Between the Winds and the Wounds

Sometimes, I think life is just one long cycle of preparing for storms and trying to recover after they pass. It sounds dramatic, but if you’ve ever been through a real typhoon, you’ll understand what I mean. There’s that familiar tension in the air before it hits — the quiet before the chaos. We start securing what we can, making sure everything is in place, but deep down we know we can never really be ready for everything.

When the storm finally arrives, it feels like all you can do is hold on. You just hope that whatever you’ve built can withstand the wind and the rain. You watch as plans get washed away, as things you thought were strong begin to shake, and you realize that sometimes, even with all your preparation, you can still lose parts of yourself in the process.

I still remember Typhoon Yolanda, although not as clearly as I once did. I don’t remember every detail of how it struck us, but I remember us holding hands tightly, trying to get through the flood currents together to reach safety. I remember the uprooted trees, how we evacuated wet and cold, and how empty everything felt when we finally went back. The place looked deserted. I can’t even recall exactly how much damage it brought to our house, but I remember the blackout that lasted until Christmas and New Year. It happened in November, yet it lingered in our lives for months. Those moments now feel vague, but the trauma remains vivid.

Even now, whenever there’s news that a typhoon is heading our way, a quiet worry starts to rise in me. It’s not just about the wind or the rain, but about the possibility of losing everything again. We’ve been gradually improving our house and the comfort of living I can give to my parents, and there’s always that fear that one strong storm could take us back to zero.

Maybe that’s why I’ve learned to see recovery differently. It’s not just something that happens after the storm. It’s part of living. It’s in every moment we choose to rebuild, to stay, to keep going even when the memories still shake us a little. The process is slow and messy. You pick up what’s left, take a deep breath, and try to make sense of what’s still standing. And while it’s not always easy, there’s something grounding about it. It’s in these moments that you see your own strength — not in how you avoided the storm, but in how you kept going after it.

Maybe that’s what life really is: learning to live through all these seasons of preparation and recovery. We can’t stop the storms, but we can learn how to stand again once they’re gone.

Because even after all the misses and the messes, we still find a way to keep living fully, just like the morning sun that always returns after the rain.

🌧️🌧️ 🌧️  

I wrote this reflection because of the recent typhoons here in the Philippines. I am writing through my worry, especially with my parents far away from us. Even though they’re not directly affected, I can’t help but feel uneasy knowing they’re facing these storms on their own. This reflection is not meant to glamorize the situation or overlook the struggles of those who are suffering. The pain and losses are real, and my prayers go to everyone affected by these recent typhoons. May they find safety, strength, and comfort in the days ahead. Writing this is my way of holding on to hope, finding calm amid the worry, and reminding myself that even through all of this, we continue to rise, rebuild, and live. - MESSY E.

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