The Burnout of Trauma & Loss

The smell of burnt toast from my neighbor’s apartment triggers me. The anxiety and panic from the morning of December 22, 2020, washes over me like I’m right back staring at the flames that engulfed my apartment and almost everything I owned with it.

Trauma and grief are such complex experiences because they never truly leave you; I don't believe you can actually move past them, but instead you tend to learn how to manage and live with them. Some of you may know that on December 22, 2020, I had an apartment fire caused by my downstairs neighbors and lost everything I owned except the few things I could carry. Though there are many things I’m grateful for about the situation; that I was home, because I could have been out driving Lyft, that I was awake because had I been sleep I likely wouldn’t have gotten out of my apartment at all, that I was able to grab a few things on the way out, and that I had friends and family around the world who helped me financially and checked on me frequently.

However, there is a piece of this experience I seldom share. It’s the piece where I felt completely alone and isolated after the event. The aftermath of the experience forced me to be gracious and politically correct when people would say things like, “It’s a blessing you’re safe. You can always replace things”, or in the moments when I was alone, having to navigate all the aspects of rebuilding my life and understanding there was no one who could help me. When tragedy hits, and you’re a single parent, it’s often hard to explain the level of fortitude it takes to get everything back on track. You maintain a strong front for your family and friends because, unfortunately, they can’t offer much help in reestablishing your everyday routine, and you don’t want to worry them. Likewise, you want to teach your child(ren) that shitty things happen, and you can always recover. Yet, there’s very little space in all of that for you to process your lived experience.

I lost things in that fire that I couldn’t replace even if I wanted to. There is still an anxiety that overcomes me to this day when I smell smoke. And I may never feel one hundred percent safe living on the second floor of any apartment building again in life. These are my truths. These are what I’ve had to navigate while rebuilding from the ashes of that experience. I don’t share this story for empathy or sympathy. I share it for relatability. I know many Black women have had to be strong through the traumatic moments of their lives, and Sis, I just want you to know that you’re not alone in that experience. Your hurt, frustration, and feeling of isolation are valid, and if you ever want to share your story, I’ll be here to listen.

Talk Soon,

Christa Janine