We like to believe we’ll see it coming—the storm, the quake, the moment everything shifts under our feet. But in truth, most emergencies don’t knock. They arrive like uninvited guests, spilling into the living room of your life with muddy shoes, demanding you drop everything. That’s the thing about preparedness. We often think of it in terms of supplies: a go-bag by the door, water bottles in the cupboard, numbers saved on speed dial. And yes, those matter. But life has taught me that the real emergency plan is far less about what you pack and far more about what you practice.

I’ve learned to keep kindness stocked like canned goods, to check my humility as often as I check the batteries in a flashlight, to keep forgiveness within reach because some messes can’t be mopped up with anger. I’ve learned that resilience is built in the small, ordinary days—the mornings when you show up despite being tired, the evenings you choose to listen instead of turning away. Because when life’s fault lines shift, it’s not the extra blanket you packed that saves you—it’s the people who’ve seen you at your messiest and still choose to stand with you.

If I have a “go-bag” for life, it’s full of quiet things: a few memories I can carry anywhere, the ability to laugh when things are uncertain, and a faith that doesn’t depend on what’s happening outside my window. And when the sky turns strange—as it always does, eventually—I hope I’ll remember that survival is not just about keeping the lights on. It’s about keeping the light in. Because sometimes the best preparedness plan isn’t about having everything ready for the world’s worst day—it’s about becoming the kind of person who can still see beauty in the dark.