lately i’ve been feeling off.
unsettled.
like something beneath the surface is shifting.
old wounds i thought i’d healed have been tugging at me again.
but, i’ve been trying to navigate it by returning to what has always steadied me.
for me, it was always in service to others.
it has a way of softening the noise inside.
in college, it looked like building homes with Habitat for Humanity. later, it became a career in sustainable travel. in tahoe, it was joining the search and rescue team and working as an EMT. and in one of the more disoriented seasons of my life, i found All Hands and Hearts and traveled to Nepal after the 2015 earthquakes.
but when i injured my spine, everything came to a halt.
pain, surgery, and years of limited mobility pulled me inward.
i lost touch with the part of myself that gave freely.
the part of me who knew how to show up and stay steady for others.
that’s why my recent trip to Kerr County, Texas stirred me.
i was there to help document the aftermath of the july 4th floods - at least 135 lives lost.
it was heartbreaking to witness.
not just the physical damage, but the grief that stood in the doorways.
search and rescue teams were still active in the area.
homes lost, families displaced.
the devastation was heavy.
the smell of mud and mold clung to everything.
and still, there was resilience.
neighbors helping neighbors.
volunteers carrying heavy loads with steady hands.
communities holding each other through the aftermath.
on my last night in texas, i cried.
for the lost lives. for the ones still missing. and the ones still searching.
and surprisingly, i cried because i realized it was the first time in a long time that i wasn’t just surviving.
and while the world has changed - grown heavier, more complicated - there’s still something sacred in choosing to stay close to the work.
the kind that heals quietly, rebuilds slowly, and reminds us that we belong to one another.
maybe you feel it too - the pulse beneath the headlines. the earth, rearranging herself. not in theory, but in real time. in the heat, in the storms, in the rising waters.
reshaping lives and landscapes.
the moonpine exists because of this: the belief that storytelling can be a kind of stewardship.
and the stories we choose to tell - or don’t- are deeply connected to the kind of future we create.
it matters who we amplify.
the helpers.
the rebuilders.
the quiet leaders doing work that matters.
and some of the most powerful work is done behind the scenes, by people who simply refuse to look away.
i’m still sitting with everything i saw - and everything i felt.
but, i’ll leave you with this:
what does it mean to truly witness something fully? and what will you do with what you’ve seen?
xx Jen
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If you’d like to learn more about the floods and how you can support response and recovery efforts through one of my favorite nonprofits, All Hands and Hearts. Click here.