The Time I Survived a Volcanic Eruption

In 2002, I was a senior in high school living in Quito, Ecuador, when El Reventador erupted after twenty-six years of dormancy. It was the largest eruption in Ecuador in one hundred and forty years. The volcano is located about sixty miles from the city, but distance didn’t shield us from its power. Without warning, it sent a massive cloud of ash ten miles into the sky and blanketed Quito. The summit of the mountain was significantly altered, a portion of its cone destroyed. For days, ash rained down on the city. The eruption caused a state of emergency for the entire region, forcing the airport to close, and displacing villages in the surrounding rural areas. Bridges collapsed, oil pipelines burst, and infrastructure was left in ruins. The sheer scale of it was staggering.

El Reventador 2002 eruption

I became very sick from the ash and especially from the gases that filled the air. I was vomiting so frequently that I ended up in the hospital. I can still remember how bright green it was, almost neon, and how frightening it felt to be that sick from something I could not escape. Breathing was hard, my body was weak, and I was afraid. The eruption was unexpected, with only minimal seismic activity detected a few hours before it began. For me, it was the first time I had been close enough to a volcanic eruption to experience its danger directly. A year earlier, I had lived in Costa Rica where at one point, my family had stayed at a resort near an active volcano. At night we watched glowing lava flow from its summit. That had been fascinating, even beautiful, but never threatening. El Reventador was different. This was not awe. This was terror.

At first glance, this story may seem far removed from life here in the North Country. After all, we don't live in the shadow of active volcanoes. But we have our own smaller eruptions here, the kind that shake us from the inside rather than from the earth beneath our feet. Earlier this week, I lived through one of those eruptions myself.

I was in a shared space where a clear agreement had been established, one meant to respect each person’s time and needs. That agreement was ignored. Someone entered early, intentionally disregarding what we had settled on. To an outsider, it may have looked insignificant. But for me, the shift was immediate and overwhelming. My chest tightened. My pulse quickened. I felt heat rise through my body and my vision narrowed. What made it worse was that my physical space was invaded. The person came so close that I was quite literally cornered, feeling unable to move freely, unable to reclaim the ground I thought was mine. The space that had felt safe no longer did. I felt invaded, disrespected, and very suddenly, unsafe.

I tried at first to address it calmly, but when my words were dismissed, something in me broke open. I stood up from my seat to meet the presence that had cornered me. My voice rose, loud and firm, carrying the weight of my frustration. In that moment, it felt like I was taking my own gloves off, answering the signal that had already been sent to me. It was an eruption, not of lava and ash, but of voice and presence, my way of reclaiming the ground beneath me and making it clear that I would not be pushed aside or ignored.

The irony is that from the outside, my response may not have looked like much. To anyone else it might have seemed like nothing more than a firm exchange, a raised voice, a moment of tension quickly passed. I didn’t curse or lash out, but I did stand, I did raise my voice, and I did send a clear signal that I was not going to be pushed aside. That was my eruption. It was not lava spilling over a mountaintop, but it was heat, it was pressure released, and it was the strongest version of myself I could offer in that moment without causing harm.

Later that day (and likely by divine intervention), I had an appointment with my therapist. He listened closely as I shared my experience. He then offered me an image that continues to shape how I think about boundaries: fences. Sometimes, he said, a white picket fence is enough. It’s a simple marker, a polite signal of where one person’s space ends and another’s begins. It’s enough to maintain a positive experience with a neighbor. But sometimes, when people refuse to respect that fence, you need something sturdier. You need a wall.

And I know those walls well. In Ecuador, every house was made of cement. Each had multiple gates before you could reach the front door. Windows were barred. The perimeter walls were capped with razor wire. It was a world where trust was minimal and safety required fortification. Here in the North Country, we live differently. Our rural communities are relatively safe, and most of the time a picket fence is enough. We have the luxury of open porches, unbarred windows, and unlocked doors. But sometimes, even here, we encounter people who do not respect boundaries. And in those moments, we owe it to ourselves to put up stronger walls. Not because we want to wall ourselves off, but because sometimes that’s what it takes to feel safe, to stay protected, and to ensure that we remain the designers of our own lives.

That conversation with my therapist reminded me that boundaries are not static. They shift depending on the respect or lack of respect that meets them. They are not about shutting people out, but about keeping ourselves whole. When pressure builds and lines are crossed, we get to decide what kind of structure will hold us steady. Sometimes a picket fence is enough. Other times, a cement wall with razor wire is required. That choice belongs to us alone, and so does the responsibility to honor it.

El Reventador did not erupt because it was weak. It erupted because pressure had been building unchecked for years. That’s what happens inside us when our boundaries are crossed again and again. Pressure builds until finally it has nowhere else to go. The eruption comes, often more destructively than if we had reinforced our fences earlier.

This is one of the quiet truths of living in a small community. On the one hand, we are gifted with a culture of trust. We recognize each other at the grocery store, we wave to each other on Main Street, we share snowblowers and casseroles when someone is in need. There is a deep sense of openness here that is rare and precious. But that same closeness can make it difficult to set boundaries, because every line you draw can feel personal, every fence can feel like rejection. It is easier to let things slide, to swallow our discomfort rather than risk upsetting the fragile balance of harmony. And yet when we do that too often, the pressure builds. The ground shifts. The eruption comes.

So when I talk about surviving a volcanic eruption, I mean it in every sense. I have lived through one in Ecuador, where the sky turned black and ash choked the air. And I have also lived through one here, when pressure built inside me until it demanded release. Both required me to pay attention to my surroundings, to notice the signs of pressure rising, and to act before I was consumed.

My hope is that you remember this: You have the right to build the fences or the walls that you need, and the responsibility to maintain them, so that when the pressure rises you will still be standing.

Survival is not only about making it through the eruption itself, but also about how you choose to rebuild once the ash has finally settled. And maybe that rebuilding is the most important part. Because just like the people of Quito sweeping ash from their streets, or our own neighbors here in the North Country shoveling out after a blizzard or clearing trees after a storm, the work of recovery is what allows us to keep living fully.

The ground will shift again, but each time we rebuild, we become steadier, stronger, and more certain of the boundaries that keep us whole.

-Amanda