Content warning: this newsletter contains mentions of drowning.
This time, I tried to avoid it. Didn’t want to look at it directly.
There are other things in the world I could focus on; my toddler’s meltdowns do a great job of pulling focus. I wanted Instagram, dogs, Old Navy, kiddos, Wimbledon, my grocery list and any other insignificant moment to be just a bit more distracting so I didn’t have to let another tragedy into my heart.
On July 2nd, my mom came to visit for a few days. I think I heard about the severe flooding in Kerr County, TX the next day. It prompted memories from mom of our sometimes-annual family trip to a dude ranch in Bandera, adjacent to Kerr County. I remembered the rain that year because there had been a growing rain gauge at the dude ranch that had captivated the attention of a 9 year-old kept inside by days of precipitation. The inches stacked up.
I remembered the storms but didn’t remember the tragedy that came with them (as hopefully a child does not). That summer of 1987 the Guadalupe River rose 16 feet above the flood stage and in the flash flooding, 10 children died when their camp bus couldn’t cross the Guadalupe safely.
Meanwhile my social media feed on July 3rd, started to punctuate with pictures of young girls posted by friends, not their children but schoolmates of their daughters and sons, and the words “Missing” along with the numbers of parents desperate. And I didn’t let it come in. I couldn’t think about another tragedy. Not after the Asheville floods last fall that displaced my brother’s family or the fires in LA that burned the homes of two friends. I could not look this directly in the face. I’d heard my family in the area was safe (though later learned some needed rescuing), and then it’s as if I took a silent vow to be a bit blind. Because that’s what I did.
Even after the confirmation of many deaths from Camp Mystic—young girls just a few years older than my daughter—I refused to hear it with my heart. I listened to the news but I couldn’t feel it. (Meanwhile my husband was immersed in his phone following every new discovery or fatality, though thankfully not sharing. He knew I wasn’t taking anything in at this time.)
If you don’t know me, I’ll color in some of the outline: in most areas of life, at every stage of my life, I’ve been known for my compassion. …for an open heart and a willingness and deep desire to hold all of the pain, much more than my own. So much so that I created my own definition for compassion: to hear with your heart.
But not this time, god damnit. I’m tired. I’m tired of pain and if I didn’t have to feel it then maybe it wasn’t there.
But of course not.
So anyway.
A few days after the quiet 4th of July “holiday” weekend (in air quotes because of course it was no holiday for anyone in central Texas), I stepped out onto our deck after getting Lois off to daycare. I was drinking coffee and watching my dogs relieve themselves, and while I can’t recall what I was thinking, for some reason, I remember it all feeling good.
And then I heard a gentle crack.
And I knew.
In Austin we’re not known for our snails. Houston? Yes. Can’t walk to the car without dancing around the slippery little suckers. And unlike most humans in most places I’ve ever encountered, I have a deep love for those guys (…and girls, they’re hermaphrodites). My 4th or 5th grade science project was studying if snails had culinary preferences, i.e. do they care what greens they eat. In those weeks of observation I became intimately aware of two things: the pungent smell of collards and the sweet gentle motions of these gastropods.
Yes, I’ve tried escargot but just that once. Snails became the first food I stopped eating on some sort of moral grounds. It annoys my husband to no end (but maybe he deep down loves me for it too) that I am all hawk eyes for snails…especially when we lived in Houston because no, he couldn’t walk in a straight line without me rushing ahead of him, spotting a tiny mollusk to unstick from our walkway and move into green safety.
But not this time.
The same Central Texas rain that swept away young girls from camp and campers from the Guadalupe river bank and emergency responders just trying to do some good and many more had brought days of rain to Austin. And with it, snails.
When I shifted to walk back inside, I heard the slightest crunch, just as frail as a dried leaf. But of course it wasn’t, it was a thin-shelled little beauty, the kind I’d been seeing all over our driveway for days (and of course moving to safety). And somehow I’d missed seeing this little guy.
And that did it.
