How to Keep Your Family Together When Things Go Wrong

Every system has a default. If you don't make decisions about emergencies, you still have a plan. It's just a bad one. It's the plan where everyone does whatever seems right in the moment, and you hope that somehow you all converge. Sometimes that works. Usually it doesn't. The default plan is panic.

The alternative is ridiculously simple: pick a few decisions in advance, write them down, and practice them. That's all a family emergency plan is. It's not a binder. It's not gear porn. It's ten or so choices you make in calm that shrink the space of things you have to decide in chaos. And those choices, because they're shared, let your family act like one person even when you're separated.

If you haven't done this yet, don't feel bad. Most families haven't. Schools run fire drills. Companies do evacuations. But at home we tend to assume we'll improvise. The problem is, improvising is just deciding without data. You never have enough of either in a real emergency. It's noisy. The phone might not work. You're in the dark. People are scared. You won't be thinking "What would a rational agent do now?" You'll be thinking where the kids are and where your shoes are.

So you make the decisions now. You pick:

• How you'll talk to one another when local networks are jammed.
• Where you'll meet if the house isn't safe, and where you'll meet if the neighborhood isn't safe.
• When you'll go and when you'll stay.
• How you'll hear official instructions when your phone is just a rectangle.
• What special needs you have to account for: babies, meds, mobility, pets.
• What documents you need and how you'll carry backups.
• What supplies you keep at home, in the car, and in a bag you can grab.
• How you'll practice, so none of this is theoretical.

That list is the whole thing. You can do a minimal version in an hour. Then make it better over a weekend.

Why does this matter so much? Because speed compounds. In an emergency, shaving minutes off the first decision saves you hours later. If you've already picked where to meet, no one stands on a sidewalk arguing. If your out‑of‑area contact is set, you don't keep redialing each other on a saturated network. If Grandma's meds are already in a pouch, you don't tear apart a bathroom drawer with a flashlight between your teeth. Little bits of preparation turn into big differences in outcomes. You lower the family's heart rate in the worst minute, and that's the minute that decides the rest.

There is a trick to making this work. Keep it small. If the plan is something you have to remember, you won't. If the gear is something you have to find, you won't. Make a few decisions. Write them down. Put copies where you actually are: the fridge, the car, the bag. Then practice, as in literally doing it. When you practice, you notice what's missing. And then you fix exactly that.

I can tell you how to do this fast. Start with the most important two choices: where to meet and who to call.

Pick two meeting places. One is near home. That's where you go if the house isn't safe. Think of something a kid couldn't miss: the mailbox across the street, the neighbor's big tree. The second is out of the neighborhood. That's where you go if the whole area is closed or unsafe. Put it somewhere boring and obvious: a friend's porch in the next town, the library, a church parking lot. Write the full addresses. Yes, the address. In a crisis you'll hand it to a neighbor or a rideshare driver and you'll be glad it's there. Draw two routes to each: a primary and an alternate. If you can't decide now, pick something temporary. The point is to have a place. You can refine later.

Then pick your hub. In big events, local networks jam. Long‑distance can work better. So you use a person outside your region as a relay. If you can't reach each other, you all text that person. You can say it out loud: "If you can't reach me, text Aunt Maria. She's our relay." Make wallet cards with her number and your meeting spots. Put one on the fridge and one in every bag. The text format should be the same for everyone, including kids: "Name – OK/HELP – location – plan." For example: "Max – OK – gym – going to Oak Library." Keep the codes simple. "OK" or "HELP" is enough. If you make this clever, you'll make it brittle.

Those two choices—meeting places and a hub—get you further than anything else. They define where you converge and how you coordinate. Add one more thing right away: turn on the alerts.

Phones have a built‑in system called Wireless Emergency Alerts. It's free. You don't need an app. It uses location. It tells you about things like evacuation orders, tornado warnings, and AMBER Alerts. It will buzz even on silent when it matters. Leave it on. If you turned it off after a test, turn it back on. Then add a weather radio. The National Weather Service broadcasts continuously. A small radio on your nightstand will wake you when your county is under a warning, even if cell towers are down. Buy the kind that lets you program your county code so it doesn't go off for places you don't live. Put batteries in it.

