The views expressed herein are solely those of the writer.
By Porsia Nikicia Cottle.
Every morning since I can remember, I awoke to the sounds of many birds. It would start with the Caribbean fowl, or what we call a “yardie,” followed by others chirping their own unique songs and sequences. It wasn’t noise to me. It was beautiful music to my ears, a symbol of a new day upon us. A sign that the darkness was fading, the sun was rising, and with it came the promise of newness and possibility.
But then, the birds went silent.
Their absence followed the many eruptions of the La Soufrière volcano, which began in April 2021. Though there was a strange mix of excitement and nervous anticipation about what the explosive eruptions would bring, I never imagined it would drive the birds away from my trees and from my neighbours’ trees as well.
When I woke on Saturday morning after the first eruptions, I knew something was wrong. Everything felt off balance. My windows were closed, turning my home into a kind of prison, as if I were under house arrest. Before that, I lived and slept freely with windows open. Now, outside was covered by a blanket of grey. By the third day, reality set in; I was indeed in confinement. There was no fresh air circulating, and though I was thankful there wasn’t any mould build up, the stillness was suffocating. I could even smell my damp towel. This acute crisis period lasted about five days.
Then came the water shortage. There was no running water in the house, and daily life became both a physical and emotional struggle. Simple tasks like bathing, washing dishes, or making a cup of tea became reminders of what I had temporarily lost – comfort, rhythm, and peace of mind. I began to understand how deeply my well-being was tied to access to running water and the sense of normalcy it provided. The stress of conserving every drop, of filling containers for bathing or cleaning, created a quiet anxiety that many in my community shared. It made me think of what people across the Grenadines endure every year.
This experience was new to me. Usually, even when my neighbours didn’t have water, I still had some in my pipes. But during this time, we all felt the same vulnerability.
What I witnessed was boundaries between neighbours dissolving, and a lot of compassion and empathy emerging. Whenever one household’s water came on, others would rush to fill their containers, a bucket of water here, a few bottles there. One neighbour even volunteered to wash down people’s yards with river water and his makeshift system. These small acts of kindness and community innovation became lifelines. It reminded me that even when our environment feels fragile, our capacity for care for one another can restore hope.
Still, the strain was real. One day, as I tried to cook red beans in my pressure cooker, something I had done many times before, they burnt. At that moment, I reached my breaking point. The fatigue and frustration showed on my face and took hold of my spirit.
During this short period, I truly believed my everyday life was gone forever. I feared that the grey stillness outside would never lift. The eruption confirmed how deeply nature affected my mental health, and the deafening absence of the birds stirred an uneasiness within me. I wondered how long it would take before the birds returned, before I could breathe freely again. The eruption did not just displace the birds; it disrupted my sense of balance and peace.
Nature has always been my source of calm: the birds, the river, the forest, and the rain. Its silence showed me how fragile that bond can be, yet how deeply healing it remains. This connection began in childhood, drawn to the early morning sounds and the movement of the wind. As an adult, I nurture it by spending quiet moments outdoors, walking, praying, or simply sitting in stillness. These practices help me re-centre when life becomes overwhelming.
During this time, I cared for myself by talking to others, reading scriptures, praying, and assisting others as much as I could. I continued listening to the news; it did not disturb me but helped me stay aware of what was happening. The eruption also highlighted the importance of community care and cohesion for our individual and collective resilience. It deepened my gratitude and appreciation for those around me. It was heart-warming to see how people assisted one another by sharing meals and supplies, especially with those who were displaced.
Years later, as Hurricane Beryl struck, similar emotions surfaced once again.
While the eruption affected me mostly afterwards, Hurricane Beryl impacted me during the event itself. The winds were the first trigger; the intensity and the strange sounds they carried unsettled me. It was scary, loud, dangerous, and out of my control.
Telecommunications went down, and although I still had running water, I spent eleven days without electricity from the moment the storm hit. I can only imagine what people in the Southern Grenadines endured. I turned to my circle for cold storage, electricity and internet services. This was indeed an inconvenience, but I knew I had to get the things done, so I adjusted my schedule accordingly.
The night that followed the storm was the darkest I have ever experienced: no streetlights, no moon, no stars, just a thick, almost suffocating darkness. The darkness took me back to one particular morning during the eruption when the electricity suddenly went out. I woke up because the fan had stopped, and the rain on the roof sounded like pebbles hitting wet clay. In that moment, a sense of urgency rose in me. I found myself thinking about gathering essential documents (passport, identification, licenses, insurance), medicines and clothing, preparing myself for whatever might come next.
These experiences gave me a deeper understanding of how sudden environmental changes can unset both mind and body. When ash-filled skies, violent winds, darkness, or an unfamiliar silence disrupted the world around me, it also unsettled my internal sense of safety and predictability. I realised how much my wellbeing depends on quiet grounding cues – light, sound, fresh air, routine and the steady reassurance of nature behaving as expected. When those cues disappear, the nervous system shifts into an alert state, anxiety rises, vigilance increases, and emotional endurance is stretched. It often felt like my body registered the threat before my mind could make sense of it, and the after-effects lingered long after the danger passed.
Both La Soufrière and Hurricane Beryl deepened my appreciation for nature’s steady presence. When the familiar patterns of everyday life were disrupted, I realised how much they supported my sense of calm. Watching those patterns return reminded me that healing happens gradually. Recovery after a disaster is not only about rebuilding structures; it is also about restoring the heart and mind and reclaiming the small internal certainties that get shaken along the way. Even after silence, life finds its voice again.
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Porsia Nikicia Cottle is a dedicated social worker with over a decade of experience supporting vulnerable children and families. She currently serves as a case worker in the Child Development Division of the Ministry of Family, Gender Affairs, Persons with Disability, Occupational Safety and Labour, and volunteers as a counsellor with Redroots SVG Inc. and The Hub Collective Inc., supporting survivors of domestic violence. An active member of the Social Workers Association of St. Vincent and the Grenadines for more than five years, she previously served as General Secretary and now holds the position of Vice President. In every space she occupies, Porsia brings compassion, care, and attentive presence. As she reflects, “In times of crisis, healing begins with presence, showing up, listening deeply, and trusting that even the smallest act of care can shift the path forward.”
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This article marks the fourth of six editorials in Healing Together: Reflections on Recovery and Adaptation, an initiative of The Hub Collective Inc., supported by the Government of Canada through the Canada Fund for Local Initiatives (CFLI).
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