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The pictures, videos, and reports coming out of areas hardest hit by hurricane Helene are heartbreaking, the devastation in many cases nearly unimaginable.
Lives were lost—at the time of this writing more than 160 souls are reported to have died, and that number is expected to climb with recovery efforts. Property was damaged, lost, totaled. Highways and roads and bridges collapsed or were inundated with flooding powerful enough to carry semi trucks along in the current. Whole towns disappeared, some evidenced only by the roofs breaking the surface of waters risen impossibly high beyond their banks.
Days after the storm, despite ongoing widespread power outages, lack of water and food in many cases…people are beginning—already—to recover what they can. To rebuild.
In the face of what for many has been catastrophic destruction and loss…they carry on.
I didn’t expect to be flying into the path of the hurricane en route to a writer’s conference this past weekend. I suppose none of us headed to the South Carolina Writer’s Association event did. (No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.) We were hundreds of miles from where the storm would make landfall, and its path was headed west.
The storm was moving in when I flew out from Austin on Thursday, and I wondered if I’d even be able to get in around its gargantuan radius, but I made my Atlanta connection and was fortunate to be on one of the flights out that wasn’t canceled, so I settled in at the hotel in Columbia and had a lovely evening meeting an author friend and her husband for dinner and wine.
That was the last “normal” moment of the weekend. I woke up at 4:00 a.m., wondering who parked the semi outside my window, only to realize it was a generator and the hotel had lost power.
Friends, it was The Shining. Around six a.m. I made my way out of my pitch-black room and down the long, dark, empty hallway to the stairwell, splashing through water at the bottom, wondering if I was the last survivor of the zombie apocalypse.
It was The Shining. Around six a.m. I made my way out of my pitch-black room and down the long, dark, empty hallway to the stairwell, splashing through water at the bottom, wondering if I was the last survivor of the zombie apocalypse.
The lobby was lit only by a few generator-powered lights and very sparsely populated at that hour. The clouds were thick and the rain steady. The floor was wet and one lone employee stood near the tiled front entry with her mop, regularly sweeping water back out the door.
The staff brought out pastries and vats of tea and juice, and after I spent an anxious hour wondering where I’d get my caffeine before the headache set in, one enterprising member of the kitchen crew figured out how to make coffee on the Sterno, and brought out an urn of that as well.
My friends came downstairs and we huddled in a dark corner of the lobby, wondering what was going to happen with the pre-conference master classes slated to start later that day.
When I found the organizers they intended to carry on, all of us expecting the power to come back on. At that point we had no idea what the hurricane was doing just a little bit northwest of us in the Appalachian foothills.
Two of the conference rooms had a single floodlight working, so we set up in those. There was no AV equipment, obviously, but luckily my computer had a full battery and I hoped it might last through the three-hour class. I conducted it séance-style, campfire stories–style, in the near dark, and somehow we all made it work.
That night, with the area still without power, the welcome banquet was canceled, of course. But the first keynote speaker, screenwriter Alan Roth, persevered in giving his speech at a podium in the dimly lit lobby where attendees had gathered, and where chunks of the ceiling had started to peel away from the condensation amassing around the idle HVAC system in the humid 85-degree weather.
We carried on as best we could, until by five a.m. Saturday morning everyone seemed to realize our situation wasn’t changing anytime soon, and the organizers finally had to cancel the conference.
My author friends I had met up with, now including another friend, readied to drive home, knowing they were each without power there too. I managed to change my flight by hitching a ride back to Greenville with one of them to drop me at the airport on their way, where a saintly Delta customer service rep had spent 20 minutes finding me an available flight home. Downed trees and debris were heaped in the median and along the sides of the highway for all 85 miles of our trip; the route clearly wouldn’t have been passable hours earlier.
We carried on, all of us dealing with our own fallout from the storm, but simply doing the best we could under the circumstances. By this time we’d begun to see the reports out of Asheville and Tennessee and Florida and Georgia, and all the places that had suffered so much catastrophic damage, and we counted ourselves lucky.
