Grief is the whole-body response to loss – any loss significant enough to change your life. It is the heavy, physical mass left behind when something you cared about- a person, a pet, a landscape, or a dream of the future – is taken away or changed forever. It is the natural, exhausting process of your brain and body learning how to map a world that has been completely altered.

It’s been a horrible and strange few days. The wildfire at Bédar (a mountain village in the Sierra de los Filabres, about 15 km from the coast Almería, Spain) has knocked us all for six. People have died, some are injured, and others still haven’t been located.

The first-hand stories are coming out, pictures and videos are being shared. We are so in awe of the people who have come together to stabilise the fire; so many organisations have done an incredible job. Such bravery, resilience and strength.

For us in my little village, we were close enough to smell the smoke and far enough away to feel safe. That is a strange place to write from. Safe. We had the doors shut against the smell and the smoke, watching plumes of dark smoke rise in the distance while my neighbour – the one with the three-storey house – could see the actual flames at 3am one morning. For the people escaping it, and for everyone living in its path, this was horrific. I want to keep that in front of me before I say anything else.

What I want to say first is about the goodness. Social media sometimes gets a bad name, and often earns it. But over these last days I have watched it do something great – connecting people fast, when it mattered. The networks lit up, the groups mobilised, the Wildfire Watch App was a lifesaver. Out came an outpouring of help I will not forget: people offering their homes, their spare beds, their time, whatever they had to give. The coordination has been exemplary. Firefighters and emergency services, outstanding. When I talk about a sense of community, this is what I mean –  a stranger handing over the keys to their spare room.

I saw a call for doggy stuff and discovered that I’m a hoarder, but thankfully all of this stuff can go to support others.

The collective grief is palpable. It will take time to process that’s for sure. Sure, there are some nasty people saying stuff, and they have to be ignored. You can’t control the ones without compassion.

I’m truly grateful for everyone who has helped to make the area safe and to the people who are offering support to those who need it. And of course the help for the bewildered animals.

My heart is with the local community and with everyone, including animals around the world in dire circumstances and conditions.

Taking Action

But then there is the other side. I visited our local town hall page – nothing, nada – just adverts for events. There was nothing remotely community-focused and certainly nothing about what to do in an emergency. Then I looked for the emergency plan – nope, I couldn’t find one of those.

There is dried vegetation everywhere – tinder, essentially – and I cannot clear it, because my spine fractured years ago and my back will not allow it. It seems no one else will or can clear it either. Though, to be fair, we have a lot of elderly people here, and I doubt they can do it either. In this instance it becomes the responsibility of the town hall, I believe.

Our water goes off at eleven o’clock every night, so if a fire comes in the small hours, we are, to put it plainly, fucked. That causes anxiety. It would be strange if it didn’t. I felt anxious, and although I know evacuation would be the priority, I’d like to have the means to try and do something.

I have three dogs. They are old, and they are my absolute priority – before the house, before taking photographs to prove I have a TV and washing machine, before anything else. People love to talk about the list. What would you grab? Which things could you never replace? I have thought about it too. But a list is a luxury of time, and a fire in the night grants you none. If there is no time, the list is freaking useless.

So I am doing the dull, practical things instead. I will photograph the contents of the house for the insurance. Almost everything else already lives in a cloud somewhere. And I have written to my town hall – though I already suspect nothing will come of it, because that is hard work, and hard work is the thing that rarely gets done.

The electric companies have denied responsibility for the cable that allegedly caused the fire; it’s a private installation, they say. How very lucky for them. I do wonder whether they will now go and check their own rough installations – the ones strung across the dry countryside, surrounded by exactly the material that catches. I wouldn’t hold my breath. The investigation is still open, so I am reserving judgement.

Then there is all of the other liability dodging and blaming people for not following the ‘rules’ – what rules? So many said they had no warning and ran. You would wouldn’t you?

Almería is not a special case. Fires and floods are everywhere now – a different town, a different country, the same week.

So, if I am honest, I am not only grieving for what happened here. I am grieving for a whole planet.

For my community (The Soul Writer’s Lounge) and for my heart project this week, I’m creating a 7-day grieving process – though as someone who is not a grief expert, most of today has been spent researching it. And it’s fascinating.

Grief is what I wrote at the start, but honestly, it feels so much more than this. When my first dog Ferdy died in 2020, I couldn’t function for about 3 weeks, and honestly, for about four years I cried every time I thought of him. My dad was different; I grieved for him as he slowly killed himself with alcohol. When he went, I was at peace. I miss him; of course I do. I cry, yes, but it is different.

Resilience

Then there’s resilience being an unbreakable brick wall – the strong one. We think it means white-knuckling our way through the pain, ignoring the ache in our bodies, and carrying the collective weight of a hurting world without flinching.

But that isn’t resilience. That is just a crawl toward burning out. True resilience isn’t about hardening yourself so you feel less. It’s about learning how to stay open without falling apart.

Resilience is the ability to recover from setbacks, adapt to change, and keep moving forward in the face of adversity. It’s not about avoiding challenges or pretending that hardships don’t exist; it’s about learning to navigate them and come out stronger. Think of resilience as a mental and emotional muscle that grows the more you use it.

At its core, resilience is about how you respond to difficult situations. When something goes wrong, do you feel paralysed by frustration, or are you able to pick yourself up and try again? Resilient people aren’t immune to stress or disappointment, but they have developed the tools to manage these emotions and stay focused on their needs.

Practical strategies can help strengthen resilience over time. Right now, we can lean into or build a support network, practice mindfulness, set realistic goals, and prioritise self-care. These are actionable steps that cultivate resilience.

Big changes don’t happen overnight. They are the result of small, consistent actions repeated over time. Developing habits that support growth and resilience is one of the most powerful ways to set ourselves up for long-term success. All of this will help with how we respond to challenges.

There is power in small steps, and journaling is one of my small steps. The only prompt I have come up with so far is this:

Today I am grieving for…

The idea is to write it three or four times, going a bit deeper each round. I guess our first answer will be polite – the state of the freaking world and the Tangerine Twit (you can call it something else). Then later the words will come that will make you feel sick. That, my friends, is the real one.

If you find it hard, stay there; otherwise, you can add the grief I keep pretending I’m fine about is…

Go well, friends. Much love. Dx.

Come and join me in The Soul Writer’s Lounge