never expected. The last major hurricane hit the bay over a hundred years ago, then acting as more of cautionary lore than a real threat. As the tourism industry grew and the population boomed, the close calls with hurricanes gave residents a sense of security. Until mid-October of 2024.

    Anna Maria Island is a small part of the Tampa Bay area, roughly between St. Petersburg and Sarasota, Florida. If you go over the Sunshine Bridge, past sleepy Palmetto, and through Bradenton, you’ll be met with a little slice of paradise. Only 7 miles long and 10 blocks wide. The petite island is packed with beach cottages, old Florida style condos, local art galleries, and end to end beaches. 

    Dorothy Carlin has lived on Anna Maria Island for nearly 50 years, back before the tourist traffic and scantily clad spring-breakers. She remembers a time when an old woman lived on the island and armed a shotgun, threatening tourists that invaded the area. The pristinely graded sand beaches didn’t exist yet, instead, mangroves and forest manned most of the island. 

    Photo taken by Kim Carlin of Anna Maria after the hurricanes (2024)

    Her, her husband Bill Carlin, and their son John moved into a two bedroom condominium on the middle-south end of the island, set with a waterfront view and over 150 units of new neighbors. 

    “If we’re going to live out here, I want to live on the water,” Dorothy had told her husband, who had searched for jobs in the area to let them move down from their chilly home in Ohio. Their son John, in eighth grade, ran track and wanted to be closer to a coach in Sarasota. That wasn’t their only motivation though.

    “The sun was shining” Dorothy remembers of their trip to her grandmother’s in the area, which ended up encouraging them to move down south. The dreamy landscape was a direct contrast to the cold, brutal winters they experienced in Ohio and the family was ready for a change.

    While searching for jobs, her husband Bill had put on his resume the line, ‘If I could live in Florida, it would be Heaven’. When he received the call from his new employer at the Winter Haven truss plant, their first line to Bill was, “This is heaven calling”.

    Image of old Anna Maria Island from Get Your Guide

    Her, her husband Bill Carlin, and their son John moved into a two bedroom condominium on the middle-south end of the island, set with a waterfront view and over 150 units of new neighbors. 

    “If we’re going to live out here, I want to live on the water,” Dorothy had told her husband, who had searched for jobs in the area to let them move down from their chilly home in Ohio. Their son John, in eighth grade, ran track and wanted to be closer to a coach in Sarasota. That wasn’t their only motivation though.

    “The sun was shining” Dorothy remembers of their trip to her grandmother’s in the area, which ended up encouraging them to move down south. The dreamy landscape was a direct contrast to the cold, brutal winters they experienced in Ohio and the family was ready for a change.

    While searching for jobs, her husband Bill had put on his resume the line, ‘If I could live in Florida, it would be Heaven’. When he received the call from his new employer at the Winter Haven truss plant, their first line to Bill was, “This is heaven calling”.

    Dorothy’s memories of the old island tell of a dreamy oceanside lifestyle. After learning how to catch blue crab in the bay, her son John sold them and saved up enough money to buy a John boat. Today, Dorothy says “We had blue crab coming out of our ears, I don’t like it anymore”. 

    Afternoons were spent digging up clams for a clam bake, strawberry picking inland, and collecting shells on the beach. Dorothy fondly remembers bringing floats to Siesta Key, an hour drive from the island, to use to collect sand dollars that she dove for with her family. 

    “My son grew up in that bay”, she recalls. A shell enthusiast herself, she loves where she lives. She routinely wears a  gold chain and shell charm of a ‘chinese hat’ that her late husband gave her for their fiftieth anniversary. 

    Even as she tells of the destruction that her long time home faced she says, “I never regretted living there, when you live there you are signed up for whatever.”

    Despite knowing that, when her and her daughter left for the first hurricane, they only packed enough clothes for the weekend, expecting to be back in a few days. “All those years, we never had a bad storm” she remembers, explaining her reasoning for only bringing a box of family photographs from her storied condo. 

    Crabs found in the bay outside of Dorothy’s condo, taken by Amelie Brazelton (2025)

    Now the two women are living with a friend of Kim a short drive from the island. Once access to the island was open again, Kim and a friend trekked a mile in flip flops from the bridge to the island to grab what clothes they could and her mother’s medication. Later on, they relied on friends from church and a boat taxi service to take what they could from the water logged home. 

    Kim lost her laptop in the flood, left next to her bed while her second laptop, balancing on a cooler flipped and left it unusable. “Picture everything in the water” she says “I have bills but they won’t accept that anymore”.

    “I hope we don’t lose that old Florida feel”, Kim laments, worrying about what the recovery for the island will look like. Even before the hurricanes hit, the island had already changed significantly from the quiet, local scene it used to be. Tourism in the island has increased drastically over the past few decades, transforming it into a completely different landscape.

