Stuck.

On realizing what felt like burnout might actually be trauma.

Hi everyone,

Thanks for so many lovely and powerful comments from last week’s post! So glad to have you here. Share if you know someone who might like to be a part of this little community.

What the Words Do to Me

Last week, I reflected on a question posed by novelist Jami Attenberg in her 1000 Words: A Writer’s Guide to Staying Creative, Focused, and Productive All Year Round:

What Do the Words Do For You?

A couple of times, I made the Freudian slip of writing, “What do the words do to you?”

I was mostly thinking about the self-induced pressure to write well and how I use it to measure my value as a person. But I’ve since realized that the misquote might have tapped into something deeper.

I might be suffering vicarious trauma from reporting on Helene.

In fact, I’m probably suffering vicarious trauma from reporting on Helene.

It feels strange to write those words. We as a household made it through the storm pretty unscathed. No damage to our home or neighborhood. A giant tree came down across the entrance gate to the ‘hood, but neighbors chainsawed it up and cleared the road by the end of the first weekend. Yes, we lost power and water for 13 days, but our neighbors (hi, S & J! Love you!) were amazing, letting me write stories in their bedroom and charging our devices daily using their generator. Another (thanks, M & J!) let me take a hot shower.

I wasn’t a breaking news reporter driving to places like Swannanoa or Marshall, Hot Spring or Burnsville, Bat Cave or Gerton, Chimney Rock or Barnardsville, and coming face to face with catastrophe. I only left the neighborhood to report on a story about a nearby local diner that suffered no damage.

And so many stories I reported had glimmers of hope in them, from the amazing story of a Swannanoa man finding community from his volunteer work prior to the storm to restaurant owners determined to come back. I didn’t write about the Craig family, who lost 11 people. I didn’t speak to people who watched their neighbors pulled away by the floodwaters.

So who am I to have vicarious trauma? I get how journalists who report from war zones, or who live in the devastation, or talk to people immersed in it every day, might feel that.

But me?

Why I Think I’m Stuck

I’m working on a story about play therapy, in which trained mental health specialists help younger children process their trauma through play. Play is a child’s language, and toys their words — especially when they are too young to have a huge command of vocabulary.

It’s one of the most moving things I’ve ever seen. And when the story comes out, I’ll be sure to share it so that you can see why. It’s striking to witness how much children even as young as 3 or 4 were impacted, and how helpful it is for them to act out their memories in a way that gives them some agency. They can decide when to bury or unbury a house in a pile of sand. They can turn the lights on or off using a flashlight or an electric candle.

In interviewing sources for the piece, I asked a psychologist if the play could ever fail to be healing. She told me that, if a child repeats the same storyline over and over without much emotion, that’s a sign that they’re stuck. They’re not processing the trauma, they’re just repeating it in an endless cycle.

I’ve been doing my own version of that.

I’m not replaying my memories of the time after the storm; in fact, I often forget those 13 days. Rather, I have to tell anyone who will listen how bad the damage still is, how great the need still is, how much money is needed, how people are perpetually afraid of losing their FEMA vouchers and going from hotel rooms to the streets, how people are freezing in non-insulated donated campers during polar vortexes, how children need therapy, how people need rent paid, how people need jobs, how Swannanoa still looks shocking this far on, how towns like Marshall and Bat Cave are years away from a sense of normalcy, how an elderly woman died of hypothermia because her temporary housing was too cold….

You get it.

Then there’s the “guiltitude,” a word I’ve mentioned here before. Gratitude that me and mine are fine, guilt that so many others are not. And guilt when I don’t get stories done quickly enough, and guilt that I can’t — or won’t — go as hard as some of these amazing people I’ve interviewed who have helped their communities every day since the storm came on September 27th and will literally raise $1500 in one evening to keep three families in their homes for one more week.

I feel peeved at best, and angry at worst, when I hear people fretting about other things. As if they don’t have the right to worry about that when this needs fixing first.

Most seriously, I haven’t cried yet about the storm. A few times I’ve gotten a bit teary-eyed, especially after the play dates, but that’s it.

Scratch that — I haven’t cried since the storm. About anything.

Of vicarious trauma’s various symptoms, I don’t have many. I don’t have trouble sleeping; if anything, I’m oversleeping, snoozing for an hour-and-a-half after my alarm some mornings. I don’t feel hypervigilant or nervous. I haven’t seen or talked to my friends, but that is because I am so behind with work I feel like I can’t until I make some headway. Maybe that’s trauma?

