18/01/2026
An open letter the second time you evacuate; it’s different.
You move quicker, but your heart feels heavier.
You know what to grab.
You know where to go.
And you know far too well what might come next.
As a personal trainer, the practical things come first.
Cancelling sessions.
Sending messages you never want to send.
Reassuring clients while quietly trying to reassure yourself.
Then comes the waiting.
And the watching.
And eventually, the tentative re-instating of sessions as if life can simply slide back into place.
But here’s the part people don’t see.
It’s finding the motivation to show up strong for others when you feel exactly like them; unsettled, tired, emotionally wrung out.
It’s holding space for bodies that need movement, when your own nervous system is still in survival mode.
It’s reminding people that consistency matters, while your own world has just been packed into a bag… again.
There’s a strange pressure to “get everyone back on deck.”
To be the steady one.
To be the routine.
To be the calm.
All while quietly protecting your own space because healing doesn’t happen on a timetable, and sacred space matters when everything else feels uncertain.
This second evacuation isn’t just about fire.
It’s about grief for safety that no longer feels guaranteed.
It’s about resilience you didn’t ask to build.
It’s about showing up anyway; not because you’re untouched, but because you’re human.
If you’ve cancelled plans, lost momentum, or felt flat trying to restart you’re not failing.
You’re responding to something real.
And if you’re rebuilding routines while still healing that’s strength too.
This is what resilience actually looks like.
Messy. Quiet. Human.
And we’ll keep going; gently, honestly, together.
Then comes community sport.
The thing everyone agrees we need.
The thing the kids rely on for routine, for joy, for normality when everything else feels fragile.
Training nights. Competition days. Smiles, whistles, courts filling again.
But community sport doesn’t run itself.
It’s carried by adults, By volunteers,
By coaches, umpires, administrators many of whom also evacuated, also watched the sky, also refreshed emergency apps before bed.
We tell ourselves the kids need this.
And they do.
But so do the adults who are holding it together with tired hands and full hearts.
And while we restart, the reality hasn’t disappeared. There is still a fire burning.
There are still hot days to come.
There is still that low-level tension sitting in everyone’s chest; the awareness that plans remain fragile, and certainty is a luxury.
If you’re feeling stretched between showing up and slowing down, between supporting others and protecting yourself; you’re not weak. You’re responding to an extraordinary situation.
You don’t have to have it all figured out.
You don’t have to be “back to normal” yet And you don’t have to carry it alone.
If you’re reading this and nodding quietly please know this:
You are not alone.
Your exhaustion makes sense and Your care matters.
And even in the uncertainty, we are still here together.
Bec x