That’s enough for the first hour. Write those three down: meeting places with routes, an out‑of‑area hub with a text format, and alerts. Print what you wrote. Put one copy on the fridge and one in the car. If you stop here, you already upgraded your plan from nothing to something. The difference between zero and one is huge.

Now the rest.

You need a place to stay put. Most emergencies are not fires. They're weather or infrastructure. In a lot of cases the instruction is to shelter in place. What does that mean for you? It means you pick an interior room with few windows—often a hallway or a bathroom—and you keep a small set of things there or right nearby: plastic sheeting and tape to seal if told to, a towel, some water, a flashlight. You decide now so that later you're not arguing about rooms at 2 a.m. You write the room in your plan.

You need roles. People do better when they're told exactly what to do. So assign simple jobs. One adult grabs the go‑bags and pets. Another gets the kids. The oldest child grabs the flashlight and checks the back door. The teen texts the hub with the family's status message. If you're alone, be explicit anyway: in your head, in your plan. If someone else is at your house when this happens—a sitter, a grandparent—they should be able to look at a page and know what to do.

You need to know how to shut things off. Find your main water valve. Find your electrical panel. Label them. If your utility says you should keep a wrench near the gas meter for emergencies, keep the wrench there. Learn the difference: you only turn off gas if you smell it, hear it, or you're told to. Once it's off, a professional has to turn it back on. This is not about becoming a technician. It's about not standing in a puddle trying to guess which way shuts off the water.

You need a fast way out of the house. Fires are the home hazard with the least time to think. Draw your home on a piece of paper. Mark two ways out of every bedroom if you can. Put arrows to the doors. Make a line to the near‑home meeting spot. Practice crawling low like it's smoky. Teach kids to touch doors with the back of a hand to check if they're hot and to close doors behind them as they go. Say the words "Get out, stay out" until that sentence is automatic. Test the smoke alarms monthly. If you have gas appliances or a generator, add carbon monoxide alarms outside sleeping areas.

You need to decide go or stay. In some events you go. In others you close the door and wait. You don't need to be an expert at hazards to handle this. Follow official instructions. The trick is to be ready for either without needing to think. If there's time and you're told to evacuate, you leave early. You fill the car the day before the storm, not during the line at the gas station. If you live in a place with fast‑moving fires, you decide now what you consider your "go" cue. If you're told to shelter, you go to the room you picked and you stay there, even if traffic is moving outside. The instruction might apply only to your zone. You don't want to drive toward something worse just because other people are driving away from something else.

You need to plan for pets. Pets aren't an edge case. If you don't plan for them, you won't leave when you should, or you'll leave without them. Keep carriers near the exit. Keep leashes and collars there too. Put vaccination records and a photo of each pet with you in your documents pouch. Pack food, a bowl, a manual can opener if you need one, meds, waste bags, and a small blanket or toy to lower stress. Make the carriers normal now. For cats, feed in them sometimes. For dogs, practice loading as part of your drill. In a rush, you want a habit, not a chase.

You need to plan for the people who can't change their routines easily. Babies need supplies: formula or feeding gear, diapers, wipes, a changing pad, extra clothes, a favorite blanket. Kids need snacks they'll actually eat, and a way to carry a small card with the hub's number and your meeting spots. Seniors and anyone with chronic conditions need a current med list with doses, prescribers, and pharmacy, plus backups if your insurance allows it. If you rely on devices, plan power. If something must be kept cold, write how long it can be out and what your workaround is. If someone uses a wheelchair or walker, practice your exit with it. If someone may wander or panic, assign a buddy for every drill. These parts of the plan are where practice matters most, because you only find friction by trying to move through it.

