The Storms Are Getting Stronger, and So Must We
We are learning, again and again, that the earth is no longer steady beneath us.
The winds come harder. The rains arrive faster. The warnings are louder, but still, they are not always heard.
And when the storm hits, there is no time for anything but reaction.
This summer, we’ve already had several flash flood events before we hit peak storm season. And yet, quietly, something else has changed. FEMA, the agency we’ve long looked to for some kind of safety net, has begun to pull back. As immigration demands shift resources, federal disaster aid is no longer what it once was. Fewer people will qualify. Fewer areas will receive support. More of us will be left to figure it out on our own.
And in truth, many already have.
Last year, I went through three hurricanes. I still carry them in my body. The way the air gets heavy, the way the birds disappear, the way the wind does not howl but screams. There is a moment, just before it starts, when you know everything is about to change. You hold your breath. You gather the animals. You text loved ones. And then it begins.
There is no map for what happens next. Some people panic. Some people go silent. Some fall apart and others become strange versions of themselves. You cannot always predict who will rise and who will freeze. I have learned not to judge. We all react to fear in our own strange choreography.
But after the storm passes, that is when the real unraveling begins.
The devastation is not just physical. It is emotional. It is quiet and creeping. Grief arrives in waves. You mourn the trees, the homes, the losses that do not make the news. You carry survivor’s guilt, even when you know it does not make sense. Why did the water stop before reaching your door, but not theirs? Why did your roof hold, but theirs collapse?
And PTSD, though people hesitate to call it that, settles into your nervous system. Every gust of wind sounds too loud. Every heavy rain makes your hands shake. The body remembers, even when the skies are blue again.
Recovery is not equal. Some people have insurance. Others do not. And more often than not, insurance is not paid without a fight. Some have family or money or a strong support system. Many do not. The work of cleaning up is exhausting. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. Some never get back what they lost.
But then something else happens.
People show up. Neighbors you have never spoken to knock on your door with bottled water or a chainsaw. Someone brings you food, even if their own fridge is empty. Strangers form makeshift crews to clear roads, check on elders, and carry what they can. These are the helpers. The quiet ones. The steady hands in the wreckage.
And then there are the others.
The ones who drive in from out of town to prey on what is broken. They buy up materials and resell them at triple the price. They promise repairs they never start. They knock on doors with too-big smiles and empty guarantees. There are gouging laws, but they are often ignored. When systems collapse, protections collapse with them. People get scammed.
So we must become the net that catches each other.
If you are able, help. That is the truth of it. Help someone carry a limb off their roof. Share your generator. Cook extra food and knock on your neighbor’s door. Hold space for their fear and their exhaustion. Listen. Bring water. Offer dignity.
Compassion in crisis is a kind of love that transcends explanation. It brings purpose when everything else feels senseless. It pulls you out of your own despair and into the shared work of tending to what matters.
Because the storms are coming. This much we know.
But how we respond, how we show up for one another, remains in our hands. In a time when federal safety nets are shrinking and the winds keep rising, our humanity becomes the shelter. Our compassion becomes the infrastructure. Our care becomes the plan.
And when the next storm hits, may we remember:
We are not meant to survive this alone.
We were always meant to do it together.
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