Helping Children Through Crisis: How We Navigated War, Evacuation, and Transition With Intention

Over the past few years, our family has walked through some incredibly hard things. From escalating political tension and war in Lebanon to the heartbreaking decision to evacuate and start over in a new country, we’ve experienced layers of grief, uncertainty, and transition.

But woven through that grief, we’ve also seen beauty.

We’ve seen resilience bloom in our children. We’ve seen connection deepen in our family. And we’ve experienced the kind of healing that only comes when we’re willing to do the hard, intentional work of helping our kids process what they’re walking through—and processing it ourselves, too.

Stress. Grief. Transition.

Any one of these is a lot for a child’s nervous system. Together, they can feel overwhelming. Especially when you’re navigating the unknown.

And if you’re a parent—your nervous system is taking the hit too. You’re carrying the emotional weight, the logistics, the planning, and the deep ache of watching your children walk through pain. We know that ache all too well.

During those early months when the political climate in Lebanon began to escalate, we noticed how on edge our whole family felt. When fighter jets broke the sound barrier over our home, our bodies would jolt. Even our youngest began flinching at loud sounds.

We knew we couldn’t stop the jets. We couldn’t control the instability or silence the fear completely. But we could choose to be intentional about how we showed up—for ourselves and for our children.

You may have heard of Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs)—difficult or traumatic events that occur during childhood, such as abuse, neglect, household dysfunction, or chronic stress.

High ACE scores have been linked to poor health outcomes, mental health challenges, and decreased emotional regulation later in life.

But here’s the hope: Positive Childhood Experiences (PCEs) can buffer the effects of ACEs. PCEs are protective factors that foster connection, safety, and resilience—even in the midst of hardship.

Some examples of PCEs include:

• Feeling safe at home

• Being able to talk about feelings with a caring adult

• Feeling a sense of belonging at school or in the community

• Having consistent routines

• Experiencing emotional validation and co-regulation

You don’t need a “perfect” environment to give your child what they need. What they need is you—your presence, your attunement, and your willingness to walk alongside them through hard things.

As the conflict escalated in Lebanon, we began to intentionally integrate PCEs and co-regulation strategies into our everyday rhythm.

We didn’t do it perfectly (no one does), but we prioritized connection and nervous system safety—because we knew that’s where resilience starts.

Here are some of the tools we practiced as a family:

✅ Emotional check-ins at mealtimes and before bed
✅ Safe space for questions, fears, and big feelings
✅ Naming losses and grieving together
✅ Completing the stress cycle through physical movement and creativity
✅ Teaching what’s in their control to help restore a sense of agency
✅ Creating predictable rhythms to anchor our days even amidst instability

Even when we couldn’t guarantee external safety, we could nurture internal safety.

Here's one example of what that looked like:

It became a regular occurrence for jets to break the sound barrier over our neighborhood. It was always unexpected and terrifying as windows shook and the sound reverberated through our bodies.

One afternoon, my children were playing outside when a jet broke the sound barrier over our heads. As I ran outside to get them, I watched my child freeze with a look of panic on her face. I held her and we went inside the house, in case there was another jet.

I knew we needed to complete the stress cycle, so we turned on dance music and moved our bodies to the rhythm until we dropped to the floor exhausted, but feeling a release.

We processed and even laughed about how loud and scary that had felt, and we were ready for the next one.

Leaving Lebanon was one of the hardest decisions we made. It wasn’t just a move—it was a letting go of community, home, familiarity, and all the layers of life we had built.

And for our children, it meant saying goodbye to beloved friends, caregivers, spaces, and a culture they had absorbed into their very being.

We grieved—openly and together.

We cried in front of our kids, not to burden them, but to model that sadness is safe. That grief is allowed. That healing happens when we move through our emotions, not around them.

We also made space for joy and laughter. For new adventures. For connection in the present moment.

One of the most important lessons we’ve learned is this:

Our children cannot feel safe if we are stuck in survival mode.

We had to process, too.

We journaled. We had check-ins with one another. We leaned into our support systems. We gave ourselves permission to rest and breathe and feel.

Because resilience is not just a child’s work—it’s family work.

When we regulate our own nervous systems, we create an environment where healing and connection are possible.

Today, our girls are in a new school, in a new country, with new friends. They still talk about what was hard. They still ask questions. But they also express joy. They initiate conversations about what they’re feeling. They show empathy for others.

And most importantly, they know that we are a family that can talk about hard things. That connection is always available. That they don’t have to carry pain alone.

You are not alone.

Whether you're navigating war, displacement, grief, divorce, illness, or any other kind of upheaval—there is hope.

You don’t have to “fix” everything for your child. But you can offer co-regulation. You can create safety. You can build PCEs even in the middle of chaos.

We highly recommend exploring the resources from TCK Training, especially their Free Safe Space Responses Miniseries! They’re designed with global families in mind—but the tools apply to any parent navigating stress and trauma with children.

You don’t have to be perfect to support your child through pain. You just need to be connected.

Start with a deep breath. A soft tone. An open door to talk.

Because healing doesn’t come from pretending things are okay—it comes from being safe enough to admit when they’re not, and loved enough to walk through it together.