Imagine being caught in a firestorm—not just the literal kind that scorches homes, but the emotional inferno that follows. When disasters strike, the wreckage isn’t just physical; it’s psychological. And yet, in the aftermath of Spokane’s firestorm, a single act of compassion is quietly challenging the status quo. A local therapist, Brina Carrigan, isn’t just offering free trauma sessions—she’s holding up a mirror to a society that often forgets the invisible scars left behind. This isn’t just about therapy; it’s about redefining what it means to care for people after chaos.
Let’s talk about EDMR. No, I’m not referring to the dance music genre (though I can’t help but wonder if the acronym could be repurposed for a more upbeat cause). Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing is a therapy technique that’s been around for decades, yet it still feels underutilized. Carrigan’s decision to deploy it here is telling. Why? Because EDMR isn’t just another checkbox on a mental health list—it’s a tool that confronts trauma head-on, using bilateral stimulation to rewire the brain’s response to horror. But here’s the kicker: she’s doing it for free. That’s not just generous; it’s revolutionary. In a system where mental health care is often rationed by insurance policies and income levels, this event is a direct challenge to the idea that healing should be a privilege.
What makes this particularly fascinating is the logistics. Twenty spots. A five-hour session. Free lunch. It’s not just about accessibility—it’s about creating a space where survivors can breathe without the pressure of productivity. When you’re dealing with trauma, the last thing you need is a clock ticking down to the next task. This event is a rebellion against the ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps’ narrative that plagues post-disaster recovery. It’s saying, ‘You don’t have to be functional to be valid.’ And yet, I can’t help but wonder: how many other communities are quietly suffering in silence because they don’t know where to turn? Carrigan’s initiative is a beacon, but it’s also a question mark. Why does it take a disaster to spark this kind of action?
There’s another layer here. The choice of group therapy is deliberate. Trauma isn’t just an individual burden—it’s a shared experience. When survivors gather, they’re not just processing their own pain; they’re building a collective resilience. I’ve seen this phenomenon before in disaster zones, where the act of storytelling becomes a form of resistance against isolation. But what’s striking is how rarely this is institutionalized. Why do we wait for crises to mobilize care? Shouldn’t this be the standard, not the exception? The fact that Carrigan is stepping in voluntarily suggests a systemic failure. If we’re going to prioritize mental health, it can’t be reactive—it has to be proactive.
And let’s not overlook the symbolism of the location: 104 S. Freya Street. It’s not a sterile clinic or a corporate office. It’s a neighborhood space, which speaks volumes. Trauma recovery isn’t about clinical detachment; it’s about grounding people in the familiar. This isn’t just therapy—it’s a reclamation of normalcy. But here’s the uncomfortable truth: this event is only possible because of the firestorm itself. It’s a reminder that we often need disaster to remind us of our humanity. What does that say about our everyday systems of care? Are we waiting for the next catastrophe to wake up to the needs of our neighbors?
As I reflect on this, one thing becomes clear: Carrigan’s initiative is both a lifeline and a provocation. It’s a lifeline because it’s saving people from the suffocating weight of unprocessed trauma. But it’s also a provocation because it exposes the gaps in our mental health infrastructure. If we truly value community, shouldn’t we be funding these kinds of programs long before the smoke clears? The firestorm may have created the need, but the responsibility to address it shouldn’t rest solely on the shoulders of individuals. This isn’t just about Spokane—it’s about a larger cultural reckoning with how we define and deliver care. The next time a disaster strikes, will we be ready? Or will we wait for someone like Brina Carrigan to remind us what it means to heal together?
