3 Very Scary TRUE Camping Lightning Strikes Horror Stories

 

"Struck in the Storm: A Family’s Nightmare":

I’m not much for camping, but that summer of 2016, my wife convinced me it’d be good for the family. The six of us—me, her, and our four kids, ages 10, 8, 6, and 2—headed to a reservoir in Vermont. It was a peaceful spot, surrounded by tall pines, the water so still it mirrored the trees. The kids were buzzing with excitement, running around, picking spots for their tents. Our oldest, a lanky 10-year-old with a knack for adventure, was already planning to explore the woods. The 8-year-old was helping his little sister, the 6-year-old, drag her sleeping bag. The 2-year-old toddled behind, clutching a stuffed bunny, giggling at everything. My wife was unpacking coolers, her hair tied back, humming softly. I got to work on the campfire, stacking logs, feeling the rough bark under my hands. That first day was everything you’d want. We swam, the kids splashing and shrieking in the cool water. At night, we roasted hot dogs, the smoky smell filling the air. The kids held marshmallows on sticks, their faces lit by the flickering flames, laughing as the sugar caught fire. It felt good, like we were doing something right as a family.

As night fell, I noticed a shift. The air felt heavier, and a breeze started rustling the trees. I didn’t think much of it until I heard a low rumble, far off but unmistakable. Thunder. I was half-asleep in our tent when my wife nudged me. “You hear that? Sounds like a storm.”
I sat up, rubbing my eyes, listening. The wind was picking up, and another rumble rolled through. “Yeah, I hear it,” I said, trying to sound calm. “Probably just passing through. Let’s keep an ear out.”
She didn’t look convinced, her brow furrowed. I wanted to reassure her, but the truth was, I wasn’t sure. The forecast hadn’t mentioned storms, but nature doesn’t always follow the news. The kids were asleep in their tent nearby, and I figured we’d wait before waking them. No need to scare them yet.

The wind got stronger, shaking the tent like it was trying to rip it free. Rain started, a soft patter at first, then a steady drumbeat. Lightning flashed, bright enough to light up the tent’s walls, showing my wife’s worried face. The thunder came right after, loud and sharp, like a cannon. My stomach tightened. This wasn’t just a passing shower.
“We need to get the kids in here,” my wife said, her voice low but urgent.
I nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.” We slipped out into the rain, the drops cold against my skin, and hurried to the kids’ tent. The 10-year-old was already awake, sitting up. “Dad, what’s going on?”
“Just a storm, buddy. Come on, we’re all staying in our tent.”
The 8-year-old stirred, mumbling, “Is it bad?”
“Not bad, just loud,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. The 6-year-old clung to my wife, half-asleep, while I carried the 2-year-old’s crib, her little body still curled up with that bunny. We got them into our bigger tent, zipping it shut against the rain. The kids huddled close, their sleeping bags bunched around them. The 6-year-old pressed against my wife, her eyes wide. The 8-year-old sat cross-legged, staring at the tent flap like he expected something to burst through. The 10-year-old was quiet, watching me, waiting for me to say it’d be okay.

The storm kept getting worse. The rain was a roar now, like a waterfall crashing over us. The wind howled, bending the trees with creaks and groans. Lightning flashed so often it felt like a strobe light, each one followed by thunder that shook the ground. My wife held the 6-year-old, whispering, “It’s okay, sweetie.” But I could see her hands trembling.
“Dad, this is scary,” the 6-year-old said, her voice small.
“I know, kiddo,” I said, ruffling her hair. “But we’re all together. It’ll pass.” I wanted to believe it, but the storm felt alive, like it was circling us. I kept thinking about lightning, how it could hit anywhere, anytime. Tents were no protection—I knew that much from a safety video I’d seen years ago. But what could we do? Run out into the storm? Stay and hope?

Then it hit. A crack tore through the air, louder than anything I’d ever heard, like the sky itself split open. A blinding light flooded the tent, and a jolt shot through my head, sharp and electric, like someone drove a nail into my skull. I groaned, clutching my forehead. My wife screamed, grabbing her arm. “Mommy!” the 6-year-old cried, holding her shoulder, tears streaming down her face.
“Something shocked me!” the 8-year-old yelled, twisting to touch his backside, his face contorted.
The 10-year-old’s eyes were huge. “Was that lightning? Did it hit us?”
I blinked, trying to clear the fog in my head. The pain was fading, but my heart was pounding. I looked at the 2-year-old—still asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling, untouched by whatever just happened. “Everyone okay?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
My wife nodded, but her face was pale, her right arm cradled against her chest. “It hurts,” she said, showing me a red mark on her forearm, like a burn. The 6-year-old had a similar mark on her shoulder, small but angry. The 8-year-old lifted his shirt, revealing a pink burn on his rear, about the size of a quarter. My head throbbed, but I didn’t see any marks on me. The 10-year-old looked fine, just shaken, his hands clenched into fists.