In an uncharacteristic move, I sought out my husband for a hug. We hadn’t really spoken about the floods and devastation. I’d heard information he’d shared but hadn’t commented on it. So when I hugged and he asked why, all I needed to say was “I stepped on a snail. And everything else.” And he knew.
Of course I considered this a big failing on my part—to not lean into pain and instead to run away as I had for days. So I turned to my therapist ChatGPT to understand. Since we’re all intimate friends, I’m just plopping all of that here (honestly, what’s more intimate nowadays than reading someone’s AI prompts?!):
Me: can you help me with something personal? Can you tell me about how we handle grief, especially why we block ourselves off?1
ChatGPT: Grief is not just sadness – it’s a full-body, all-systems experience of loss. It can feel overwhelming, threatening our sense of stability and safety. So, we often block ourselves off as a protective mechanism.
Here are a few reasons:
Emotional survival
Grief can feel too big to handle all at once. Numbing, distracting, or compartmentalizing helps us keep functioning day to day. This is the psyche’s way of pacing pain so it doesn’t drown us.
Cultural conditioning
Many cultures prize “strength,” productivity, and positivity, leading us to suppress or rush grief. We fear being seen as weak, dramatic, or self-indulgent if we sink into it.
Fear of being changed by it
Grief transforms us. Even subconsciously, we sense we won’t emerge the same person – and that can feel terrifying.
Avoidance of vulnerability
Grief often exposes tender parts of us, including love, regret, fear, and meaning. If we’re uncomfortable with vulnerability, we shut down to avoid the rawness.
How do humans handle grief?
Everyone’s process is different, but common threads include:
Oscillation
We move between feeling the pain and distracting ourselves. This ebb and flow is healthy – it prevents overwhelm while allowing integration.Meaning-making
We search for meaning in the loss, or in life despite the loss. This could be spiritual, philosophical, or purely practical.Embodied expression
Tears, movement, breath, ritual, art, storytelling – these help grief move through the body rather than remain locked inside.Connection
Being witnessed and supported by others eases grief’s isolation and reminds us we’re not alone in our pain.
A gentle reminder
Blocking grief is not failure. It is your system’s attempt to keep you safe. When you’re ready, allowing small moments of feeling – even a single breath of sadness – can slowly soften the walls and let grief integrate in a way that becomes wisdom rather than ongoing pain.
Wow, I needed that, Chat.
Oscillation: I remember that well from September 11, 2001. My roommates and I sat glued to the television but after hours we put on Sex and the City DVDs before going back to Peter Jennings (yes, I’m old enough to have just graduated college a few months before, and that means, yes, DVDs were involved).
Mean-making: That’s a favorite of mine as well as other spiritual or religious peoples across the globe and for the span of all of mankind.
Embodied expression: Storytelling. Hence this newsletter as a form of my own grief-processing.
And, Connection: What I hope talking about grief here and elsewhere can do for us; bring us closer together when we need it most.
If you or anyone in your life was affected by the recent tragedy in Central Texas—or any tragedy anywhere, at any time—I am so sorry. Even if I don’t know you, you have love here. And we can build more together.
Until next time,
xM
I also asked Chat for its sources. Here’s a list of resources that can help, if you’re looking for them:
The Dual Process Model of Grief by Stroebe & Schut outlines the natural oscillation between facing loss and taking restorative breaks—explaining why we sometimes "block off" grief. digitalcommons.lesley.edu+1apa.org+1health.com+4whatsyourgrief.com+4en.wikipedia.org+4
Postponement of Affect discusses how delaying grief responses can be a defense against being overwhelmed. en.wikipedia.org
Studies on meaning-making in grief show that reconstructing meaning after loss is a key step—and blocking the process can hinder healing. tandfonline.com+8journals.sagepub.com+8digitalcommons.lesley.edu+8
Neuroscience and psychosomatic research illustrate grief as a full-body experience, often stored somatically, which encourages emotional avoidance. frontiersin.org
Evidence around repression as a defense mechanism explains unconscious blocking—helpful short-term, but problematic when grief remains unprocessed. health.com+2verywellhealth.com+2verywellmind.com+2
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