Who Do You Call When You’re Overwhelmed?

A story about the first responders who show up when we need them most.

TL;DR: My granddaughter was saved by first responders. A California nurse was saved by people literally lifting a helicopter to free her. And this week, as my own body rebelled while trying to serve, I realized that first responders need first responders too. This is why Kim & Ink exists: to support families who need permission to ask for help when overwhelmed; to slow down with tools that don’t add pressure.

Like our free “Permission to Live Softer” guide, which you can get by clicking the link:

Last week in Sacramento, California, a medical helicopter crashed on Highway 50. When bystanders arrived, they found a flight nurse trapped beneath the aircraft. Without hesitation, a mass of strangers worked together to literally lift that helicopter off her. First responders rushed all three crew members to the hospital. They did everything right. They lifted together. Best of all, they got to her in time.

All three survived—the nurse, pilot, and paramedic. Yet, as of this writing, they remain in critical condition with serious injuries. The outcome is still uncertain.

These weren’t random passengers. They were first responders themselves—a flight crew who saves others. And when their crisis came, even with dozens of people lifting, even with immediate medical care, they’re still fighting for their lives.

Their story has been heavy on my heart because three years ago, my granddaughter learned what it means to call for help and have first responders arrive in time.

When Help Arrived in Time

Dispatch: “El Mirage. What is your emergency?”

“I’m walking on 128th Avenue with my daughter in a stroller, and a dog is attacking us.”

My daughter-in-law’s voice. My g’littles screams in the background.

For two minutes that I’m sure felt like a lifetime, she kept herself between that aggressive dog and the stroller, trying to stay on the line, trying to protect her child. When two officers arrived, they moved quickly – separated the dog, secured the scene, made sure everyone was safe.

Then one officer knelt down beside my granddaughter’s stroller. She was still sobbing, still terrified.

“Are you okay now?”

“Ye-ess.”

“I got here as fast as I could. I’ll always come as fast as I can when you call for help.”

Before that day, my granddaughter would hide behind her mother if they got close to a police officer. After that day? They became her heroes. Her trusted first responders.

She was saved because someone called, and help arrived in time.

When You’re Supposed to Be the Helper

This week, I had my own moment of reckoning.

I was creating a bouquet for the house where our Church’s visiting evangelists would stay. It should have been joyful. I wanted it to do it. But I’d expected to help with something else, and now here I was, arranging flowers when my mind and body had prepared for a different task.

And then my back seized up.

With breath-stealing spasms. The kind that make you freeze as pain shoots through your body.

And in that moment, I thought: Why is my body doing this? I should be willing to serve. I should be a first responder to whatever need arises. What kind of person can’t even arrange flowers without falling apart?

But maybe that’s the wrong question.

Maybe the right question is: Why do we think we have to carry everything alone? Why do we believe that being willing means never needing help ourselves?

I had two choices: Push through and risk getting completely overwhelmed, or ask for help.

My back spasms weren’t weakness. They weren’t a spiritual failing. They were my body being a first responder—trying to protect me, saying what my mind wouldn’t admit: “This is too much. The plan changed, you’re overwhelmed, and need to ask someone to help lift this.” (Caregiver stress is real, and recognizing when we need support is crucial.)

The bouquet got delivered. But not by me. My husband finished the lifting.

And maybe that’s the more beautiful story.

When The Answer Looks Different

The trapped nurse’s story reminds me of a harder truth: sometimes we call, help arrives, people do everything humanly possible… and we still don’t get the ending we desperately pray for.

My granddaughter got her rescue. I got my wake-up call. But the nurse’s family got a different answer—one that still involved a community running toward the crisis, lifting together, refusing to stand by. They just couldn’t change the outcome.

So why do we still call? Why do we still reach out?

Because God promises us something deeper than rescue from every crisis. He promises us His presence IN every crisis.

Jesus told us in John 14:13-14, “Whatever you ask in my name, that will I do, that the Father might be glorified in the Son.” Not that He’ll always give us the outcome we want, but that He will act in ways that glorify the Father—ways that might look like divine rescue, or might look like divine companionship through the valley, or might look like our own bodies saying “stop” before we break completely.

Hebrews 4:16 tells us to “come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may find mercy and grace in the time of trouble.” Mercy and grace. Not always deliverance from the thing, but always His presence in the thing. Always enough for the moment we’re in.

We Need Each Other

Here’s what all three stories teach me: We were never meant to face our crises alone.

Those strangers in Sacramento didn’t hesitate. They saw someone trapped and they lifted. Together.

The officers who protected my granddaughter didn’t say, “Figure it out yourself.” They came as fast as they could.

And my body—blessed, frustrating body—didn’t let me keep pretending I could handle the sudden pivot, the unexpected ask, the weight of “should” without reaching out for help.

