In 2005, I lived in Houston, Texas and had an opportunity, along with most of the rest of the city, to help with the Hurricane Katrina evacuees. I spent weeks getting up every morning at 3AM and heading to the Astrodome complex or GRW convention center to volunteer.

In 2005, I lived in Houston, Texas and had an opportunity, along with most of the rest of the city, to help with the Hurricane Katrina evacuees. I spent weeks getting up every morning at 3AM and heading to the Astrodome complex or GRW convention center to volunteer.

It wasn’t anything extraordinary—half the city helped out, it seemed. For the first few weeks, you actually had to wait in line to volunteer at the Dome (affectionately called “Dome Sweet Dome” by many). But some of the stories I encountered there have stayed with me forever.

There was one woman there who had been at work when the storm hit. Her only daughter had been at daycare a few miles away, closer to their home. She had desperately tried to reach her child, but wound up stranded by rising floodwaters on an overpass with several other people.

After nearly 2 days exposed to the elements, she was rescued by helicopter. The rescue teams, following protocol, would only evacuate her to safety and couldn’t help her search for her child. She eventually wound up at the Houston Astrodome with thousands of other displaced people.

At first, she barely spoke to anyone except to ask if they had seen her daughter. It was difficult to offer meaningful comfort, as the misery there was pretty much universal; everyone had lost someone or something precious to them. As a volunteer, you try your best, but there’s only so much you can do to help someone in a situation like that.

I talked with her whenever I could, encouraging her to share stories about her daughter. She’d tell me how her little girl was terrified of bicycles, could never eat enough carrots, and thought zebras were the best animals ever. My own son was about the same age at the time, and those quirky little kid traits really resonated with me.

Then one morning, I was working the breakfast line. One of the other volunteers escorted her up to cut in line and get some food to go. As I gathered the items for her, her face transformed with joy as she exclaimed, “They found her, they found her, they FOUND her!” and gave me a spontaneous hug as I handed her the food.

Her daughter was safe in a shelter in San Antonio. Officials could transport her by bus that evening, but this mother couldn’t bear to wait another moment. Another volunteer had offered to drive her there that very morning. As she was preparing to leave, someone walked up and presented her with the biggest stuffed zebra I’ve ever seen—a perfect gift for her daughter who loved them so much.

I never saw her again after that morning. Even now, years later, I still feel emotional thinking about that moment of pure relief and joy amidst so much devastation. The way her entire being lit up when she received the news that her child was safe—it’s something I’ll never forget.

It was an honor and a privilege to work with those affected by Hurricane Katrina. While the circumstances were heartbreaking, witnessing the resilience of the human spirit and being part of those small moments of hope reminded me of our capacity for kindness in the darkest times.

What struck me most during those weeks of volunteering wasn’t just the scale of the disaster, but how ordinary people came together to help strangers. From the volunteer who drove that mother to San Antonio, to the person who somehow found a stuffed zebra in the midst of chaos—these small acts of compassion made an immeasurable difference in people’s lives.

Those weeks changed how I view community and crisis response. When disaster strikes, it’s easy to focus on what’s lost, but equally important to recognize what emerges: our fundamental connection to one another and our ability to show up when it matters most.