Tending to Yourself in the Middle of a Storm

Last week’s post was titled “There Is No Emergency.”

Well—funny enough—on the same day it went live, one hit.

A tornado ripped through St. Louis.

In today’s post, I want to share what that’s been like—and reflect on what I’ve noticed (and keep learning) about how we care for ourselves in actual emergencies.

When the warning is real

Friday afternoon, around 2:30 p.m., we got severe weather alerts. But here in St. Louis, we rarely expect tornadoes to actually touch down—especially in our part of the city. Warnings usually turn into big storms, but never this.

Still, I headed to the basement and dragged my labrador down with me—she was too scared to go alone. The kids were at school, and since I didn’t expect much, I didn’t feel too worried. The storm passed quickly, but it roared. Hail pelted the house. I heard branches crash onto the roof.

Then I got a call from my neighbor:

“There are fire trucks outside your house.”

A massive tree in our yard had fallen and was blocking a major road. I walked outside and was completely shocked. It was so much more than I expected.

Community cracked open

I walked through our neighborhood, past 100-year-old trees that had uprooted sidewalks, fallen on houses, smashed cars. I went to my kids’ elementary school and started picking up the bikes in the yard, not wanting them to see their bikes tossed around. Parents were chatting, but I couldn’t really talk. I was crying, and I didn’t feel like crying in front of anyone.

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Power lines made the streets dangerous. Middle schoolers couldn’t get home. Roads were blocked. Live wires sparked fear.

That night, we went out and helped neighbors whose homes suffered worse damage than ours. We breathed in tree pollen, coughed, hugged, listened to stories. The community came together—fast and fiercely. Even writing that brings a lump to my throat.

And, in a world that can often feel divisive – divided by politics, religion or beliefs – it was completely uniting. We were united by branches to haul, stories to share, and human connection. Strangers became helpers. Neighbors became friends. It was one of those rare moments where all the noise dropped away, and what remained was just… care. Real, human care.

The Grief of Green

The next morning, I both dreaded and needed to see how the beloved St. Louis icon—Forest Park—had fared. As I ran toward the park, I traveled down one of the most beautiful streets in the city and saw that about half the trees were gone. My body felt it before my brain could register the loss. Where there were once tree canopies shading the way, there was now clear blue sky, edged by bare treetops.

When I reached the park, I searched for a familiar tree I’ve always loved—the one with the intricate, almost hand-carved patterns in its bark. But it was gone. Forest Park isn’t just a green space; it’s part of our emotional landscape. It’s woven into the wellness of St. Louis. Losing parts of it felt like losing a part of ourselves.

After my run, I returned to the rhythm of a busy Saturday—lacrosse games, ceremonies, events. As I drove one of my kids from place to place, I felt impatient, annoyed, even angry. I didn’t want to be shuttling kids to games. I wanted to be helping my community.

A few things I’m learning (or still working through)

1. Comparative grief is still grief.

Through this experience, I’ve had moments of sadness (or guilt when my power returned) that I later realized is something referred to as comparative grief—a kind of grief tangled up in guilt. Am I allowed to feel this upset when others had it worse? But here’s what I’m learning: you don’t have to earn your grief. If something meaningful is lost—even if it’s not your house or your tree—your feelings are valid.

I’ve felt overwhelmed. And I’ve also felt guilty—our house wasn’t damaged. We’re safe. So why do I feel so sad?

Because sadness doesn’t need to be compared.

Grief shows up when something meaningful is lost.
And watching your community get torn apart is meaningful.

Any “should” around emotions—whether it’s you should feel more or you should feel less—only adds to the suffering. I continue to learn and relearn the importance of letting feelings be felt and felt the whole way through. No mind for that needed.

2. Overwhelm needs to be felt, not fixed.

During the first few days after the tornado, I felt like all my “tools in my toolbox” I use to stay grounded and connected were gone. So I turned to a podcast I had listened to before but needed to revisit from Change Coach, Amy Johnson PhD, on feeling overwhelmed (linked here if you want to listen). She talks about how trying to stop the wave of overwhelm—trying to outthink or suppress it—only makes it worse.

And it’s true.
My brain has been so loud—like it’s scanning constantly:
Am I doing enough? What needs to be done next? Am I missing something? Should I be helping more?
And of course… How are other people doing it? Are they doing more? Better? Differently?

It’s exhausting. But it’s also… normal.
This is just what brains do in chaos. They spin, compare, and try to find control.

It’s helpful to remember that the overwhelm doesn’t always come from the circumstances—it also comes and sticks around by how we think about them.
Sometimes the suffering is from the “second arrow”: the story our mind tells on top of an already hard moment.

If I trust that these feelings are safe and that it’s okay to feel them, I can gently notice the tension in my shoulders or the speed of my thoughts—and use those as cues to pause and breathe, rather than power through.

3. Let people help you. Really.

It’s easy for many of us to go into help or high-functioning mode during emergencies. I’ve never felt more motivated to show up for neighbors, bring donations, rake a yard.

But receiving help? That’s harder.

Our neighbors offered us power and invited us to dinner. It felt amazing to simply show up with some flowers and accept their kindness. No transaction. No guilt. Just receiving.

People want to help. Let them. Believe me, it helps them, too.

4. We all get a little weird in the chaos.

A friend of mine had a huge tree fall in her yard. People kept stopping to take pictures—while she stood there, in the middle of her grief. So she started turning her camera around and snapping pictures of them. Ha.

That kind of behavior? It’s not just weird. It’s invasive.
There’s a difference between documenting a storm and exploiting someone else’s vulnerability.
Someone warming up in their car. Charging their phone at a business. Walking through a neighborhood in pajamas. These aren’t moments for content—they’re human beings navigating crisis.

So yes, this is another post about feeling your feelings—emergency or not.

Because sometimes the storm is outside.
Sometimes it’s inside.
And in both cases, the noise can get loud—especially in our heads.
We compare, question, and scan the horizon for the next thing to fix or do.

But we can also notice that noise. We can see it as a signal, not a failure.
A little blinking light saying, hey, some of this might be coming from the way you’re thinking about it all.

That’s our invitation to pause, to soften, and to remember that even in chaos, we’re still allowed to breathe, to feel, to let love in, to tend to ourselves.

Whether you’re the one showing up or the one being helped.
That’s all part of the healing, too.