That’s the body of Christ in action. Sometimes we’re strong enough to call for help ourselves. Sometimes we’re pinned under the wreckage, needing others to do the heavy lifting for us. And sometimes we’re the ones who think we should be doing the lifting, when really we need someone to say, “Here, let me help you with that.”

Romans 8:26 says, “The Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us.” When we can’t find the words, when we’re too broken to dial 911, when our bodies are screaming stop but our minds insist we should keep going—the Spirit intercedes. And often, He does it through other people.

My daughter-in-law could make that call. She could cry out for help.

But some of you are like the nurse, trapped under something too heavy to lift alone. You need someone to see you. To run toward your crisis, not away from it. To lift with you, to call out to God on your behalf when you can’t find your own voice.

And some of you are like me this week—trying to be the helper while your body begs you to ask for help yourself.

Your Emergency Contact List

So here’s what I’m asking you to do: Make your list of first responders right now. Not someday. Today.

Who are your three people? The ones you can call at 2 AM? The ones who will pray with you, sit with you, remind you that God is still good even when life isn’t?

Write their names down. And then—this is just as important—ask them if you can be on their list too. Because we don’t just need rescuers. We need to BE rescuers.

But here’s the thing I’m learning: Being a rescuer doesn’t mean never needing rescue yourself. Being a first responder doesn’t mean you never call 911. Being willing to serve doesn’t mean your body isn’t allowed to say, “This is too much right now.”

Psalm 46:1 says, “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” Present help. Not distant. Not theoretical. Right here. Right now.

But sometimes His present help has a face, a voice, hands that reach out and lift. Sometimes His present help is your own body saying “stop” before you break. Sometimes His help looks like permission to do less, to ask for more, to admit you’re overwhelmed.

The Call That’s Always Answered

My granddaughter learned that day that when you call for help, someone will come. She learned to trust her first responders.

The medivac crew’s families and those bystanders learned something harder—that sometimes even when everyone comes, even when everyone lifts, we still lose people we love. But they came anyway. They lifted anyway. They tried anyway.

And I learned this week that my body is not my enemy when it says “this is too much.” It’s trying to protect me. It’s being a first responder to my own depletion.

That’s what we’re called to do for each other.

And here’s the promise that holds us when everything else fails: Jesus is always on the line. Always dispatching help. Always present. Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”

Near. Not far away analyzing our crisis. Near and in it with us. In the back spasms and the dog attacks and the helicopter crashes. In the moments when we’re rescuing and the moments when we’re the ones who need rescue.

Why Kim & Ink Exists

This is why we do what we do.

When life got heavy for our family—when Kim was diagnosed as neurodivergent and our carefully planned life had to be redesigned—we learned this truth the hard way: You need people who will lift with you.

Not people who judge how heavy your load is. Not people who offer advice from a distance. People who see you trapped under something too big to move alone, and without hesitation, they run toward you and lift.

Our stationery isn’t just pretty paper. It’s permission to pause when everything says “go faster.” It’s a way to hold onto what matters when everything feels like too much. We designed it for the parent who wants to preserve memories but doesn’t have energy for elaborate scrapbooks.

It’s for the family that had to redesign life to fit them, not the other way around. For the mom whose body said “stop” while her mind said “keep going.” For the parent standing in the wreckage wondering who to call.

Letters to your baby. Write when you can, even if it’s just one sentence.

Journals with gentle prompts. No guilt if you skip a week or a month because you were in survival mode.

Planners that flex with neurodivergent rhythms. Because your family doesn’t fit in someone else’s box, and neither does your body’s wisdom about when to rest.

Learning resources for differently-wired kids. Because rigid plans break us, and flexibility is a form of love.

This is memory-keeping for the overwhelmed. Permission slips for those carrying the weight of “should.” Resources created by someone who knows what it’s like to need rescue while thinking you should be doing the rescuing.

Whether your story ends like my granddaughter’s—with rescue and relief and a new trust in those who came—or whether your story is harder, more like the nurse’s family is walking through right now, or whether you’re somewhere in between like me this week, learning to listen when your body says “too much”—you are not alone.

God sees you under the weight. He’s already sent people to lift with you. And He Himself is Emmanuel—God with us—in the crushing, in the calling out, in the long wait for dawn, in the back spasms that say “ask for help.”

So make the call. Reach out. Let others reach toward you. Build your network of first responders and be one for someone else.

But also: Give yourself permission to need first responders even when you think you should be one.

Because we were never meant to survive our crises alone. We were created for community, held by a God who promises, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

Who will you call? And whose call will you answer? And when will you let yourself admit you need someone to answer yours?

Grab our free “Permission to Live Softer” guide:

Because you don’t need another to-do list. You need permission to breathe. You need someone in your corner saying: It’s okay to do less. It’s okay to need help. It’s okay for your body to say stop. You’re doing better than you think.

🤍 Let’s lift together.