    The owners of the island have changed, “It used to be that 5-10% of condos were rentals, and now it’s flipped,” Kim explains. The two women don’t know their neighbors anymore, losing the sense of community that the condominium used to have with happy hour by the pool and sharing meals in the club house. 

    Empty condos with trash outside of them, Dorothy’s neighbors. Taken by Amelie Brazelton (2025)

    Dorothy’s son, John, used to dress up and take the island trolley to Bible school by himself on Sunday mornings. “It’s changed, I don’t know if I’d do that anymore”, Dorothy shares. Though she thinks the tourists are kind, the island doesn’t have the same safety she felt before. 

    Even before the hurricane effectively leveled the island, the environment was already changing. The abundant sea life of the bay that Dorothy remembers doesn’t exist anymore, at least not in the numbers that it used to.

    Though her favorite wildlife, dolphins and manatees, are still visible from her condo porch, the environment has changed. Many manatees show off scars from boat motors on their backs, and dolphins frequently become injured by fishing nets and debris found in the sea water. Though a tourist’s trip to the island may only last a weekend, the effects of their stay leave a lasting imprint on the island. Despite the fond memories of hosting clam bakes with her family and watching her son catch blue crab, Dorothy doesn’t trust the bay anymore. 

    “Today I don’t want to eat anything out of there (the bay)” Dorothy shakes her head. 

    The influx of tourists has changed the nature of the island as well, with the sand beaches being filtered for shells to be sold or used in concrete. As a shell lover herself, Dorothy remembers when she could find conchs in the bay and shells scattered the beach. She expresses, “I think they (tourists) ruined it. Everything has changed.” 

    The revolving door of sun burnt tourists has changed the feel of the island, but despite that, Dorothy can’t wait to move back when the condo is renovated. Now, they will be better prepared for the next storm season with hurricane proof windows and water proof cement board to prevent flooding. Today, the question is if Anna Maria will maintain the old Florida feel that Dorothy loves when it has a chance to rebuild after the mess of the hurricanes. 

    “It’s probably the best place on earth,” Dorothy laughs, “I’m trying to die there”

    “You might make it”, Kim agrees.

  • Active to Semi(Immobile)

    Active to Semi(Immobile)

    “It’s going to be hard for your body to adjust when you’re normally so active”, I remember my grandma had told me through the phone as I leaned my crutches against my bed. One leg sticking behind me like a flamingo, the plastic rattled as it fell, the sound echoing in my brain like I imagined the metal of handcuffs. Hours earlier I had been marveling at the beauty of nature, perched on a mangrove while carefully untangling a thick rope from its roots. As I stood on the thin root, my balance shifted incorrectly and I crashed into the tree, the foot I had been leaning my weight on suddenly in agony. 

    Feeling the rough, cool branches under my cheek, I took two deep breaths and stood, ignoring the searing pain in my left foot. I rarely get injured, my last trip to urgent care taking place when I was ten and tripped off my Razor scooter. Which is why I thought that my body was overreacting, an idea I was quickly discouraged from as I sat on the toilet seat and watched a flap of skin flip up from between my toes. 

    A trip to urgent care and a CVS stop to buy crutches later, the only time I had cried during the ordeal was when I realized that I wouldn’t be able to run or work for a week. The pain of being limited from my half marathon training hurt more than the gash in the ball of my foot. 

    If only I’d known, it wouldn’t be just running that I would miss. Today marks day four of crutches, and my perspective on movement has completely shifted. The first trip to the grocery store where I was stuck on an electric scooter while people moved easily around me was a sneak peek to the rest of my week. I couldn’t carry anything by myself, couldn’t open the door, couldn’t shop for groceries without someone to reach the top shelf for me. 

    My friends in my life know me to be active, waving hello in my sweaty gym clothes, leaving a hang out early to get in my long run or getting up for a second portion to meet my protein for the day. I work out one to two times a day, and frequently clock ten thousand steps per shift at my food running job. Being active is a part of my identity, a major source of my confidence and an outlet to my frustrations. Over years of mental training, it feels less like a chore and more of an opportunity to appreciate my body for all the work it does for me. 

    Now, instead of meeting me with “Damn dude, you look buff”, my friends approach me with pitying faces and an “I’m sorry”. Something inside me aches a little when I meet their eyes, laughing it off and telling them it was my own fault for not wearing water shoes. I see their perception of me shift iin these conversations, morphing the idea of me from someone who had their shit together into a helpless victim of injury. 

    At the same time, the love I feel from them is overwhelming. Of course, I am endlessly grateful for the help my friends have given me. But I wish that I didn’t need it. 

