I don’t think anyone really expects it—the fall. The moment the floor just… doesn’t hold anymore.

One minute, you’re arguing about what to cook for dinner, and the next? Sirens. Smoke. A knock. An announcement on the news that doesn’t sound real until it is. Evacuate now. Or worse—we did everything we could.

What do you do when the photo albums are ash, the dog is missing, and your heart’s just—cracked? Not shattered. That’s too poetic. More like… hairline fractured in twenty invisible places.

I asked myself this once while sitting in the dark, soaked to the skin, on the hood of a stranger’s car. Hurricane Ida had come and gone. But my neighborhood wasn’t there anymore. Just puddles reflecting a sky that didn’t care.

So.

Step One: Just… Breathe? Or Try To.

Let’s be honest. That first breath after it all goes wrong—doesn’t feel helpful. It feels insulting.

Because how is breathing supposed to fix this?

But you do it anyway. Not because you want to. Because your body hasn’t figured out you’re no longer safe.

Inhale. It burns a little. Exhale. Your hands tremble. Okay. That’s… a start?

And no, you’re not okay. And maybe that’s okay.

Step Two: What Happened? (No, What Really Happened?)

It’s easy to say, “The fire took it all.” Or, “The flood came.” But sometimes, it’s murkier.

Sometimes it’s a text message. Sometimes it’s cancer.
Sometimes it’s your spouse’s silence that lasts too long and says too much.

You lost something. Someone. Some version of your life.
And suddenly the world’s tilted. Sideways. Off-kilter. Blurry. Like when you try to stand up too fast after crying too hard.

Write it down. Or say it out loud. Even if it sounds ridiculous. Especially then.

Naming the monster doesn’t kill it, but it keeps it from growing teeth in the dark.

Step Three: Cling to One Tiny Thing That Still Feels Real

A button.
A text from your cousin that just says “WTF are you alive?”
The smell of your kid’s blanket that didn’t burn.

Something stupid and small and yours.
Don’t rationalize it. That little thing—your new holy relic. It’s proof. You were here. Are here.

When the rest is chaos, the ordinary becomes sacred.

Step Four: Say Yes to Help. Even When It Feels Gross.

I used to pride myself on being the “helper.” The one with snacks in the glove box and emergency numbers laminated in my wallet.

But the first time someone handed me a donated sweater (lime green, two sizes too big, itchy as hell), I wanted to throw it at a wall and scream.

Instead, I said “thank you,” and later, I wore it while standing in line for coffee like it was armor.

Let people love you in their awkward, mismatched, casserole-bringing ways. They’re showing up. That counts.

Swallow the pride. Accept the soup.

Step Five: Begin Again. Badly. Sloppily. But Begin.

Starting over isn’t this cinematic montage of strength. It’s weird. Clumsy. You forget how to do basic stuff—like, what even is dinner when your stove is gone?

You’ll brush your teeth and start crying because it reminds you of normalcy. Of the “before.”
You’ll laugh at a dumb meme and feel guilty five seconds later. Don’t. Just… don’t.

Rebuilding looks like forgetting the mail key for the 4th time in a row. Like budgeting $23 until Friday. Like googling “how to make friends in your 30s” and hating yourself for it.

But also—like maybe one day it won’t feel like drowning in molasses.

Step Six: Make a Plan… Eventually (But First, Sit Still)

Everyone’s gonna tell you to “get back on your feet.”

Sure. Eventually.
But sometimes you gotta just lie on the metaphorical floor for a minute—or a month—and feel it all.

Then when you’re ready? Start small.
Plan your meals. Or your next ten minutes. Or just pick a playlist that doesn’t make you cry.

You don’t need a 5-year plan. You need socks.
And maybe a place to sleep where the ceiling doesn’t leak.

Step Seven: Don’t Silence the Story

Here’s the thing. Most people don’t want to hear about your disaster.
They want your redemption arc, not your rubble.

But screw that. Say it anyway.

You lived through something most people only imagine during nightmares or insurance seminars.
You get to tell that story. And someone out there needs to hear it.

Even if it’s messy. Especially if it is.

Real Talk: You Might Never Be “Fine” Again. But That’s Not the Goal.

We don’t come out of the fire polished. We come out charred and stubborn.

And yeah—some things won’t grow back.
But other things?

They bloom in cracks.

A Few Unreliable, Yet Weirdly Comforting Truths:

1. Pain doesn’t leave quietly. But it does fade into the background eventually. Like elevator music.
2. You will laugh again, and it’ll feel wrong. Laugh anyway.
3. “Normal” isn’t coming back. But something different-good might.
4. You don’t owe anyone your composure. Especially not strangers.
5. Even if it all goes to hell again—you’re not who you were the first time. You know something now.

If you’re sitting there, reading this, wondering how to keep going—

Then maybe that’s the bravest thing you’ve done all week.

Keep wondering.
Keep walking.
Keep whispering, even if your voice shakes: I’m still here.

Even if “here” is a motel room with flickering lights and broken vending machines.

You’re not lost. Just… in between.

And sometimes, that’s where the real rebuilding begins.