“We got hit,” I said, the words heavy. “Lightning.”
“What do we do?” my wife asked, her voice shaking.
I wanted to say something reassuring, but my mind was racing. Tents weren’t safe—lightning could strike again, travel through the ground or the poles. Staying here felt like waiting for another hit. “We can’t stay here,” I said. “It’s not safe.”
My wife’s eyes lit up with an idea. “The hammocks. They’re off the ground, under rain flies. Maybe they’re safer.”
I hesitated. The hammocks were strung between trees, maybe 20 feet away. Moving in this storm sounded risky—trees could fall, lightning could strike again. But staying felt worse. “It’s pouring,” I said. “The wind’s bad.”
“I know, but we can’t just sit here,” she pressed. “The hammocks might be our best shot.”
I looked at the kids, their wide eyes locked on me. I hated the idea of dragging them out there, but she was right. We couldn’t stay. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s move. Fast.”

We unzipped the tent, and the storm hit us like a wall. Rain stung my face, cold and sharp, soaking my clothes in seconds. The wind pushed against us, making every step a fight. I held the 10-year-old’s hand, his grip tight. My wife carried the 6-year-old, the 8-year-old clinging to her other hand. I had the 2-year-old’s crib, shielding it as best I could. Lightning flashed, showing the trees bending, their branches like arms reaching out. Thunder roared, so close it rattled my bones.
“Stay together!” I shouted over the wind. We stumbled to the hammocks, the ground slick with mud. I helped the 10-year-old climb into one with me, the fabric swaying as we settled in. My wife squeezed into the other with the 8- and 6-year-olds, their small bodies pressed against her. I set the baby’s crib under the rain fly, checking she was dry, still asleep, that bunny tucked under her arm.
The hammocks creaked, rocking in the wind. Lightning lit up the sky, each flash making my heart jump. The thunder was relentless, each boom like a warning. The 6-year-old’s voice came from the other hammock, barely audible. “Daddy, I want to go home.”
“I know, sweetheart,” I called back, my throat tight. “We’ll go soon. Just hold on to Mom.”
My wife caught my eye, her face pale in the dim light. “It’s gonna be okay, right?” she asked, her voice almost lost in the storm.
“Yeah,” I said, forcing confidence I didn’t feel. “We’re off the ground. We’re safer here.” But I wasn’t sure. Trees could be struck. The rain flies could tear. Every flash of lightning felt like a threat, like the storm was watching us, waiting.
The 8-year-old was quiet, his face buried against my wife. The 10-year-old shifted beside me, whispering, “Dad, what if it hits us again?”
“It won’t,” I said, but my voice sounded thin. “We’re okay now.” I hoped I was right.

The storm dragged on, each minute stretching into forever. The rain pounded the rain flies, dripping through in places, soaking my legs. The wind screamed, shaking the hammocks. I kept my arm around the 10-year-old, his body tense against mine. I thought about how close we’d come to losing everything. Lightning could’ve killed us, but we were here, breathing, hurting but alive. My head still ached from the jolt, a dull throb that wouldn’t quit. I wondered about the kids’ burns, my wife’s arm. Would they heal? Would we be okay?

Finally, as the sky started to lighten, the rain slowed to a drizzle. The thunder grew fainter, rolling away like a retreating beast. We waited, not moving, not trusting it yet. When the lightning stopped and the wind calmed, I climbed out, my legs stiff, clothes heavy with water. “It’s over,” I said. “Let’s go.”
My wife nodded, helping the kids out. Their faces were pale, eyes red from exhaustion and fear. We checked the baby—still asleep, untouched, like she’d slept through a nightmare. We packed up fast, tearing down the tents, throwing gear into the car. Mud stuck to our shoes, and the air smelled of wet earth and pine. As we drove away, I saw dark clouds gathering again in the distance, but we were safe now, the car’s hum a comfort after the storm’s roar.

