Communal Grief
Thoughts to help me process the tragedy of the Texas Hill Country 2025 Flood
Photo by Julie Miley Schlegel, of a Texas Hill Country plant
I struggle with grief that finds me but is not mine to bear. I feel despair. And then guilt that I’m despairing about someone else’s tragedy. And then despair once again.
Tragedy strikes and, though it does not find my body, or my house, it seeps into my soul nonetheless. It freezes my mind. I can’t look away from the pictures and videos, and I can’t un-hear the stories.
Trying to help, a friend told me “It doesn’t help the victims to imagine it or replay it – that’s what I keep telling my brain.”
But my brain doesn’t shut off that way.
I want to honor the victims by hearing their stories, yet I feel guilty for grieving because I am alive.
My children are alive.
My parents are alive.
My sisters and nieces and nephews – all alive.
My friends – alive.
So what to make of the grief that comes knocking when it’s not mine to bear?
The shameful gratitude that my people were not involved in the 2025 Guadalupe River flood in Texas?
I honor the story of the young man who lacerated his arm breaking the window so his family could survive, because I have men in my family that would do the same. I grieve for his widow and children because I know it will be awful facing the coming years without him.
I honor the families who died in their cabins, or their tents or RVs, because I, too, have found respite in a holiday weekend away, or a vacation week away, knowing the healing power of nature and the calming lullaby of a river within its banks.
I honor the father who was pacing the riverbank calling his daughter’s name, because I have a 21-year-old daughter, and I would never stop walking or calling her name if she were washed away.
I honor the young man, up to his beard in muddy water, digging and searching for the body of his mother to give her final rest, because I have a mother, and because I have sons.
I honor the grandparents who will not be seen again, because their spirits were the glue that held the family together, and because my own grandparents died before I knew what all I wanted to ask them.
I honor the camp workers and directors who have died, knowing the impact they have had on countless youth in their past, because I know the difference a stable adult can make in a child’s life.
I honor the owner of the riverside business, whose restaurant or RV park or store is gone, and who isn’t sure how he will pay his bills, because I, too, need to have a job.
I honor the rescue workers, first responders, and search teams, digging through branches and debris to find something – anything – that will give closure to a human they’ve never met but whose story they feel to their bones.
I honor the camp counselors – teenagers themselves – who wrote names on children’s bodies and lifted them to the rafters and will live the rest of their lives with the trauma of what they have seen.
And the children taken by the river.
My God, the children.
The loss of children I’ve never met brings me to my knees.
In prayer.
In grief.
In desperation.
I can see their faces when I close my eyes to sleep. I can hear the guttural roar of their families when their bodies are found.
I can feel the distress of the mother whose child’s body has not been found, whose mind creates horrible scenes of the last moments, the final resting place.
I know these children had a favorite color, a favorite friend. They loved to sing, or dance, or read books quietly in the corner.
Just like I hear every day as a pediatrician, these children didn’t like vegetables, or scored a soccer goal, or had a new puppy.
They once said my throat feels like I swallowed Barbie feet, or my stomach feels like a rock is in it, or I’m ready for 3rd grade.
Their eyes, filled with light.
Living in the present like only a child can.
Unburdened by the sorrow and hardship that life will eventually bring.
These children – the children of the world -- are all we have. They are everything we have.
They are living, breathing innocence.
They are our origin story.
In a divided, sometimes cruel world, a child is a reminder of the best we can be.
Before we judge each other.
Or hate each other.
Or give up on life.
So maybe that’s what we can do with our collective grief in this tragedy.
Volunteer if you can. Donate if you can.
And then we must honor the victims by searching for the common threads of humanity represented among the victims, living and dead.
At our core, we are the same.
We can trust each other.
Help each other.
Assume the best instead of the worst.
Choose kindness first.
To the families of the victims, I am so very sorry for your loss. I pray for you as you grieve. Please continue to share stories of your family members so we can know them.
May we honor them by treating each other with the best of what your family member brought to the world.
The river took so much, but it did not take the love of those who are lost.
And maybe that is how we can carry on. Under the mud and debris of our lives — under the labels of skin color and geography, socioeconomic status and ethnicity, religion or lack thereof, brokenness and recovery — at the riverbank, we are all very much the same.
The advice and opinions herein are by no means meant to be a substitute for professional medical advice. Please contact your personal physician, mental health provider or health care professional for medical advice. Opinions are my own.