You need to make paper and digital versions of your identity resilient. Gather IDs: driver's licenses or state IDs, passports, birth certificates, Social Security cards, immigration documents. Get your insurance policies. If you own a place, get mortgage or deed info. If you rent, get your lease and a recent utility bill. Add medical summaries and immunization records. Make a short home inventory with photos of the big stuff. Then photograph or scan all of it. Save it in an encrypted cloud folder and on a small password‑protected USB drive. Put paper copies in a waterproof pouch. Write down recovery codes for two‑factor authentication and put them in the pouch. The point is not to become a security expert. It's to not lose weeks of arguments with systems while your life is already upside down.

You need maps. Print a street map that covers the area around your house, with your meeting places marked and your routes highlighted. Print a regional map that covers the paths you picked for evacuation. A printed map looks quaint until your phone has one percent battery and the app won't load. It goes from quaint to essential very fast.

You need supplies. Start with water. The boring advice is the right advice: at least one gallon per person per day for several days. Count pets as people for water. Store it in more than one spot so one leak doesn't ruin all of it. If you have room, store more. Write a card with how to make water safe if you must: boil if you can; if not, disinfect clear water with unscented household bleach using public health ratios; use a filter meant for biological contamination if you have one. The card is as important as the supplies. You don't want to do math in a bad moment.

Food should be things you actually eat. During an emergency is not the time to learn to love a bar that tastes like hay. Choose no‑cook or heat‑optional foods: canned beans and chili, tuna and chicken, peanut butter, shelf‑stable milk, granola bars, instant oatmeal, fruit cups. Rotate it into your normal meals and replace it on a schedule. Put a manual can opener in the bin. If you know how to use a small camp stove safely outside, add a pot.

You need three kinds of kits because you live in three places: at home, in a car, and in motion. Your home kit is really just your pantry plus a few tools: flashlight and headlamp with spare batteries, a weather radio, a first aid kit, sanitation supplies, a multi‑tool, gloves, plastic sheeting and tape, trash bags, some cash in small bills. Your car kit is for breakdowns and short sheltering: water, snacks, first aid, jumper cables, tire inflator or sealant, pressure gauge, reflective triangles or flares, a flashlight, a warm blanket, a basic tool kit, a poncho, work gloves, paper towels, a small shovel if you get snow, a phone charger, a paper map, a little cash. If it's hot where you live, add shade, extra water, and sun protection. If it's cold, add an ice scraper, extra warm layers, hand warmers, and something for traction like sand or kitty litter. The third kit is a go‑bag: a backpack for each adult and a simpler bag for kids. It should cover 72 hours. Put water and a way to purify more, calorie‑dense food, first aid basics, a headlamp, spare batteries, a multi‑tool, copies of documents, cash, a change of clothes, sturdy shoes, a rain layer, a hygiene kit, a whistle, and a small blanket or emergency bivy. Add exactly what you personally need: meds, glasses, chargers, baby or pet items. Keep go‑bags by the exit you'll actually use.

How do you afford all this? Slowly. Build one bag this week. Buy two extra gallons and a few cans every time you go to the store. Use store brands. Borrow a radio if a neighbor has one. The perfect kit you never buy is worse than the simple kit you have.

Now practice. This is the part everyone skips. They think reading is doing. It's not. Reading is to practice as looking at a map is to walking. You don't need to turn your house into a training ground. Just do two drills a year and keep them short. One at night: test the alarms, crawl low, meet at the tree, and then talk about what you learned. One during the day: grab go‑bags, load pets, drive the alternate route to your out‑of‑neighborhood spot, and come back. In both, add a small communications drill. Everyone texts the hub with the format you chose. And keep it positive. Praise effort. Fix small gaps.

Set updates on autopilot. Once a year—tie it to something you remember, like the start of school or the first weekend of spring—pull out the plan and flip through it. Update contact lists. Change the address if you moved your meeting spot. Swap kids' clothes for the season and size. Replace food before it expires and use it in normal meals. Refresh water on a schedule or buy sealed water you replace twice a year. Press the test button on the smoke alarms. Program the weather radio if you move. If you never think of it beyond that, it's fine. The plan doesn't need you to hover. It needs you to show up once in a while.

