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When Crisis Curves Collide

Last night, I was lying awake doing what I have done far too many times this year: mentally sorting through problems I could not solve at three o’clock in the morning. We are nearing the end of our year-long house fire restoration, but another setback surfaced during appliance installation yesterday:


  • The wine refrigerator did not fit beneath the counter.

  • The refrigerator and freezer columns were too tall for the cabinets.

  • The custom hood, which had already taken weeks longer than expected, was still the wrong color.

  • Cabinet doors and drawers needed adjustments.

  • Trim remained unfinished.

  • Only two of the appliances could actually be installed.


We were supposed to be preparing to move home. Instead, I was lying awake wondering what would need to be torn apart, who would fix it, and how this new problem might delay us again. I replayed every unfinished detail, every unanswered question, and every possible outcome.



Somewhere in the middle of that spiral, I remembered a blog post I wrote in April 2020 called The Crisis Curve: Where Do You Land?


I pulled it up because I needed reassurance from the woman who wrote it.


Back then, I wrote:

Every crisis has a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Nearly a year after our house fire, I wanted to know where we currently landed on that curve. Surely, after all this time, we had to be getting close to the end.


As I reread the post, I recognized our journey in every stage:

  • Warning

  • Build-up

  • Response

  • Impact

  • Resolution


I was especially struck by the impact stage, which I had described as the longest and most exhausting part of a crisis. It is the stage where initial optimism gives way to discouragement, disillusionment, skepticism, blame, helplessness, and sheer physical exhaustion.


That sounded familiar.


But the more I tried to place us on the curve, the more I realized that our experience did not look like one smooth line.

The original curve was not wrong. I had simply been picturing only one curve.

The Big Curve


Our largest curve began with the house fire and has stretched across nearly an entire year.


At first, everything was immediate. We had to leave our home, determine what could be saved, find somewhere to live, communicate with insurance, make countless decisions, and figure out how to continue working and caring for our family while our normal life disappeared overnight.


The response stage was active and urgent. There were people to call, lists to make, forms to complete, materials to choose, and problems to solve. Adrenaline kept us moving. We believed there was a plan and that each completed task brought us closer to home.


Eventually, however, we entered the long impact stage.


The work slowed. Communication became more difficult. Decisions piled up. Timelines shifted. Our temporary situation became less temporary. We learned how exhausting it is to depend on insurance adjusters, estimators, contractors, project managers, suppliers, installers, and dozens of other people whose timelines and priorities we could not control.


Now, we appear to be approaching resolution.


The house has been rebuilt. The floors, cabinets, counters, and most fixtures are installed. We have reached the occupancy inspection. Moving home is no longer a distant idea. It is something we are actively coordinating.

From a distance, the large curve clearly shows progress. Up close, however, smaller curves often block our view.

The Mini-Curves


The first smaller curve began almost immediately.


We moved into an Airbnb that was supposed to provide a safe and comfortable place for our family for three months. Instead, it did not present as advertised and was not ready for us. We ended up in a hotel while fighting to have the living conditions corrected.


That crisis eventually settled, but another soon rose in its place.


We struggled to find a long-term rental that would accommodate our family and pets. Then our guardian angel realtor, Lisa, stepped in. She found us a lovely home and negotiated like a badass to secure the lease.


We packed and moved again while I was brutally sick.


Around January, the restoration project seemed to nearly stop. Very little was happening, and we could not understand why. We eventually learned that Christina, the estimator who had taken the lead on a significant portion of our project, including the kitchen, had left the company. Our project manager had essentially been trying to perform two jobs instead of one.


In March, the process stalled again while insurance took what felt like forever to approve the restoration estimate and review our lost contents. I called, emailed, followed up, pushed, questioned, and badgered until I finally got answers. We received our first payment for lost contents nine months after the fire. In addition, our insurance company dropped us, leaving us struggling to find new coverage.


And now, as we reach the final stretch, we are facing installation problems and the overwhelming logistics of moving out of the rental and back into the restored home.


Each issue has had its own:

  • Beginning

  • Build-up

  • Response

  • Impact

  • Eventual resolution

Each one has created its own curve.

Life Did Not Pause


Then there were the events that were not necessarily mini-crises created by the fire. They were simply life continuing to happen while we were already carrying the weight of the larger crisis.


  • Brynn moved to Idaho, a significant transition for her and for us.

  • During a visit, Brynn’s dog, Uzi, became seriously ill at our house and needed emergency surgery.

  • Hannah graduated from high school, a joyful and emotional milestone.

  • We began preparing to move Hannah to college while simultaneously preparing to move ourselves home.

  • In June, Rick’s dad passed away.