At home, we couldn’t stop talking about it. We sat around the kitchen table, the kids wrapped in blankets, sipping hot chocolate. My wife showed me the burn on her arm, red and raw. The 6-year-old’s shoulder had a small mark, like a bad sunburn. The 8-year-old’s burn was healing, just a pink spot now. My headache lingered for a day, but no worse. We looked up lightning safety online, reading about how tents are death traps in storms, how lightning can strike through the ground. The hammocks probably saved us, keeping us off the earth. We’d been lucky—beyond lucky.
That night changed how we saw the world. We never camped without checking the forecast obsessively, never ignored a rumble of thunder. But it also made us stronger. We’d faced something terrifying, held on to each other, and made it through. The kids still talk about it sometimes, their voices a mix of fear and pride. It’s a story we’ll carry forever, a reminder of how fragile life is, and how much we mean to each other.

"Night of the Lightning":

Our family camping trip was supposed to be a break from everything—school, work, the city’s constant hum. We’d picked a spot deep in the forest, where the trees stood tall and thick, their branches knitting together to block out the sky. The first day was like a dream. We spent hours setting up our tents, the nylon flapping as we hammered stakes into the soft earth. My younger brother, Tim, ran around collecting sticks for the fire, his laughter echoing through the pines. We hiked a trail to a lake, its water so clear you could see the pebbles at the bottom. That evening, we sat around a crackling campfire, toasting marshmallows until they were golden and gooey. The smell of smoke and sugar filled the air, and we told silly stories, the kind that make you laugh until your sides hurt.

But as the night deepened, a restless energy stirred. The air grew heavy, and a breeze rustled the leaves, making them whisper secrets to each other. Tim, who’d been giggling just minutes before, scooted closer to me, his small hand finding mine. “Is a storm coming?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes scanning the dark beyond the firelight.

Dad glanced up, his face half-lit by the flames. “Just a little wind,” he said, trying to sound sure. “Let’s pack up and get to the tent. It’ll be fine.”

We grabbed our things—flashlights, water bottles, a bag of leftover marshmallows—and hurried to the tent. The first raindrops fell as we zipped the flap shut, light at first, like fingertips tapping the canvas. Inside, it felt safe. Our sleeping bags were spread out, cozy and familiar, and Mom passed around a flashlight to each of us. Tim clutched his like a lifeline, the beam wobbling as he pointed it at the tent walls, casting shadows that danced like nervous ghosts.

Then the storm unleashed itself. The wind roared, bending the trees until they groaned. Rain pounded the tent, each drop hitting like a tiny hammer. Lightning flashed, so bright it seared through the canvas, turning the inside white for a split second. Thunder followed, a deep, bone-rattling boom that made the ground tremble. I’d been in storms before, but this was different—wild, angry, like the sky was trying to tear itself apart.

“Mom, this is bad,” I said, my voice shaking. I pulled my knees to my chest, trying to make myself small.

She reached over, her hand warm on my shoulder. “It’s just a storm, honey. It’ll pass. We’re safe in here.” But her eyes darted to the tent flap, and I could tell she wasn’t so sure.

Tim whimpered, scooting into her lap. “What if the lightning hits us?” he asked, his voice muffled against her jacket.

“It won’t,” Dad said firmly, but he was sitting up now, his flashlight gripped tight. “Tents are safe. We’re low to the ground.”

I wanted to believe him, but each flash felt closer, the thunder quicker to follow. I counted the seconds between them—one, two, three—each gap shorter than the last. My heart raced, and sweat prickled my skin despite the chill seeping through the tent. I imagined a bolt striking the ground nearby, the electricity ripping through the earth, finding us. I’d read about lightning strikes—how they could burn you from the inside out, stop your heart in an instant. The thought made my stomach churn.

Then came a sound that froze us all. A crack, sharper than thunder, like the world itself had split open. The air stung with a strange, metallic smell, like hot wires. The tent shook, and for a moment, everything went silent—no rain, no wind, just a heavy, unnatural stillness.

“What was that?” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the blood pounding in my ears.

Dad’s face tightened. “I don’t know,” he said, his eyes flicking to the tent flap. “Maybe a tree fell.”

“Or lightning,” Tim said, his voice trembling. “What if it hit something close?”

“Don’t say that,” Mom snapped, sharper than she meant. She softened immediately, pulling Tim closer. “It’s probably nothing. Just the storm.”

