It’s all just… so much.
So much tragedy. So much grief. So many names and faces and headlines and questions.
So much rain.
So much pain.
So much of life that still demands we keep going.
The floods that swallowed parts of Central Texas—particularly in Kerr County—brought all those feelings back to the surface for me. The kind of feelings that press against your chest and leave you wondering what, if anything, to do with them.
I learned what was happening near Kerrville on Friday, July 4, just after 4 p.m.
I was sitting on the balcony of my Downtown Houston home, rocking in a chair, scrolling through Instagram and listening to traffic slowly build as the sun quietly moved west, when I saw a post from a friend and reporter in Beaumont. Between the typical holiday updates and shopping deals, I caught a breaking news headline he shared.
“How did this happen?” I asked in a direct message. “How quickly did the water rise? This is terrifying.”
He responded: “They say in less than two hours.”
My mind wandered. I thought about the families who’d packed up for the long holiday weekend. Maybe they planned to float the Guadalupe River, grill some fajitas, soak in sunshine and eventually the fireworks. Maybe they were just chasing a little joy 249 years after our Founding Fathers made the case for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
My mind wandered to the people who were with us on Thursday, gone Friday.
In my old life, working in TV news, I lived in the eye of those emotional storms.
I’d show up at scenes of unspeakable loss with a microphone in hand, expected to tell the story of someone else’s worst day. When it was children, I’d sit in the live truck or the newsroom trying to make sense of a world that felt senseless.
So many times, I heard a grieving parent say, “They were going to be a teacher, a doctor, the president. They didn’t deserve this.” The hopes and dreams were always part of the stories I shared. The parts that made photos and names of children relatable—real human beings.
More than once, I found myself crying alone, asking God why He didn’t just take me instead. I wasn’t a parent. I wasn’t responsible for anyone. Their dreams were bigger than my reality. Their futures seemed more precious. In my grief-twisted mind, my life seemed the easier one to trade.
Shame and guilt used to walk me through moments like that, hand-in-hand: the shame of still being here and the guilt of continuing on.
Maybe you felt a bit of that this holiday weekend, too. While Central Texas grieved, some of us celebrated birthdays, vacations or graduations. In my case, we were honoring my nephew’s graduation from U.S. Navy boot camp.
Eventually, I learned I had to stop asking why.
I’m not God, and you’re not either.
We don’t get to know the plan, and we’re not meant to. That’s not our role.
God is living with us. He is present in our suffering, and He is present through us when we choose to love others.
That sentiment reminded me of something Savannah Guthrie once wrote: for those who are suffering, God might feel too far away to believe in. But love, care and touch from another human being can be right there.
And that’s what I can do. What I can do is live.
I can learn. I can heal. I can help.
I can choose kindness. I can try. I can continue on.
After Hurricane Harvey in August 2017, I remember walking through neighborhoods gutted by floodwater. I saw piles of soaked furniture, ruined shoes, family portraits, handbags, toys—all of it dumped on the curb like trash. And what struck me most? None of it mattered to the people and families who survived. As they waded through water or clung to each other in rescue boats, no one wished they could save that big-screen TV or the Amazon must-haves that strangers convinced them to buy.
After being air-lifted from his home, Terry Tolley returned home to get his dogs. That’s it. That’s all he needed. His buddies.
People like Terry were looking for their friends and family. They needed help checking on their neighbors. Not the stuff.
When you’ve lost your people, your home, your way to work—what matters isn’t what you owned. It’s who you still have left to hold. It’s how you keep going when all you want to do is collapse.
These moments—Harvey, Uvalde, Kerr County—they changed me.
The death of children changed the way I see life.
Now, I celebrate birthdays like the sacred gifts they are.
I take vacation photos to remind myself that I really did live that moment in the majesty of God’s presence.
I’m proud of every milestone I experience—the joy and the suffering—because both are crucial to being fully human, and developing our faith is something bigger than ourselves.
And maybe that’s the point. Not to make sense of the pain, but to meet it with purpose.
To be the more our world needs.
More empathy.
More time shared with people.
More “I love you.”
More forgiveness.
More hugs and messy kisses.
More moments that remind us: living is a miracle.
If you feel moved to help Central Texas, please consider donating to a trusted organization that is on the ground supporting the people and pets impacted and all the first responders refusing to give up until everybody is found.
And if you’re hurting, please—please—talk to someone.
A trusted friend. A therapist. A neighbor. A pastor.
There’s too much to feel right now to carry it alone.
Let some of it out. Make space for the beauty that still lives inside your day—and share it with others. Beautiful summer flowers, a delicious cup of coffee with your best friend, morning snuggles with your children—savor them and share them with the world. As we move through loss, we can all use just a little more love.
A short prayer I’m holding close:
May those in mourning find peace.
May those in fear find comfort.
May those still with breath in their lungs find the strength to be kind.
And may we all remember what a gift it is to be alive today.
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