I spoke with a friend I was supposed to meet up with over the weekend who was caught in the epicenter of the worst of the storm’s aftereffects, just outside Asheville, NC. Her neighborhood was completely cut off, every road in washed out. She had no power and had been told they were unlikely to get it back for more than a week. But her brother and son had found a way in along a tiny private road she hadn’t known about, and they were all together, she said, and they had food and a generator, and they were okay.
I talked to a good friend in St. Pete, FL, who’d had to evacuate as the storm surge approached 15 feet there, and came back to find their house flooded. But before they left she’d managed to put some of their most important belongings high enough to save them, and she was driving in from their hotel in Lakeland every day to work with the remediation crew to salvage whatever they could. To recover from the damage. Her family was with her and safe and that was the most important thing.
I talked with one of my author friends whose parents were in Augusta, GA, which had been flattened—cut off, no power or water. “But they’re okay,” she said, and the Red Cross was headed in with help, and she’d get to them as soon as the roads were cleared to help them recover.
Somewhere over the course of the weekend, I realized that all of us, we and all of the people who had been in the path of the hurricane—even those who had sustained such epic damage and were still facing all the uncertainties of the aftermath of the storm—were doing the exact thing I had been speaking to my author friends about all weekend as we huddled over glow sticks and snacks and wine we’d found at a nearby store that was open. The same thing I had planned to speak about in my keynote speech.
Amid a challenging, and often difficult, complex, ever-changing and uncertain environment, you find a way to sustain, to find a path forward.
Amid a challenging, and often difficult, complex, ever-changing and uncertain environment, you find a way to sustain, to find a path forward.
Humans are a marvel. We adapt to our circumstances, even amid challenge and hardship. We carry on.
I don’t know what you might be dealing with in your life right now. Maybe you are one of the millions of people affected by Helene’s destruction and coping with unimaginable situations like this. Maybe you have personal or family problems you’re dealing with. Maybe you struggle with physical or mental health issues.
Maybe you have dreams for yourself and your writing career that haven’t fully actualized, or you feel stuck or discouraged or disheartened. Maybe you’re facing your first or tenth or fiftieth rejection (or 112th, as in my case before I got an agent). Maybe you’re dealing with criticism or rejection or impostor syndrome or feelings of inadequacy or “writer’s block” or any of the many other roadblocks that can beset creatives.
Probably—because you’re human—you have any number of difficult situations to navigate at the moment.
But also, because you are a living being, you have an urge to survive—to persist. And because you are human you have something more: hope, which lets us remember that the sun will come out after the storm, and no matter how battered we may have been by it, we can pick ourselves up and start rebuilding.
We can adapt, and carry on.
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24 Comments. Leave new
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Omg Tiffany! That’s a conference you’ll never forget. That’s the precursor to adaptation—doggedly carrying on until you realize that just isn’t possible anymore. I’m glad you got out in time.
Also—we had the exact same number of “rejections” (I prefer to call them passes) before getting my first agent! Lucky #113!
My heart hurts for the organizers–this is a tough blow for the organization to absorb, and a logistical headache to resolve it all–and for the authors who were registered. Not just the costs and difficulties of it all, when many also had crises at home from the storm, but the disappointment. I talked to one author who was so sad that she’d worked really hard on her manuscript and felt so ready to workshop and pitch it, and had lost the chance. But I heard already that many of the scheduled speakers were honoring the pitch appointments virtually–which is lovely. (More “adapt and carry on!”) And we were lucky to be so relatively lightly affected by it in SC–I just can’t get my mind around the devastation this thing wrought in so many places.
And yes, 113 sisters! I tried to quit at 100, and one of my crit partners refused to let me. I’ll always be grateful for his bolstering of my persistence. 🙂
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
This was beautiful, and inspiring. Thank you.
Thank you, Susanne.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
I’m glad you are safe. What a scary thing to experience, and so many others had it worse. Humans are remarkable in our ability to persevere, or at least to meet challenges head on as they occur.
It’s hard to get your mind around the scope of the damage. So many people have lost so much–I can’t believe it. And yet like you, I’m awed by how people–most people–tend to come together in times like this, help one another, pull together to recover. Humans are so resilient–all creatures are, I suppose. What else can we do but go on? I always think of that scene in Captain Marvel, tritely enough–that you get knocked down, but we are defined by how many times we get back up.