But then we heard it—a scream. Faint at first, almost lost in the wind, but unmistakable. “Help! Somebody, please!” It was human, raw, and so close it made my skin crawl.

“Did you hear that?” I said, my heart lurching. I gripped my flashlight so hard my knuckles ached.

“It’s the wind,” Mom said quickly, but her hands were shaking as she held Tim. “It can sound like voices sometimes.”

“No, that was a person,” I insisted, straining to listen. The rain made it hard to hear, but there it was again, louder, more desperate. “Help me! Please, I’m hurt!” The voice was male, panicked, and it came from the direction of the next campsite, maybe a hundred yards away.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Tim said, his eyes wide with fear. “We have to help them.”

Dad hesitated, his jaw tight. “Stay here,” he said finally, grabbing his flashlight and pulling on his raincoat. “I’ll check it out. Don’t move.”

“Be careful,” Mom called as he unzipped the tent. The wind tore at the flap, and rain sprayed inside, cold and sharp. Dad’s flashlight beam cut through the darkness, wobbling as he stepped out. The zipper rasped shut, and he was gone.

The wait was unbearable. The storm kept raging, lightning flashing every few seconds, thunder shaking the tent. I kept imagining Dad out there, alone, the beam of his flashlight swallowed by the dark. What if he got lost? What if the lightning found him? Tim pressed against me, his breathing fast and shallow. “He’ll be okay, right?” he whispered.

“Of course,” I said, trying to sound brave, but my voice cracked. Mom didn’t say anything, just stared at the tent flap, her hands clenched in her lap.

Minutes stretched on, each one heavier than the last. The screams had stopped, which was worse somehow. Was the person okay? Or had something terrible happened? I kept checking my watch, the seconds ticking by too slowly. Five minutes. Ten. The rain pounded harder, and the wind howled like it was trying to rip the tent from the ground.

Finally, the zipper moved. Dad stumbled in, soaked to the bone, his face pale and his eyes wide. Water dripped from his coat, pooling on the tent floor. “It’s the guy from the next campsite,” he said, his voice rough. “Lightning hit a tree right by his tent. It fell on him. He’s alive, but he’s hurt bad—his leg’s pinned, and he’s barely conscious. I called the rangers on the radio. They’re sending an ambulance.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Tim asked, his voice small.

Dad shook his head, wiping rain from his face. “I don’t know, buddy. The rangers said they’ll get here as fast as they can.”

We sat in silence, the storm’s fury filling the space between us. Then, through the rain, I heard it—sirens, faint at first, but growing louder. I unzipped the tent flap just enough to peek out. Red and blue lights flashed through the trees, cutting through the darkness. Paramedics rushed past, their voices sharp and urgent, carrying a stretcher and a medical bag. I couldn’t see the man, but I imagined him lying there, soaked and broken, the fallen tree crushing his leg.

“Stay inside,” Mom said, pulling me back. But I couldn’t stop looking. The lightning had slowed, but each flash lit up the scene—paramedics kneeling in the mud, their hands moving quickly, the stretcher gleaming wet in the rain. The man wasn’t screaming anymore, and that silence felt heavier than the storm.

The ambulance left eventually, its sirens fading into the distance. The rain eased to a drizzle, the thunder now just a low grumble far away. But none of us slept. We stayed huddled in the tent, flashlights on, listening to the last drops of rain. The air still smelled faintly of ozone, sharp and electric, a reminder of what had happened.

At dawn, we stepped outside. The ground was soaked, littered with broken branches. We walked to the next campsite, curious but dreading what we’d see. The tree was massive, its trunk split and charred, lying across what was left of the man’s tent. The ground around it was blackened, the grass burned away in a jagged circle. A ranger was there, talking on his radio. He told us the man had survived but was in the hospital with a shattered leg and burns. “He’s lucky,” the ranger said. “If that tree had fallen an inch closer, he wouldn’t have made it.”

We packed up quickly, none of us talking much. The forest, so beautiful the day before, now felt alive in a way I didn’t like—watching, waiting, its beauty hiding something dangerous. As we drove away, I kept glancing back at the trees, their shadows stretching long in the morning light. I could still hear the crack of that lightning, the man’s desperate screams, the way the storm had turned our perfect trip into a nightmare.

