The shock of it all. The raging sadness of it all. And how much we want to help, and how little our help seems to be, dwarfed by tragedy after tragedy.
Hungry and angry mobs. Old people soaked in bedsores. A tiny foot motionless in the mud.
It is hard to work. I read tweet after tweet asking for antibiotics, water, can openers, portalets, mattresses, expressed breastmilk, and volunteers. I listen to a pitch briefing, write copy, attempt layouts, and around me worry buzzes like insatiable mosquitoes.
The work will get done and we will overcome. Sadness does not help. But sometimes, for just a second, when I am not working or worrying or trying to do something worthwhile, it is the only feeling I have.