My Journey in Emergency Response

I don’t bring relief — I carry stories, and the responsibility that comes with them.

Disaster was not a distant concept in my life — it was something I grew up around. Yet it wasn’t until I experienced it firsthand that I understood its human depth. That moment shifted me from observing stories to carrying them — a journey that would lead me into humanitarian work across some of the world’s most difficult contexts.

On an Australian military flight returning from relief efforts in the Philippines.

I grew up in a country where natural disasters were part of life — floods, storms, and uncertainty — all layered on top of one of the world’s longest ongoing civil wars. Disruption was normal. Loss was familiar. Yet, for much of my early life, these were things I observed from a distance.

It wasn’t until my late teenage years, when I moved to another city for university, that I experienced a natural disaster firsthand. That moment changed something in me. What had once been sympathy — feeling for others — became empathy — feeling with them. It stayed with me, and it shaped the path I would eventually take.

Years later, that path led me into humanitarian work.

As an aid worker and communicator, I have been part of many emergency response efforts — from local incidents to international missions. I’ve stood in communities affected by fire, flood, earthquake, cyclone, typhoon, tsunami, and conflict. Each context different, yet deeply connected by the human experience within them.

In those places, I have met people in some of their most difficult moments — families who have lost homes, children trying to make sense of chaos, parents holding on to hope, and communities finding ways to rebuild. At the same time, I have witnessed extraordinary resilience — local leaders stepping forward, neighbours helping one another, and fellow aid workers giving everything they have to support those in need.

There is one challenge that has always stayed with me in this work.

A typical aid worker enters a community and leaves something behind — food, shelter, support, care. As a communicator, my role is different. I often arrive with nothing tangible to give. Instead, I ask people to share their stories.

And in the aftermath of disaster, stories are often the most valuable thing people still have. Sometimes, along with their families — if they are fortunate enough to still be together.

So in many ways, I take something from them. I take their stories. I take the words they share, the moments they trust me with, the fragments of their lives they allow me to carry beyond that place.

That reality has never sat lightly with me.

Because in return, there is very little I can give.

No supplies. No shelter. No immediate relief.

What I can offer — and what I hold onto deeply — is a promise.

A promise that I will tell their story. And that I will tell it with care, with honesty, and with respect.

Because behind every disaster are people whose stories deserve to be seen, heard, and remembered — not just for what they have lost, but for who they are and the strength they carry forward.