Venezuela. June 24, 2026. 6:04 PM.

It was a national holiday — the commemoration of the Battle of Carabobo. Most people were home with family, watching the World Cup. Brazil vs. Scotland. Children were at birthday parties. Teenagers were rehearsing their end-of-year dance routines. Young people were studying. It was a normal day. Until it wasn't.

What happened next became the most catastrophic event in Venezuela's modern history.

A 7.2 magnitude earthquake struck. Then it stopped — for 39 seconds. And then a 7.5 hit again.

La Guaira, once a vibrant coastal state, was declared a disaster zone. 80% of its buildings collapsed. Caracas fell too — building after building crumbling in seconds. Other states across the country were left damaged, shaken, forever altered.

Weston, Florida. June 24, 2026. 6:04 PM.

I received a voice message from my mom. She was crying, screaming, terrified — telling me there was a massive earthquake happening and that she thought she was going to die.

Then silence.

Disconnection. No signal. No news.

The few reports surfacing online showed collapsed buildings in Caracas. My mom lives in a building from the 1950s. Of course I feared the worst.

Two hours later — through a neighbor — she was finally able to reach me. She was alive. The building had held. The relief I felt in that moment is indescribable.

But as the hours passed and YouTube channels began reporting what was actually happening, I started to understand the true scale of the disaster. And I realized: thousands of people watching from abroad never got that call. They never heard their mother's voice say I'm okay. And from inside Venezuela — many didn't survive to make that call at all.

That entire week, nobody slept.

We were glued to YouTube, to social media, watching the most harrowing stories I have ever witnessed in my life — stories of my people, my Venezuela.

But in the middle of the terror, there was also brotherhood. There were rescues, and when someone was pulled from the rubble alive, there was celebration. There were rescue dogs with more heart than I can put into words. There was international help pouring in. There was humanity — raw, urgent, real.

Two extremes at full intensity, at the exact same time.

It's been almost a month.

There are still bodies under the rubble. Videos keep emerging — people recounting the hours they spent trapped, how they lost their families, their homes, a limb.

This story doesn't have a happy ending. I'm not in a place to spin it into something positive or inspirational. I'm not there yet.

I am grieving. I am in pain. I am sad.

I was so paralyzed that I couldn't come here to create, to keep building Blue Moon Space — this project I love so much. I couldn't. It's still hard. But I needed to write this, to leave this story somewhere, because it marked all of us Venezuelans. And if one thing is certain, it's this: we will never be the same as before.

The wound has many faces.

Beyond those who lived through it physically, one of the most profound impacts of this disaster has been on our collective mental health — from multiple angles. Trauma for those inside. Helplessness and guilt for those of us watching from far away. The pain is real no matter where you were when it happened. The scar just looks different depending on where you were standing.

How I'm helping — and how you can too.

My contribution has been donating financially and volunteering to help organize donations. It feels small, honestly. But it's done with everything I have.

I'm also using my shop here at Blue Moon Space to make every purchase count. 30% of my profits from every sale will go directly to Venezuela earthquake relief — to help amputees, children, and animals who survived. I'm being intentional about where this money goes, and I'll share updates with full transparency as I confirm the right organizations on the ground.

And to make it easier for you to be part of this:

🖤 Use code VZLATEAMO at checkout for 10% off your entire order.

No minimum purchase. Every order counts. Every order helps.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for caring.

— Penny