A tornado Hit My House
I’m a person that believes in signs. I don't know if it's because I have a chip missing, or if it's wishful thinking, but I've always tried to believe that there is something out there that is bigger than me - that is trying to tell me something.
I tend to look for meaning and depth even in the innocuous things many might tend to ignore.
While I call them signs, others might say they’re coincidences.
Either way, I’ve found that being open to unexpected connections helps me feel more grounded, especially during uncertain times.
Isn't it a beautiful idea to believe the universe/God/a higher power is always whispering to us, through symbols, stories, and moments we might miss if we’re not paying attention?
Back in 2021, when I was about 7 months pregnant with my second daughter, I was feeling pretty stressed and fearful. I wasn't sure what the future was going to bring, and I was yearning for an anchor - something to help me feel more grounded.
One morning I joined a meditation at work, and the woman leading it invited us to visualize a field of flowers.
With my eyes closed, and slow breathing I immediately saw a hill covered in yellow daffodils.
It struck me as strange.
Daffodils aren’t a favorite flower of mine, or one that I buy often. Maybe it was just a random image my mind conjured up, but when I looked up the meaning of daffodils (they symbolize rebirth and new beginnings) I couldn’t help but feel comforted, and with a sense of wonder.
It felt like a whisper of reassurance from somewhere deeper.
Let me back up a bit.
In August of 2020, we were deep in the pandemic. The fear and uncertainty of that time was overwhelming. I remember how we held on to celebration even in the midst of all that chaos; the many birthday parades, and Zoom social distancing we had to endure with a mix of nostalgia, heartbreak and sadness.
My oldest had just celebrated her 4th birthday separated from everyone, but they still took the time to drive by our house, horns honking, presents dropped off, to honor her and try to make it special.
That season was difficult in a way I’d never imagine we'd ever experience.
Suddenly, I was working full-time from home alone without childcare, trying to be both a full-time Mom and a full-time employee - and I struggled to keep her engaged while juggling back-to-back Zoom meetings and rising anxiety.
My husband, a Chicago Police officer, was reassigned temporarily from teaching at the Police Academy, back to patrol and dealing with all sorts of calls - sometimes spit on and threatened - forced to wear full PPE gear to protect himself (and us).
All this and much more heavy on my mind when one day, in the middle of Chicago, on a warm summer day, a tornado hit our house.
It sounds unbelievable, right? A tornado in Chicago? That’s a thing for the cornfields and countryside, no?
And like many moments in life, it came without warning, leaving me shaken and a bit unsure of what would come next.
That morning, my daughter was playing in the backyard with my sister-in-law. My mother-in-law was visiting.
I was bouncing between emails and conversation when the sky turned a strange greenish-yellow, and the tornado sirens started.
We were still laughing, joking, not taking the threat too seriously.
Suddenly, as I stood at my front window looking out, a large branch hit the window HARD, and in that moment I felt panic set in. I was holding my daughter in my arms and said, “Nope. Okay, down the basement, go down, basement, basement, basement!!”
I rushed her and the dogs downstairs. My sister-in-law, mid-bathroom trip, had to scramble with her pants half down, freaking out as we all descended into chaos.
It’s funny in hindsight.
But in the moment, it was terrifying. The noise and wind grew increasingly worse.
I called my husband, voice trembling as I told him we were in the middle of a tornado. He was calm, “It’s fine” he said, thinking I was exaggerating until he came home to find this.
Now this was no category 4 tornado by any means, but nonetheless, when your roof is severely damaged, your trees decimated, your neighbor's brick garage in pieces, and your entire neighborhood looks like a destruction zone...it’s pretty scary.
I didn’t know then that it would be the start to a “new beginning” in my life.
The very next day I found out I was pregnant with my second daughter.
So a few months after that chaos, and after that calming meditation where I'd visualized those daffodils, reading about their symbolism filled me with a quiet sense of hope.
Because by that point - between the second pregnancy which wasn't exactly planned, the pandemic, riots and uprisings that was happening all over, the damage to our home and the weight of all this uncertainty, I was hanging on by a thread.
I tried telling myself to feel what I needed to feel and stay open, but it was hard regardless.
Later that day, my husband, daughter, and I went for a walk. And as we headed home, a man stepped out of his car, looked at us, and shouted, “When I look at you, all I see is new beginnings!”
That's my shocked pikachu face!
I know, it may sound like a scene from a movie - and it’s rare in Chicago to have strangers yell kind words to people walking by - because usually it’s something abrasive or crude.
But that moment stopped me in my tracks and it felt like a message specifically for me. A sign that despite all the fear and chaos I was experiencing, everything was going to be okay.
A sign that new beginnings would be coming to fruition in my life.
And amazingly, a couple of short months later, she was born on Easter Sunday. A day that symbolizes resurrection, new life, and transformation. Crazy!
We named her Naya. It means renewal in Arabic. :)
That season of my life taught me that even with destruction, renewal is possible. Even when we’re gripped by fear, something new is quietly forming, new beginnings are on the horizon.
We were lucky enough that our insurance funded the full cost of a new roof, fence, and even a new furnace and AC we desperately needed.
We lost three trees due to the tornado… and five new ones were planted by the City that spring shortly after her birth; two more than we expected.
Sometimes blessings take time. Sometimes we have to be patient, and hold on through the storm. To hope for the best. To stay optimistic, to see the good even in the bad.
And to notice the signs all around. Notice the coincidences, the messages, the small, seemingly insignificant things that wake us up.
Maybe you are feeling hopeless right now, or overwhelmed by so much.
Maybe as many of our systems and structures are falling apart, and things seem uncertain it's hard to visualize the possibility of rebuilding, of where opportunities exist for positive change.
Maybe you feel depleted and just need something to hold onto.
I don’t have all the answers. But here’s what helps me when I’m spiraling or overwhelmed:
I pause and breathe deeply - yes, it’s basic, but it brings me back into my body.
I look for something beautiful or grounding in my environment (a song, a tree, a moment of stillness).
And I remind myself: I’ve made it through hard things before. I will again.
It might be helpful to remember how to surrender.
Because surrender isn’t weakness, it’s wisdom.
Even when everything feels uncertain or undone, we can trust the cycle of destruction and renewal.
We don’t always get to control the storm. But we can choose how we move through it, with hope, with openness, and with the willingness to believe that something beautiful is still unfolding.
If you need a place to start, try this:
Let yourself rest instead of trying to fix.
Look for signs all around - whatever they mean to you.
Name what you’ve already survived. There's power in remembering.
Make space for wonder, even in small moments.
We may not always know what’s next. But if we stay present and open, we create space for something new to grow, whatever that may be.
Sometimes blessings take time.
Sometimes we have to be patient—hold on through the storm, and notice the signs all around us.
But if that is too pithy, perhaps the words of Andrea Gibson - a poet, and incredible human who we’ve recently lost this past week might be more comforting:
A difficult life is not less
worth living than a gentle one.
Joy is simply easier to carry
than sorrow. And your heart
could lift a city from how long
you've spent holding what's been
nearly impossible to hold.
This world needs those
who know how to do that.
Those who could find a tunnel
that has no light at the end of it,
and hold it up like a telescope
to know the darkness
also contains truths that could
bring the light to its knees.
Grief astronomer, adjust the lens,
look close, tell us what you see.
-Andrea Gibson
—
If you’re curious about working together, you can find more about what I do here.
Sending you sunshine,
Mari
