Lynda Moore realises the importance of people who care, when it comes to dealing with nature's challenges

As many of you know, I live in Motueka in Tasman, an area that was badly hit by the rainstorm late last week. I was humbled by the number of friends and clients who reached out to myself and Mum, to make sure we were OK.  And we were.  We live in the town and are far enough away from the Motueka Valley and River, that other than some surface flooding, we were Ok. 

Jett and I managed to get out for a walk after the rain stopped and we saw the paddocks that had become lakes, the orchards underwater, and houses in the neighbourhood that as one friend put it, became lake front properties. Then we headed to our favourite place, the beach. That’s when we saw what the force of the water had done. There were apple crates (many still with apples in them), hay bales and lots of other debris that had washed down the river and out to sea and then ended up on the beach. As we continued to walk, I looked up and saw the rainbow. Mother Nature had done her work for now and left a bit of a mess behind her.

This isn’t the first and it certainly won’t be the last weather event that happens to us, and I’m sure many of you can relate and have been through a very similar experience. But there is something strange about the quiet after a storm isn’t there. You step outside and things look familiar — but something’s shifted. The trees are still standing, many with a bit of a lean, but the ground around them has changed. The river is back in its place, but it’s left behind a reminder of where it’s been — mud on the road, fences down, a silence that doesn’t feel like peace.

That’s the reality for many people right now. The flooding hasn’t just damaged or destroyed property it’s shaken people’s sense of security. When water rushes through your home or over your land, it does more than leave a mess. It takes something with it. For some, it’s years of work. For others, it’s the feeling of home and those special items that can never be replaced.

This isn’t just about sodden carpets or broken fences. It’s about the exhaustion that sets in when you’re facing another clean-up, another round of insurance calls, another reminder that things can change overnight. And for many, this isn’t the first time and probably won’t be the last either.

That’s the part people don’t always see, the emotional toll. When you've spent years building something, and it’s washed away in a matter of a few hours, there’s grief, anger, then acceptance. You don’t always have time to sit with all the emotion, because the jobs pile up fast. But it’s there, under the surface. Quiet, heavy, and real.

What I’ve seen, and what I keep coming back to, is how quickly people step in to help. Not because they have to, but because they want to. Neighbours are already checking in. Friends are turning up with shovels. Community groups are offering help in whatever area they are needed. People are baking, sharing food, offering what they have. The cleanup has begun.

Online community noticeboards, stop bickering and turn into noticeboards for practical help, offering places to stay, hot meals, clothing, reconnecting pets and stock with their owners. No one’s waiting to be told what to do. They’re just doing it.

That kind of support makes a difference — not just to the clean-up, but to the way people feel. It tells you you’re not doing this alone. And when you’re knee-deep in mud, that matters.

As Jett and I walked on the beach the day after the storm, looking around at the debris, I did a double take, as there was something I hadn’t expected to see.  It was a cow that had been swept away by the floodwaters and ended up standing alone on the beach by the low tide mark. People tried to help catch it, they approached gently, calmly, but the cow kept running back into the sea. It didn’t realise it was safe.

And honestly, that’s how a lot of people feel right now. When you’ve been hit hard, whether by a flood, or anything else that turns life upside down, it’s not always easy to accept help. You feel vulnerable. Unsure. Sometimes even ashamed. You don’t know who to trust, or whether you even deserve support.

But you do. We all do.

And that’s the thing about real support; it doesn’t just offer help once. It keeps showing up. It waits, quietly, patiently, until you’re ready. Until it feels safe enough to accept the hand that’s being held out.

Maybe you’re still cleaning up. Maybe you’re supporting someone who is. Maybe you’re not directly affected, but you’re close enough to feel the ripple. Wherever you are in this, here are a few things that make a real difference:

• Check in – A message, a call, a knock on the door. It doesn’t need to be big — just consistent.
• Offer what you can – Whether it’s your time, your car, a hot meal, or an extra bed. Small things matter.
• Keep showing up – People don’t always know how to ask for help. But they’ll notice who keeps turning up.

This kind of disruption leaves a mark. Things won’t go back to normal overnight. But that doesn’t mean people are broken. Tired, yes. Overwhelmed, definitely. But still standing. Still turning up for each other. Still pushing forward.

I’ve seen it. In the messages shared online. In the offers of food and shelter. In the quiet moments between people who don’t know what to say but want to help anyway.

It’s easy to underestimate the impact of small acts of kindness — but they add up. They steady the ground, one interaction at a time.

Eventually, like that cow, we stop running. We pause. We take a breath. And we realise we’re surrounded by people who care.

That doesn’t fix everything. But it gives us something to stand on.

Then you have to think about the financial impact.

*Lynda Moore is a Money Mentalist coach and New Zealand’s only certified New Money Story® mentor. Lynda helps you understand why you do the things you do with your money, when we all know we should spend less than we earn. You can contact her here.