We Don’t Heal Like Rocks: The Truth About Life After Disaster

Understanding what really happens after disaster, and why connection and support matter more than toughness.

This afternoon, as I was travelling down the hill from Highlands, a rock on the side of the road caught my attention. At first glance, it was just a granite rock, scarred and weathered from the bushfire that had passed through the area. But the longer I looked, the more I noticed something remarkable. The rock was slowly shedding its outer layers, layer by layer, letting go of what it no longer needed. Nature was quietly taking care of its own recovery. Shedding its trauma.

I found myself thinking about how often, after disaster, we wish our own recovery could be that simple. We tell ourselves, or hear others say, that once the danger has passed, it’s time to harden up, move on, and get back to normal. But the truth is, for people, recovery doesn’t work that way, and pretending it does often leaves us carrying far more than we need, for far longer than we should.

In the weeks and months after a disaster, trauma doesn’t always make a loud entrance. Most of the time, it whispers. Sleep becomes harder to come by. Concentration drifts. Patience wears thin. There’s a numbness that settles in, or memories that appear without warning. And sometimes, once the fires are out and the adrenaline fades, that’s when the weight actually lands. It’s subtle, quiet, but heavy.

I’ve seen this over and over in disaster impacted communities. Not in dramatic breakdowns, but in small, almost invisible moments, conversations at community hubs, in the ruins of their homes, leaning on the back of a ute. People still showing up, still functioning, still “getting on with it,” while carrying far more than anyone realises. This isn’t weakness. It’s a normal trauma response. Research and lived experience, including the work of Dr Kate Brady and Phoenix Australia, tell us this clearly.

One of the biggest myths we hold about disaster recovery is that it follows a neat, straight line: crisis happens, help arrives, things settle, people recover. The reality is far messier. Recovery moves forward and backward, often at the same time. You can feel relief and exhaustion at once, hope and heaviness in the same day. You might cope well at work but fall apart the moment you stop. Triggers don’t run on a schedule, they can show up months later through a smell, a sound, an anniversary date, a piece of paperwork, a media story, or even a sudden change in the weather.

Dr Brady’s work, including the After the Disaster project with Australian Red Cross, focuses on this often overlooked part of recovery, the “after” when life is expected to return to normal while loss, uncertainty, and pressure are still very much present. During the emergency phase, adrenaline gives people clarity and purpose. There are urgent decisions to make, neighbours to check on, practical jobs that can’t wait. But when that pace slows, the nervous system finally has space to feel what it has been holding. That’s often when sleep breaks down, concentration slips, and people say, “I don’t know why I feel like this now.”

In the weeks following a disaster, people commonly experience a mix of emotional, mental, and physical responses. You might feel sadness, anger, fear, guilt, or numbness. Thoughts loop. Memories intrude unexpectedly. Planning ahead feels harder than it used to. Sleep is disrupted. The body stays tense, alert, exhausted. Behaviourally, some withdraw, others become irritable, and everyday tasks take more effort than they should. None of this is weakness. It’s how the nervous system responds to threat and disruption.

For many, these responses ease with time, safety, and connection. But for some, trauma doesn’t disappear, it changes shape. Good days sit beside heavy ones. Triggers emerge months later. Delayed reactions appear once the practical work of cleanup and rebuilding slows. And then there’s the load that rarely gets named, paperwork, insurance, rebuilding decisions, financial strain, shifts in routines, changing community dynamics. Recovery isn’t just about the disaster itself, it’s about everything that comes after.

There are times when extra support is important. If sleep problems, anxiety, low mood, or overwhelm persist, or if withdrawal, constant alertness, reliance on alcohol, or dark thoughts appear, it’s critical to reach out. Seeking support early isn’t failure — it’s care. For yourself, and for those around you.

Unlike that rock by the roadside, people don’t shed trauma automatically. We heal through time, safety, and, most importantly, connection. Too often, people feel pressure to be “over it” once the fires are out or the media has moved on. But recovery takes longer than a news cycle. Healing doesn’t happen by toughing it out in silence. It happens through conversation, through checking in, and through saying, “I’m not okay” and being met with understanding instead of judgment.

I’ve seen the difference this makes. Communities that keep checking on each other long after the cameras leave. Workplaces that offer flexibility instead of pressure. People who speak early instead of waiting until things fall apart. That’s where real resilience lives.

If this resonates with you, for yourself or someone you care about, please know, you’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re responding to something that mattered. Recovery isn’t about being strong like a rock. It’s about being human. So check in, stay connected, and have the conversation, even if it feels awkward. Reach out to your GP, a counsellor, a trusted friend, or a support service. Starting the conversation matters more than finding the perfect words.

We don’t heal by hardening. We heal through communication, connection, and support. And sometimes, by noticing a rock on the side of the road, we’re reminded that while nature sheds its layers quietly, people heal best when they’re supported to do it together.