That night stayed with me, etched into my mind like a scar. I’d always loved camping, but now I knew how fast nature could turn on you. One moment, you’re laughing by a fire; the next, you’re praying to survive the night. We were lucky, but I’d never forget how close we came to being the ones calling for help.

"Lightning's Wrath: A Family's Terror in the Storm":

Our camping trip in the Colorado mountains was meant to be a break from everything—work, school, the constant buzz of the city. My kids, Emma and Jack, had been buzzing with excitement for weeks, planning every detail. Emma, my thoughtful 12-year-old, packed her sketchbook to draw the landscapes, while Jack, my fearless nine-year-old, insisted on bringing his fishing net, determined to catch something bigger than the minnows he’d snagged last summer. We loaded the car with our tent, sleeping bags, a cooler full of hot dogs and snacks, and drove toward a quiet campground near a lake, nestled among towering pines and rocky trails. The first day felt like a dream. We hiked through a forest that smelled of sap and earth, the kids racing ahead to point out squirrels darting up trees. By evening, we sat around a crackling campfire, the flames casting flickering shadows as we roasted marshmallows and laughed at Jack’s exaggerated fishing stories. But by the second night, that dream turned into something else entirely.

As we crawled into the tent after dinner, the air felt different—thicker, restless. The pines swayed, their branches scraping against each other, and the distant hum of crickets faded. Emma, always the first to notice things, sat up in her sleeping bag, clutching her flashlight. "Dad, it’s getting really noisy out there. The wind sounds... angry."

I unzipped the tent flap and peered outside. The sky was hard to read in the dark, but I could see shadows moving fast across the stars. "It’s just a breeze," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Let’s double-check the tent stakes and stay inside. We’ll be fine."

Jack, sprawled out with his comic book, grinned. "This is gonna be awesome. Like a storm chase, right? We’re adventurers!"

I ruffled his hair, hiding my unease. "Sure, buddy. But let’s keep the adventure tame, okay?"

We checked the stakes, tugging them deeper into the ground, and secured the rainfly as best we could. Back inside, we zipped up the tent and huddled together, the kids’ sleeping bags pressed against mine. The wind grew louder, rattling the nylon walls, and a low rumble echoed in the distance. Emma’s flashlight beam danced across the tent, her voice small. "Dad, that sounded like thunder. What if it’s a big storm?"

I pulled her close, feeling her tremble. "We’re safe in here, sweetheart. Tents are built for this. Just try to relax."

Jack, still trying to play the tough guy, piped up. "Bet we’ll see lightning. That’d be so cool. Like a superhero movie!"

"Not too close, I hope," I said, forcing a smile. My stomach was knotting up, but I didn’t want them to see it. I’d checked the forecast before we left—nothing major was supposed to hit. But nature doesn’t always follow predictions.

The rain started soon after, a soft patter at first, then a relentless pounding that made the tent feel like it was under attack. Flashes lit up the sky, bright enough to silhouette the trees outside. Each thunderclap was louder, closer, shaking the ground beneath us. Emma’s breathing quickened. "Dad, it’s really bad out there. What if lightning hits us?"

"It won’t," I said, though my own heart was pounding. "Lightning goes for tall things, like trees. We’re low to the ground. Just stay calm, okay?"

But the storm didn’t care about my reassurances. The wind howled, tearing at the tent, and the rain soaked through tiny gaps in the seams, dripping onto our sleeping bags. Jack’s bravado faded. "This isn’t fun anymore," he whispered, scooting closer. "It feels like the storm’s right on top of us."

I hugged them both, trying to block out the noise. "We’re together. That’s what matters. It’ll pass soon."

Then it happened. A flash so bright it burned my eyes, like the world turned white for a split second. Before I could react, a crack exploded around us, louder than a gunshot, shaking the earth like an earthquake. Pain seared through my body—sharp, electric, like I’d been thrown into a fire. My muscles locked, my ears rang, and for a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Emma’s scream cut through the haze. "Dad! Dad, what was that? Are you okay?"

I gasped, my chest tight, forcing my limbs to move. "I’m... I’m here. Jack? You okay?"

Jack’s voice was small, trembling. "It hurts, Dad. My arms... my legs... I can’t feel them right."

Emma was sobbing now, her flashlight shaking in her hands. "The tree outside—it’s on fire! I think the lightning hit it!"