But the sense of detachment and muted guilt and anger are worrying.

I’m a one-note person right now. Not because I’m primarily reporting on Hurricane Helene, but because it is so easy to feel powerless in its wake.

Before Helene, my stories didn’t “matter” in the big sense: I’m not an investigative journalist who has uncovered corruption and changed policy. I don’t say that to be self-deprecating. I’m proud of them. But they were not dealing with big, front-page news situations.

My stories are now, but it’s hard to know if they’ve made a difference. Or even if they do, the difference is such a small drop in the ocean compared to the need.

I’m just a lowly freelance journalist making low double-figures, so I’m not expecting to move the needle and get billions of funding here tomorrow. (Though to all those billionaires out there — you could each give 1% of your wealth and ease the hurt here tomorrow.)

But the purpose I felt in the immediate aftermath of the storm has taken a hit, because I now understand just how long and arduous and painful and exhausting recovery is.

My writing has suffered a bit, too. Editors have been rewriting a lot of my prose to make it sharper. That’s a bummer. It’s a new experience, too, for my nascent journalism career. I’m usually a good writer.

I tend to be pretty into my feelings, so any detachment is strange. As is this feeling that I am treading water, or that I am carried along by events outside my control.

So, if I’m feeling much of anything right now, it’s confused.

Me, confused. And with a bit of filter smoothing out my sun-damaged skin but not my terribly chapped lips.

What I’m Going to Do

At the moment? Nothing. Though I should probably look into that database of mental health professionals offering low-cost or free treatment after the storm. It currently has 431 listings: a wonderful outpouring of support, but overwhelming to scroll through.

If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard fellow journalists tell me to put on my oxygen mask first, I’d have a couple of dollars by now.

They’re right. I know they’re right. It’s easy to assume I’m fine, because I’m not suffering endless insomnia or bursting into tears over nothing.

But I don’t think I’m fine. And I want to be, because I want to continue reporting on the storm and its aftermath. I want to speak with sources without traumatizing them. I want to write with energy and passion. I want to be a good steward of this responsibility that I’m honored to have. I want this experience to shape me for the better.

I should end this by saying that I’m not having terrible thoughts of harming myself, or feeling deep depression or anxiety. I’m not in crisis mode.

I’m just noticing some trauma and realizing I should probably do something to work through it.

Hurricane Helene: Ways to Support Recovery

Love Asheville From Afar. This one-stop shop features Asheville businesses that desperately need money to survive the slow winter season. From coffee and food to art of all shapes, to simple donations, you can get a range of thoughtful gifts for just about anyone in your life.

Asheville Goods. Another site where you can buy themed boxes featuring a bunch of local shops — or customize your own!

Help Catye Gowan Feed People with Dietary Needs! This chef has been out there on her own since the storm began cooking food designed for people with severe dietary issues like Celiac and dietary preferences like veganism. She’s a force for good, and every dollar helps!

BeLoved Asheville. These folks are the best in the world — the ultimate model of mutual aid and greeting the world with love. Check out what they’ve been doing, and donate, here.

The Deep End of Hope in the Wake of Hurricane Helene: 40 Days and Nights of Survival and Transformation. A Ground Zero view of the storm’s devastation — and a community’s resilience — from a trauma chaplain who lived it.

L.A. Wildfires: Opportunities to Help

World Central Kitchen. They were unbelievable for us here after Helene. I don’t know the grassroots organizations running in LA right now — LA readers, feel free to share so I can include them! — but I can vouch for the amazing-ness of World Central Kitchen. A hot meal means everything in such difficult moments. I’ll add more links as I hear about places doing great work.

Support Karen and Ingin’s Recovery from the Eaton Fire. I was asked to share this GoFundMe for a journalist of color. If you can, check it out and give.

This Week’s Dose of K-Pop: ATEEZ(에이티즈), “NOT OKAY”

I just realized this song is in Japanese and not Korean. Many K-pop groups release Japanese songs, or Japanese versions of hit songs, since Japan is such a large market.

My favorite part of this song comes at 0:45, when my bias Yeosang has his few lines. There’s just something soothing and moving about his deep voice with its bit of lisp.

Anyway, yeah. I’m probably not okay. But I know I will be, sooner or later.

One thing that helps?

Knowing I’ve got all y’all.

Love always,

Sara