Growing up in the late 1900’s in southwest Ohio, my summer days were usually filled with a lot of benign boredom. It was a pre-internet world, so the days were long, but at least once as week, some real entertainment would crop up when the thunderstorms rolled through.

We’d sit on the porch and just watch them.

I’d feel the power of the wind whip around, the sudden coolness of the rain cutting through the thick summer air, and watch the natural fireworks show of the thunder and lightning.

It was completely exhilarating.

Every once in a while, though, the sky would turn a funny, eerie green color. The wind would suddenly get deathly still, and then we’d hear it—a sound like a freight train coming over a hill. Just like that, exhilaration would turn to fear. We’d run for the basement or the storm cellar, hiding under mattresses and blankets while the tornado roared through.

I’ve missed those big storms since I left the Midwest.

For almost two decades, we didn’t really get them here in Central PA. The valley I live in is protected on three sides by mountains, so the severe weather usually goes around us. But lately, largely due to climate change, we’ve started seeing more of those good old-fashioned gully washers.

This past weekend, the worst of them rolled through.

On both the 4th and the 5th, our town got absolutely clobbered by severe storms with confirmed rotation. On Sunday, we did the smart thing and hunkered down in the interior hallway of my apartment, away from windows until it passed.

But on Saturday afternoon, as the wind was picking up, I was sitting in the living room with my kids and three of my friends when I got a funny feeling.

Go move your car.

I said it out loud, and one of my friends asked why.

“I don’t trust the tree it’s parked under,” I said.

They pointed out that they were also parked under trees, and my other friend tried to convince us not to go out in the downpour. But I started putting on my sneakers and grabbing my keys just as a sheet of rain started pounding the kitchen windows.

We made it to the vestibule of the building, and the storm was really picking up. My friend took one look at the horizontal rain , heard a crack of lightning, and changed her mind. “I’ll take my chances,” she said.

But my gut was screaming that I HAD to move the car.

So I gripped my keys and stepped outside.

By the time I crossed the street and got into the driver’s seat, I was soaked. The rain was coming down so hard I could barely see, and the car was literally shaking from the wind. I eased down the street, found a spot on the next block clear of trees and power lines, threw it in park, and braced myself to walk back.

Opening the car door was a struggle, and the wind slammed it shut the second I got out.

Now, if you know me, you know I don’t walk fast, or particularly steadily due to my MS. Trying to navigate a block and a half in a torrential storm was not fun, and required all my concentration. One minute the wind was pushing me up the sidewalk, and the next, it felt like it was shoving me backwards. Sticks and leafy branches were smacking into me, and debris was flying everywhere.

It was raining so hard that my clothes were plastered to my skin. At one point, a huge gust caught my shirt and flew it completely up, flashing my hot pink bra to the entire neighborhood. Sorry, not sorry to the neighbors when they check their doorbell cameras.

I fixed my shirt, looked up, and the sky had turned that familiar, ominous green.

I walked as fast as I could and finally reached my apartment building. My soggy sneakers squished loudly against the wood floor as I punched in the code and opened the door to my unit.

And just like that, the fury of the storm quieted down.

The door swung open to reveal my kids and my friends, totally dry and unbothered, painting rocks at the table.

“You’re wet,” my youngest laughed.

I laughed too.

I changed into dry clothes and thanked the universe for my cozy home and my loved ones, and the fact that I had a soft, safe place to come in from the storm.

My intuition proved right a few minutes later when we heard a monstrous crack and then a crash. Half of the tree had split, falling right where my car had been parked ten minutes earlier.

Our neighborhood got absolutely hammered.

Two days in a row, two massive storms.

We’re looking at potentially three more days without power, a destroyed cell tower, countless downed lines, crushed homes and cars, and multiple lives lost. But my little corner of the world held together. A couple of cracked windows on the front side of my apartment, but the car, the dog, the kids, and I are safe and dry.

It is not lost on me that the literal weather outside matches the internal landscape of my life right now.

To put it bluntly, this year has been an absolute shit show on every level.

Professionally, I have just survived the hardest few months of my career—and my career history includes running a mobile relief kitchen at Ground Zero after 9/11. That my benchmark for chaos and fuckery, and the things we’ve seen and have dealt with have jumped right on over that bar like it’s on the ground.

Personally, my relationship of a decade dissolved, leaving me shocked, sad, and navigating being suddenly single again. The children and the rest of my family are still reeling, trying to adapt to dynamics and routines that are whipping back and forth like the wind at the moment.

And perhaps worst of all, my church, the place that is supposed to be a spiritual and social sanctuary, is in an absolute dumpster fire of conflict. There doesn’t seem to be a peaceful resolution on the horizon, and honestly, I fear it’s headed for a total collapse, which breaks my heart and absolutely adds to the gathering storm. I’ve grieved the loss of folks I thought were friends, and have cried many tears for the community that held me through one of my worst storms ever when I left the Army.

There are lots of moments right now when I feel like I am standing out in the blinding rain, the sky is green, the wind is too much, and I can’t find the way home.

And I get scared.

But that moment on Saturday afternoon when I walked into my apartment, it really did give me the clarity I needed to start thinking beyond the wind and the rain.

When you are in the thick of a personal tornado, you can’t stop the wind from blowing.

You can’t force the green sky to turn blue, and you can’t single-handedly fix the damaged structures around you.

Sometimes, you just get wet.

Sometimes your shirt blows up, you lose your footing, and you end up looking a little ridiculous while fighting just to walk a block and a half.

The work isn’t preventing the storm.

We can’t do that. It’s out of our control.

The work is learning to recognize when your gut says move, having the courage to step out into the rain even when people tell you to stay put, and knowing where your real shelters are.

We can find our storm shelters in the smallest places.

It’s in a room full of love and laughter.

It’s in a kitchen where people are painting rocks.

It’s in the laughter of a child who thinks your wet underpants are hilarious.

It’s in the people who don’t care that you are dripping wet, as long as you made it through the door.

If you are out in the storm right now—if you are navigating a divorce, a career collapse, spiritual homelessness, or just the heavy weight of an unstable world—I hope you trust your gut.

I hope you keep walking, even when the wind is shoving you back.

And more than anything, I hope you find your door, pull it open, and find a soft, safe place to finally let your shoulders drop.