What the fuck.

I don’t even know how to start this.

My body is still in shock. My heart is still racing.

Everything feels heavy. And fragile. And broken.

The tornado that hit St. Louis ripped through like something out of a nightmare. The kind that lingers when you wake up—except this one didn’t end when the sirens stopped. I was home with one of my daughters and our dogs when the sky turned black. There wasn’t time to think. I grabbed them all and we ran to the basement. I made sure they were safe first—and then, like a true Midwesterner, I came back upstairs to look out the window.

Yeah, I know how that sounds. But I had to see.

I watched trees fly through the air. Shingles. Trash bins. Parts of people’s lives. All just spinning, crashing, gone. My brain was screaming because my other daughter—my baby—was at school miles away. I felt sick. I just wanted both of my girls next to me, holding them tight in that basement. All I kept thinking was: If it hits us… I won’t even be with her. I won’t be able to protect her. And that broke me.

We were lucky. I know that. We weren’t in the direct path. But the city—my city—it’s not okay. Entire neighborhoods are destroyed. Streets that were full of history are now just… wreckage. Forest Park looks like it wept. Trees that stood for generations are snapped in half like twigs. So much of what made this place feel solid and rooted has been undone.

And then, as if life wanted to make sure I really understood the weight of it all… the very next day my car broke down.

I was driving down Skinker, just trying to breathe, trying to process the storm, trying to keep it together—and it hit me all over again. Not just emotionally, but physically. As I drove, I saw the destruction up close. Massive trees lying in the streets. Entire root systems ripped from the earth. Homes damaged beyond repair. It felt apocalyptic.

Then the car started shaking. Hard. The engine light started flashing. My heart dropped. I’ve had enough car issues to know: it was the transmission. Again. Another transmission.

I pulled over and lost it. I full-on panicked. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just sat there, gripping the wheel and crying. I tried to calm myself down. I put on subliminals—frequencies meant to keep you from spiraling. But it wasn’t enough. I could feel the weight of it all pressing down.

What now?

We’ve gone from two working cars, to two broken ones, to one totaled, to none, to finally one again… and now it’s gone. Again. The transmission. Again.

It feels like the universe is laughing at me. And I hate even saying that because I know other people are dealing with worse right now. I know people lost their homes, their entire lives in that storm. And that’s where the guilt creeps in. How do I even ask for help when everyone around me needs it too?

But I do need help. And I don’t know how to say that out loud without feeling like I’m taking something away from someone else.

I’m trying to stay strong for my kids. I’m trying to make the best of every dollar, every moment. I’m physically disabled. I have a traumatic brain injury. I stay home now to save money on childcare and keep things steady for the girls, and I work part-time, but it’s never enough. We’ve cut everything we can. We’ve tried every way to “make it work.”

But now we’re without a car again. And that changes everything.

How do you keep showing up when everything keeps breaking? How do you keep your kids’ lives steady when your own legs are shaking underneath you?

I feel selfish even writing this. Selfish for needing anything. Selfish for being tired. For being overwhelmed. For not knowing what the hell to do next.

But this is the truth: I am scared.

I am exhausted.

I am trying.

And I don’t know what else to do right now except say it out loud.

And yet—even in the chaos—I can still see the cracks of light.

The ones that remind me we did make it through the storm. That my daughters and I are safe. That our home is still standing. That even though it all feels like it’s falling apart, we’re still here—still standing too.

I’m holding onto that. Sitting in the quiet moments where the sun sneaks in through the broken places. Breathing in the stillness that came after the roar. Finding peace, not because everything is okay—but because some of the most important things are.

And I believe in St. Louis.

This city shows up for its wins, loud and proud—and I know we’ll show up for the rebuilding too. That same fire and love we bring to parades and playoff games and summer festivals? It’s the same spirit that’ll carry us forward now. Together. Side by side.

So I’ll keep going.

One cracked light beam at a time.

And I’ll keep believing that somehow—up is still the way forward.