    The aggressive rap music that’s dominated my playlists has become soft indie lullabies, the strength and confidence I felt dissipating with each creaky, three legged step. I miss living without fear of my physical limits, a feeling that I’m learning is incredibly privileged. This time in the world of the semi(immobile) has left me with a new perspective on what being “active” really entails- a healthy, non-disabled body. It changes relationships and jobs, and leads you to develop a perspective on a world where short stairs are a feat of athleticism. 

    Today is the first day that I have walked in a week, and the feeling of freedom is palpable. Despite the ache in my foot and the significant limp I’m sporting, the feeling of walking to my classes with two feet is unmatched. Even after the sores under my arms from my crutches heal, and the pain in my right knee from balancing on it fades, I hope that I remember my time in the semi(immobile) world for a long time after this.

  • A morning with my parents

    A morning with my parents

    The alarm goes off at five thirty in the morning, and the husband rises to the sound of nails scratching on the floor, scattering on the hardwood and running to the door. The dogs clatter downstairs, followed by the husband rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Cold brushes against his face as he opens the door to let them out, the Minnesota winter biting especially fiercely in late January. The husband calls out the dogs names as they run back inside, leaving paw print shaped puddles on the tiled floor. He walks to the coffee machine, switching it on and listening to its hum as it heats up, the high pitched whine similar to that of a motor boat puttering in lake water. 

    Taking a little longer to rise from her slumber, the wife follows the husband downstairs and is met by the sound of the coffee grinder and the welcoming smell of coffee, preemptively jolting her system awake. Glass cups clink against each other as the husband takes them from the sugar cupboard, first pouring the espresso and then the foamed milk, the liquid gently swirling. The couple take their coffee from the kitchen to the living room, sitting with their morning media of choice while the dogs cuddle up next to them. Her nose just peeking out of the plush blanket next to the wife, the youngest dog dozes. Ten years her senior, the older dog rests in his traditional grouchy manner, curled up on the floor by the husband. On an orange loveseat close to the window, the husband sits with his cappuccino and iPad, reading the morning news and sipping espresso. The foam bubbles quietly popping as the cup is drained. His wife writes in her journal, a thin lined notebook yet somehow she never runs out of pages. It is six in the morning, the beginning of their day. 

    At six thirty, they ready themselves in winter gear to take their furry companions on a walk. The husband often jokes to their friends that his wife is a cold blooded reptile, referring to her intolerance to the cold as she dons a long sleeve, sweater, puffer jacket and shell layer. Yet, it’s always told in an adoring manner, how someone describes an intricacy that you would only know by spending copious amounts of time with another, and the look in her eyes when she watches him talk says that she knows this. They don their coats and leash their mutts, stepping out of their brightly lit home where their daughters still sleep and into the winter landscape. Their boots crunch in the snow, the sound mingling with their conversation. “Can you pick up Maddie from her volleyball practice tonight? I have a last minute appointment” she says. “Yup, I’ll grab Penelope from her mock trial practice on the way” he replies. The dogs trot complacently next to them, pausing to sniff an interesting tree then jogging to catch up. 

    They walk around the lake near their home, sharing the moments before dawn discussing the week, the day, and anything else that comes to mind. Despite the frigid terrain, it sets the scene for the valuable time that the couple spend together. As not parents, but simply a couple. Raising three girls together is a full time job, one that doesn’t allow for much free time. So, they’ve created this routine, practicing it every day in their many years of marriage, sharing the first few hours of a new day with their best friend. Each other.

  • A reflection on my study abroad

    A reflection on my study abroad

    The memory of my first weekend of my study abroad in Seville is blurry. It comes back to me as a strange mix of “Will I look too American if I wear this?”, fumbling speaking Spanish and accidentally sleeping until two in the afternoon. Yet, through the confusion, an excitement and hope for my semester prevailed, an experience that would ultimately live up to my study abroad dreams. 

    Sevilla is easily one of the most beautiful cities I have lived in. The Giralda Tower works as the center of the city, a beautiful blend of Gothic and Renaissance architecture. In typical European fashion, the streets are slim and cobblestoned, so that only the most talented Uber drivers can maneuver them. Orange trees line the sidewalks, thick with fruit, a sight that I was lucky to see in my final month there. The bright pops of color on the street are fantastic, so different from the fall leaves at home yet sparking a similar joy. Cheap glasses of wine and sangria, walks in Maria Luisa Park. As someone who was raised in the south of Minneapolis, Minnesota, being unable to see the horizon irked me. The lack of lakes was mostly made up for by the lovely parks, with beautiful tiled fountains and wire wrought benches to sit. I loved the cafes, the ease in buying a cafe con leche and a pastry. Yet, even when I was feeling my most independent, traveler self, I had my moments of rejecting the Spanish ways. 

    A weekly Starbucks trip to appreciate their gingerbread lattes and free Wifi grounded me to my American roots. Sometimes you can’t beat the feeling of buying overpriced coffee from a chain store, that’s the same everywhere you go. Even with my experience with living abroad, there are so many things to love about a good old Starbucks refresher.