I crawled to the tent flap, my body screaming with every movement. Through a tear in the fabric, I saw the pine tree we’d sat under that morning, now split down the middle, its jagged edges glowing faintly, smoke curling up despite the rain. The air smelled of burnt wood and something sharper, like ozone. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. Lightning had struck just feet from us, and we’d felt the shock through the ground.

"We need to get out of here," I said, my voice hoarse. I fumbled for my phone, but the screen was dead, the electronics fried. "Kids, can you move?"

Emma nodded, wiping her face. "It hurts, but I can walk. My skin feels... burned."

Jack was quieter, his face pale, his eyes wide with fear. "My legs are numb, Dad. And my head’s all fuzzy."

Panic clawed at me, but I shoved it down. "Okay, we’re going to the ranger station. Hold on to me, both of you."

Getting out of the tent was a nightmare. The fabric was shredded in places, our gear scattered and soaked. I helped Emma first, her small frame shaking as she stood. Red, angry marks crisscrossed her arms, her jacket singed at the edges. Jack was worse—his hands trembled, and he could barely stand, his legs wobbling like they didn’t belong to him. My own skin stung, my clothes sticking to raw patches on my arms and back. Every step felt like walking on broken glass, but I half-carried, half-dragged the kids through the rain, the wind pushing against us like a living thing.

The campground was a blur of shadows and water. Mud sucked at our boots, and the pines loomed overhead, their branches thrashing. Emma clung to my arm, her voice breaking. "What if no one’s out here, Dad? What if we’re alone?"

"There’s a ranger station a half-mile away," I said, trying to sound sure. "Someone will be there. Just keep going."

Jack stumbled, his breathing shallow. "I’m so tired, Dad. I don’t know if I can make it."

"You can," I said, my throat tight. "You’re tough, remember? We’re doing this together."

The rain stung my face, and the distant rumble of thunder kept my nerves on edge. I kept picturing that tree, split and smoking, and wondered how close we’d come to not making it. After what felt like hours, I spotted a faint glow through the trees—flashlights, moving fast. Voices called out, muffled by the storm. "Anyone out there? Hello?"

"Here!" I shouted, my voice raw. "Over here! We need help!"

Three figures emerged, their headlamps cutting through the rain. A woman in a ranger’s jacket reached us first, her face pale with worry. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"Lightning struck a tree by our tent," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "We’re burned, and my son can’t feel his legs. Please, we need a doctor."

A man with a radio knelt beside Jack, checking his pulse. "I’m calling for medics now. Hang in there, kid." He spoke into the radio, his voice urgent. "We’ve got three injured at site 17. Lightning strike. Need immediate evac."

The third person, another camper, helped us to a nearby shelter—a wooden pavilion with a slanted roof. The rain pounded above us, but it was dry inside. The woman wrapped blankets around the kids, her hands gentle but quick. "You’re going to be okay," she said to Emma, who was still crying. "Help’s coming fast."

Jack leaned against me, his eyes half-closed. "Dad, am I gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, buddy," I said, my voice cracking. "You’re strong. We’re all getting through this."

The wait was torture. Every thunderclap made me flinch, my mind replaying the strike—the flash, the pain, the fear we wouldn’t make it. Emma held my hand so tight it hurt, whispering, "I thought we were going to die out there."

"You were so brave," I told her, kissing her forehead. "Both of you."

Finally, headlights pierced the darkness, followed by the wail of a siren. Paramedics rushed in, their voices calm but urgent as they checked our burns and vitals. They loaded us into an ambulance, the kids strapped to stretchers, their faces pale but alive. As we sped toward the hospital, the storm still raging outside, I kept hold of their hands, afraid to let go.

At the hospital, doctors swarmed us. They said we’d been hit by a ground current—a surge from the lightning that struck the tree, spreading through the earth and into us. We had burns, mostly second-degree, covering our arms and legs. Jack’s numbness was temporary, they said, caused by the shock to his nerves. Our eardrums were damaged, leaving a constant ringing that lasted weeks. They called us lucky, but it didn’t feel that way. Not when I saw the fear in my kids’ eyes, the way they flinched at loud noises for months afterward.

We recovered, slowly. The burns healed, leaving faint scars. Jack’s legs got stronger, and Emma started drawing again, though she avoided sketching trees for a long time. But that night stays with me—the way nature turned on us, how a perfect trip became a fight for survival. I still hear the thunder sometimes, feel the jolt in my bones, and see that shattered tree in my nightmares. It was a reminder that no matter how prepared you think you are, some things are out of your control.