The views expressed herein are solely those of the writer.
By Kevan Glasgow.
In Small Island Developing States like St. Vincent and the Grenadines, disaster is not a stranger. Hurricanes, eruptions, floods, and storms arrive with alarming frequency. Each time, we are left with destruction. Each time, we are called to begin again. And each time, we do so with what I call the audacity to rebuild. Rebuilding, however, is more than patching roofs and clearing roads. It is more than the physical act of restoring what has been broken. It is also a profound social and spiritual exercise. When calamity strips away the visible, it forces us to confront the invisible: our fears, our grief, our uncertainty, but also our values, our connections, and the things that hold us together as a people.
After the eruption of La Soufrière in 2021, shelters were filled with displaced families. On the surface, these were places of survival, food, water, and safety. But beneath that, something else was happening. Neighbours who rarely spoke now shared one pot. Women cooked together. Elders reassured the young. Children’s laughter, through ring games and makeshift toys, cut through the heaviness of ash. These were not simply coping strategies; they were acts of rebuilding, rebuilding trust, solidarity, and community spirit.
After Hurricane Beryl, I saw the same pattern. A fisherman who had lost his boat received food not only from aid agencies but from neighbours who shared their catch. A farmer, whose fields were flooded, joined with others to plant again, not waiting for formal programs. A teacher, though weary herself, found strength in seeing her students comfort one another. These are unseen threads of resilience. They remind us that rebuilding is not just about structures. It is about reweaving the social fabric that disaster tries to tear apart.
As a medical social worker, I have learned that what makes or breaks recovery is not only what governments provide or what international aid delivers, but also what individuals can do to support themselves. It is the social capital that runs deep in our communities, the networks of trust, kinship, and shared responsibility that cannot be measured by GDP. It is the psychosocial strength of people who, even when broken and grieving, still reach out to one another. We are rebuilding our value system each time we refuse to let despair have the last word. We are rebuilding our connections each time we choose cooperation over isolation. We are rebuilding our collective capacity each time we remind one another that we are not alone. These are the things that do not appear in budgets or headlines, yet they are the foundation on which real resilience rests.
Rebuilding, then, is not only about preserving infrastructure. It is about safeguarding generations. It is about ensuring that our children inherit not only houses and roads but also strong communities, a culture of solidarity, and the confidence that even when disaster strikes, they will not face it alone. For SIDS, this audacity is more than courage. It is innovation born of necessity. Every storm forces us to rethink, to restrategise, to design new ways of living and caring. From community disaster committees to grassroots women’s groups, from faith-based networks to youth volunteers, innovation is everywhere if we choose to see it.
Globally, climate change places us at the frontline of crises. But it also positions us at the frontline of resilience. The world can learn from the Caribbean, not only how to respond quickly to hurricanes and eruptions, but how to harness deep social connections as a source of strength. For us, rebuilding is not just engineering. It is culture. It is the power of community that flows beneath the surface, like currents in the sea.
Yes, disaster will return. We can not control the volcano, the wind, or the rising tides. But we can control how we respond. We can rebuild in ways that heal minds as well as homes, that renew values as well as schools, that strengthen social ties as well as roads. Ultimately, resilience in the Caribbean is not just about infrastructure. It is about the invisible bonds that hold together: bonds of family, faith, friendship, and community. That is our true capital. That is our audacity. And like the deep Caribbean waters that surround us, those connections run intense and endless. They are what sustain us through fear and grief. They are what give us the courage to rise again. They are what make our rebuilding not only possible, but powerful.
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This article marks the third of six editorials that comprise Healing Together: Reflections on Recovery and Adaptation, which will explore and expand the conversation on mental health and wellness across Saint Vincent and the Grenadines. Healing Together is an initiative of The Hub Collective Inc. and is supported by the Government of Canada through the Canada Fund for Local Initiatives (CFLI).
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About the Author
Kevan Glasgow is a psychologist serving within the Health Security Unit, Ministry of Health, Wellness & Energy, St. Vincent and the Grenadines. With more than a decade of clinical experience, he integrates his strong foundation as a Medical Social Worker into a deeply compassionate, culturally informed, and purpose-driven psychological practice. Kevan also serves as a part-time EAP Counsellor and adjunct lecturer, shaping the next generation of helping professionals through mentorship, clarity, and professional excellence. Widely respected for his grounding presence, he believes in not merely being present but being a presence, one that carries compassion, care, and intention into every interaction. His work centres on supporting individuals through stress, loss, trauma, and emotional challenges, fostering resilience and renewed hope.
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