These moments are not equal in weight. A frustrating battle with an insurance company is not comparable to losing a parent. A failed appliance installation is not comparable to emergency surgery. A graduation carries joy in a way that a restoration delay does not.

But they all occurred while we were drawing from the same emotional reserve.

Crisis recovery does not happen in a protected bubble. The rest of life does not politely wait until we are rested, settled, and ready for it.

It keeps moving straight through the middle of the curve.


When I tried to picture our year honestly, it looked something like this.

  • The large curve represents the house fire and restoration journey.

  • The smaller blue curves represent repeated spikes of uncertainty, urgency, frustration, disappointment, and problem-solving.

  • The straight line represents life continuing to move through all of it.


Some of the smaller curves grew directly from the original crisis. Others were simply life arriving on schedule, whether we were ready for it or not.


What the Research Says


As I read about long-term disaster recovery, I discovered that researchers have language for much of what we experienced.


They describe the ongoing complications created by an original crisis as secondary stressors. One major stressor can also spread into other parts of life, a process known as stress proliferation. That was a new phrase for me!


There is a reason each new problem can feel harder than the one before it. Repeated stress draws from the same emotional and physical reserve.

Each new crisis does not begin at zero. It begins wherever the previous crisis left us.

That may be why learning that a refrigerator does not fit can feel so devastating. The refrigerator is not more traumatic than the fire. But I am not responding to it with the same reserves I had before the fire. It arrived after nearly a year of displacement, decisions, uncertainty, delays, grief, and interrupted sleep.

The newest problem may not be the largest problem. It simply lands on top of everything that came before it.

When the Small Curve Feels Like the Whole Story


A mini-curve can temporarily convince us that we have returned to the beginning.

When the appliances did not fit, I did not immediately think: “This is one installation problem occurring near the end of a successful year-long reconstruction.”


I thought:

“The kitchen is a disaster. Nothing is finished. We are never going to get home.”

Feelings respond to the closest and loudest problem.


Progress is measured across the entire curve.


Both perspectives contain truth. The installation problems are real. They require correction, accountability, time, and a clear plan. But they do not erase:

  • The rebuilt house

  • The completed floors

  • The installed cabinets

  • The occupancy inspection

  • The fact that moving home is finally possible

The mini-curve deserves attention. It does not deserve the power to rewrite the entire journey.

Learning to PAUSE


Once I started writing about these overlapping crisis curves, my teacher brain immediately wanted something tangible to go with them.

I needed a simple tool I could return to when a mini-curve started to feel like the whole story, much like the clear frameworks I give my students when a task feels overwhelming.


That is how I landed on PAUSE.


  • P: Pinpoint the current curve

  • A: Acknowledge the problem without enlarging it

  • U: Understand what is urgent

  • S: See the larger curve

  • E: Establish the next step, then exhale


I wish I could say I have learned to move through every new curve calmly and gracefully. I have not. But I am learning to PAUSE before letting the newest problem define the whole story.



What PAUSE Looks Like for Me Right Now


  • Pinpoint the current curve. I am in an installation and moving-logistics mini-curve near the end of our larger restoration journey. Naming it helps me see it more clearly.


  • Acknowledge the problem without enlarging it. The refrigerator and freezer not fitting is a real problem. It needs to be corrected and could affect our timeline. But it does not mean the entire restoration has failed. I can be honest about what is wrong without deciding that everything is wrong.


  • Understand what is urgent. After living in crisis mode for a long time, everything can start to feel like an emergency. I have to sort out:

    • What affects safety or function

    • What needs attention soon

    • What can wait for the punch list


Everything may matter, but everything does not need the same amount of emotional energy.


  • See the larger curve. Our home has been rebuilt. Major construction is complete. Inspection is happening. We are packing to move home. The current problem does not erase that progress.


A mini-curve can make us feel as though we are back at the beginning, even when we are much closer to the end.


  • Establish the next step, then exhale. I do not need to solve the entire project at once.


I only need to know:

  • Who is responsible

  • What must be fixed before we move in

  • What can be completed later


Once the next step is clear, I can stop carrying every possible outcome in my head at the same time.

Where I Land Today


So, where do I currently land on the crisis curve?


I believe we are finally moving into resolution on the larger house-fire curve.



That does not mean everything is finished. It does not mean the smaller curves have stopped appearing. It certainly does not mean we have processed every emotion attached to the past year.


Moving home may happen while workers are still correcting mistakes. Our punch list may remain long. Our restored house may not immediately feel like home. Grief will not disappear when we pass an inspection. Exhaustion will not vanish when we unpack the final box.

Maybe resolution is not one perfect moment when every problem disappears. Maybe it is the slow return of routine, safety, choice, and hope.

Six years ago, I wrote that every crisis has a beginning, a middle, and an end.


I still believe that.


I just understand the curve differently now.


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