    As someone who has been fortunate enough to travel quite a bit for my age, each time I leave the U.S. it reminds me of how much I love being home. Travel is one of my favorite ways to spend time, and meeting new people, learning new words, tickles my brain in a way that I can’t describe. It draws out a side of me that feels so genuine, so curious and so excited. I can’t imagine there being a high quite as great as that. I feel in touch with myself, forced to pull on different skills and strengths that I didn’t know I had before. But as much as I love it, once it’s time for me to check into my flight I am ready to move on. 

    Any kind of high requires there to be lows to exist. The awe of travel was lost on me by mid November, when I craved normalcy and a routine that involved going to bed at 10pm instead of eating dinner at that time. Cultural differences are hard, and Spanish customs are nearly the opposite to the habits that I keep in my regular life. Late dinners and early wake up times, clubbing until seven in the morning, and the lack of protein and vegetables really got to me. In an effort to become more Spanish, gain more from my experience, I lost touch with the important things that keep me ticking. Drinking more than two cups of water a day. Exercising regularly. Getting enough sleep. By the end of my experience, I was so ready to go home to the states and enjoy a culture that normalizes carrying around thirty two ounce water bottles. 

    While travel is one of my favorite pastimes, I’ve learned to enjoy it the most in moderation. I am incredibly grateful for the perspective my experience in Spain gave me, and the appreciation for my ten PM bedtimes. Travel is wonderful because you can have these life changing experiences and bring them back to the place that you love most. I hope for everyone that that place is home.

  • Malaga, La Manquita

    Malaga, La Manquita

    *From end of October, 2024

    Studying abroad, I have found a new and unexpected love: art and cathedrals. Fortunately, Spain offers an abundance of beautiful, ancient cathedrals to choose from and I think I have found my favorite in Málaga, Nuestra Señora de la Encarnación.

    On a Wednesday, I took the train from Seville to Malaga and met up with my friends at the apartment and then went out to dinner. They were my sweet companions for the weekend, bearing with my requests for fifteen more minutes in each section of the church.

    The construction of the cathedral began in the sixteenth century, built to replace its successor, the El Hammas Mosque. As an image of Castilian power, the cathedral was commissioned to be made by Queen Isabella I of Castile and King Ferdinand II of Aragon so no one would doubt the might of the monarchy. The original design was created by Diego de Sileo, a popular architect of the era that is famous for his work on the cathedral of Granada. Throughout time, the cathedral grew to incorporate a variety of artistic styles such as Gothic, Baroque and Renaissance with the help of talented architects like Jose Martin de Aldehuela and Pedro de Mena. 

    Unfortunately, grandeur comes with a cost and the government of Malaga could not keep up with the cost of the cathedral. Even going so far as to put a tax on the boats that came into the Malaga harbor in an attempt to continue construction. It is unknown where the money ended up going, likely to other expenses within the city, but the cathedral was never finished. This is how the cathedral earned its nickname, La Manquita, meaning “the one-armed lady”. Locals of Malaga are still fighting for the last tower to be completed and for the cathedral to meet its potential, but many still think that it is too late and too expensive to complete the task. It doesn’t help that construction had to stop multiple times due to pieces of the ceiling crumbling internally due to the sheer weight of it. 

    The art collection inside of the cathedral is vast, with a highlight being “The Beheading of Saint Paul”. The work of a famous Valencian painter, Enrique Simonet Lombardo, is notable because Saint Paul’s head is bleeding instead of spurting milk as was written in the apocryphal work. This work is meant to serve as a reminder of the sacrifices that Christians have made throughout time, a particularly strong message in such a strong and beautiful cathedral surrounded by other Christian works. Another piece that was particularly striking was the choir, carved out of mahogany by Pedro de Mena in a Baroque style. The forty-four distinctly different characters offer a feast for the eyes, as you can see each dimple and fold in a cloak in the sculpture. De Mena’s work lives on in its life-like qualities, giving Christianity’s figures real life qualities with the care of his chisel. 

    Though it is likely obvious, the cathedral and the art it held was my favorite part of the excursion. I love to see how love and passion manifest into art, especially in relation to religion. Religion represents such a strong force through our society, culture and history and much of it is based on trust and belief. Despite not being a religious person myself, I can feel the energy flow through these spaces with such a force that I am often brought to tears. I think it is beautiful and appreciate the products of that effect whenever I can.

    The day, like all do, came to an end and my friends and I retired to the apartment to make dinner and enjoy the final hours we had together. After enjoying a two-day trip traipsing through the central tourist city of Malaga, we were ready to sit down with a glass of wine and enjoy just each other’s company for a while. The end to our time together came on Saturday morning when we went our separate ways to the airport and train station, leaving me to stare out the window of my train car and hold the memory of the cathedral in Malaga.

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