This as-told-to narrative originates from an extended conversation with Ines Pacheco, whose experiences have been carefully adapted and refined to preserve accuracy while ensuring the story’s clarity and flow.
The atmosphere is one of profound tension — fear mixed with cautious reassurance. The storm outside is ferocious, its winds relentless, its rain unceasing, yet within the sturdy concrete walls of our home, we find a fragile but real sense of safety. The house, designed with practicality in mind and reinforced by a solid slab roof, has become our fortress. Every precaution that could be taken was done in advance: we secured windows, stockpiled essentials, and made sure everyone under our care had a safe place to stay. At present, eight human lives and two animals coexist here — my husband and I, our two young daughters aged four and six, our nanny along with her two older children, aged ten and thirteen, and a gardener from our nearby community whose own home, with its vulnerable zinc roof, offered little protection against this tempest. Our faithful dog and cat complete the household, both strangely calm amid the upheaval.
We are simply enduring — waiting for the storm to pass while continuously mopping up the streams of water pushed in by the gusting wind. Our location in the Blue Mountains, just beyond Kingston, adds another layer of anxiety. Even ordinary rainfall here often triggers treacherous landslides, and during a hurricane, that danger increases exponentially. Thankfully, hurricanes rarely come unannounced, giving us precious time to prepare emotionally and physically. For several days before the storm hit, we spoke to the children about what would come — the howling sounds, the battering of rain, the terrifying force of nature — and emphasized the importance of staying calm, listening carefully, and trusting the adults. Having endured Hurricane Beryl last year, our daughters already recognized some warning signs, yet this storm feels dramatically more intense. We never downplay the situation by calling it just a rainy day, but we do make sure that what we tell them remains suitable for their age.
In this tight-knit mountain community, the spirit of mutual care is remarkable. When the children heard the words “life-threatening floods” on the radio, the phrase captured their imaginations and frightened them. I explained that this was precisely why we were staying home, why we followed official directions so carefully — because doing so keeps us safe. I have lived in Jamaica long enough to know that one comforting constant is the solidarity among neighbors. People check on one another without hesitation, offering help, supplies, or simply reassurance. It’s a form of collective resilience deeply woven into our way of life here, and I try to teach that sense of community to my children as well.
We had prepared as thoroughly as possible, stocking the house with necessities. Both our deep freezer and spare freezer are filled with provisions. Because I normally prepare school lunches for our local schools, we already had a generous store of ingredients available — rice, vegetables, flour, oil, and meat — all of which now sustain our little household. Meals have become both a necessity and a comfort. Food not only nourishes the body but provides a rhythm that helps us preserve some sense of normalcy.
Time has taken on a strange, almost suspended quality. It began raining on Friday, and the downpour has scarcely paused since. By Saturday, the winds had become fierce and erratic, and today, as the hurricane finally made landfall near Kingston, we feel its full force even up here in the hills. At night, the sound is particularly haunting — the deep, echoing roar of wind wrapping around the house, shaking trees, and hurling debris. Our community chat has become a lifeline: neighbors trade photos, report blocked roads, and offer updates when power flickers out. Given the extent of the flooding and the damage already visible, it’s possible we’ll remain isolated for a week or longer.
Despite everything, we try to maintain the children’s routines, knowing that structure is their anchor. On ordinary weekends, we prioritize family meals three times a day, sitting down together to eat, talk, and reconnect. We’ve continued that practice even now. The familiarity of these rituals keeps the girls grounded — it gives them something stable to hold on to when the world outside feels dangerous and unpredictable. The presence of older children helps too; they idolize them, learning from their calm and laughter. For the most part, the girls are managing remarkably well, even having moments of joy, though whenever the wind howls too loudly, fear naturally resurfaces. Then we comfort them, reminding them gently but firmly that they are safe and protected.
Power outages have become a daily part of life. To conserve energy, we ration the children’s device time, ensuring that everything stays charged in case of full blackout. When it’s time to put the iPads away, we turn to old-fashioned entertainment: board games like Uno or Bananagrams, which fill the room with laughter and distraction. Yet there’s also an unspoken rule these days — that some of our usual household boundaries can be relaxed. In moments like these, it’s not the time to insist on perfect routines. If the girls request chocolate cookies at eight in the morning, I say yes. Survival, after all, is not only about preparedness but also about kindness — allowing small comforts when the larger world feels so uncertain.
I would be lying if I claimed complete composure. There have been moments when fear threatened to overwhelm me, when my stomach clenched and my breath came short. I am not by nature an optimist, yet even in those moments, I remind myself again and again: we are safe. The house may take on water; belongings might be damaged or destroyed — but as long as the people I love are alive and well, we will recover. I focus on bringing that calm to the children, knowing that they absorb my reactions as models for their own. If they see me panic, they will panic; if they see me breathe and reassure, they will do the same. So I tell them over and over, with as much strength as I can muster: we are OK. People are watching out for each other. We are not alone.
I am deeply proud of how resilient the children have been — truly little troopers, demonstrating courage that far exceeds their years. For now, our daily rhythm continues: we mop where the wind pushes rain inside, we cook with what we have, we charge our devices whenever power flickers back, and we gather together for food and games. Between moments of calm and anxiety, we listen carefully for official updates, reach out to check on neighbors, and hold onto hope. All we can do is endure together, waiting, patiently and bravely, for the storm to finally move on.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/hurricane-melissa-how-we-keep-kids-calm-2025-10