There are details that matter in specific places. If you live near a floodplain, your out‑of‑neighborhood spot should be on higher ground. If you live where wildfires happen, your routes should cross a boundary that usually becomes the evacuation line. If your work is in another county, sign up for that county's alerts as well. Schools and daycares have their own procedures. Ask them where they take the kids if they evacuate and where you pick up if they shelter. Add those addresses to your plan. None of this is deep research. It's a couple of phone calls now to avoid guessing later.

You'll notice a pattern. The plan is not smart. It's humble. It doesn't try to solve everything. It makes the obvious choices easy and repeatable. It trades cleverness for reliability. The clever part, if there is one, is the meta‑decision to do it at all and then to practice.

There is one more pattern here that's worth noticing because it applies outside emergencies too. The way you make a plan good is the same way you make any system good: you build a minimum version fast, you run it, and you fix the parts that break. You don't wait to know everything. You don't design for edge cases first. You pick the handful of decisions that reduce the most variance, and you write them down in a way your future self can follow. Then you do a small cycle. You learn more by doing one drill than by reading ten lists. The feedback is ruthless but kind. It just shows you the gaps. You fill them, and you get better.

People sometimes get stuck because they think plans are for worriers. They aren't. Planning is for people who would rather spend their attention on other things. The more you've decided in advance, the less you have to think in the moments when thinking is hard. You're buying back your attention for the parts that actually need it.

And if you feel a little silly practicing a home fire drill with your kids, think of this: they practice it at school as if it's normal. It is normal. We just forget to do it at home.

If you're the one who ends up in charge by default—because you care, or because someone needs to be—lean into it. You don't need permission to pick a meeting spot and print a card. You just do it. This is one of the few domains where small efforts pay back for years. You will never regret having Aunt Maria's number on a wallet card.

Here's the one‑hour version, if you want a checklist:

• Pick two meeting places. Near home (for a house fire). Out of the neighborhood (for when your block is closed). Write the full addresses. Draw two routes to each.
• Pick an out‑of‑area contact. Tell everyone: "If you can't reach me, text [Name]." Print wallet cards with the hub's number and your meeting places. Put copies on the fridge, in bags, and in the car. Use a standard text format: "Name – OK/HELP – location – plan."
• Turn on Wireless Emergency Alerts on your phone. Buy and program a weather radio for your county. Pick your shelter‑in‑place room and put tape and plastic nearby.
• Snap photos of IDs, insurance cards, prescriptions, immunization records, and a few home inventory photos. Save to an encrypted cloud folder and a password‑protected USB. Put paper copies in a waterproof pouch.
• Assign simple roles. Who grabs go‑bags? Who gets the kids? Who texts the hub? Who loads the pets? Put it on one page.
• Put your first drill on the calendar for this week.

If you want to go deeper over a weekend, add:

• A floor plan with two exits per bedroom and a marked path to the meeting spot. Test smoke and carbon monoxide alarms. Label utility shutoffs.
• A basic home kit and one adult go‑bag. Stage carriers and pet kits by the exit. Build a simple car kit.
• Contact the school, daycare, and workplace for their procedures and add exact pickup or reunification addresses to your plan.
• Sign up for city and county alerts for every place you spend time. Teach kids the difference between a watch and a warning in one sentence.
• Make printed maps and highlight your routes. Drive both routes to your out‑of‑neighborhood spot at two different times.

That's it. You don't have to get fancy to be effective. The goal isn't to cover every scenario. The goal is to make the most common, highest‑stakes decisions once, in calm, and then never have to make them again.

The neatest thing about doing this is you feel the difference right away. Not when something bad happens. Right now. It feels like clicking a piece into place. You walk around your house and the future seems more tractable. You've made your future self stronger.

Next action: set a 60‑minute timer today and do the first list. Print two copies—one for the fridge and one for the car. Then put two drills on the calendar. After that, the plan will take care of itself.