Still, it’s painful to see all that devastation, and to imagine how much it took from so many people. I’ve never seen anything like it.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Yes—we each deal as best we can with the challenges that confront us. The photos of the devastation are mind-blowing; being right in the middle of it must be so much more intense.
I was living on Florida’s Gulf Coast when Hurrican Charley hit (2003, I think?), and it was wild to see the damage the storm could do. When Ian hit the area again a couple of years ago, it was so much worse even (though I saw it only in pictures and my friends’ videos). And now this–I can’t even imagine the aftermath and impact in the areas hardest hit. I’ve been in touch with my friends who were directly affected by it, but I still don’t think their stories about what they are living through can possibly give me the real scope and impact of it.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
First of all, I’m glad you’re okay. The mere randomness of nature spared you greater hardship. Meanwhile, my heart breaks for all those who’ve suffered and are still suffering. I watch the footage and it’s difficult to grasp the scale of it.
I can, though, grasp the moment you realized your circumstances. Here in Missoula last July, our heatwave finally easing, I glanced out the window in the early evening, the trees rustling in a mild breeze. In the span of five seconds, a derecho’s 110mph winds struck, the lights went off, and sirens sounded. Trees toppled, or the lightning exploded them. My power was off for 38 hours.
And yet, that was but a brief glimpse of what happened in the southeast, a peek at the opening moment they suffered, an event one hundredfold worse than what I experienced.
There is that moment, that instant, when extreme inconvenience becomes survival and we humans, like the animals we are, realize it’s time to act.
The randomness is so much a part of the shock of things like this. As much as western NC prepared for flooding, I can’t imagine they expected anything like this–and ditto for all the other areas damaged so badly. I agree–it’s hard to get your mind around the scope of it.
The derecho you describe feels even more random–at least with a hurricane there’s some warning and time to prepare. That’s wild! Glad you were okay.
Yes, I do think that for the most part we humans spring right into action to recover after events like this. I’m always astonished at human ingenuity and resilience and kindness in a crisis.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Hi Tiffany!
Beautiful post today about the human spirit. When I see pictures from a natural disaster from anywhere in the world, my heart aches for the loss of physical property – homes, cars, businesses, etc. – that, yes, can be replaced, yet easier for some than most. But what truly breaks my heart, and what can’t be seen in photos, is the emotional toll that such devastating loss causes beyond the physical. The loss of life can’t be replaced. For some they will grieve openly, some will grieve privately, some will get busy with cleanup and rebuilding and helping their neighbors and grieve later. Whatever their grief process, the emotional road ahead will be the hardest of all and most likely take the most time to process and recover from. But recovery is possible when we reach out, listen, and with compassion, help one another.
Good point, Samantha. There can be an emotional toll that far outweighs even the worst of the physical effects–and lingers long after they are resolved. I’m always astonished at how crises seem to bring out the best of our natures–when I lived in Florida, after hurricanes our whole community would pull together, support and help one another. We saw it early in the pandemic, too–before partisan infighting took it over. Maybe these events remind us how little control we actually have, have vulnerable we really are, and pulls us together. Thanks for the insights.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Great post. Thanks for sharing. We humans pick ourselves up and move on, but we also need other humans to help, don’t we? We need that shoulder to dry on sometimes, don’t we? You’ve pointed out the many people who pitched in to make things work during your trip to teach. I’m amazed at how well neighbors and others from across the country are pitching in to help with this disaster from the hurricane.
That was a huge takeaway for me this past weekend, Christine–how everyone was just kind to one another, even cheerful as we coped with our little corner of the storm, and everyone worked hard to do the best we could in the circumstances. I have seen that over and over amid disaster. I always think it’s the lovely silver lining of often horrific situations–how it brings people together, and brings out the best in most.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Thank you so much for attempting our conference! I’m one of the Greenville chapter members so right in the path of Helene. We were very upset that we couldn’t get there in time for your session Friday. You’re right, the roads were not passable earlier.
We’re hoping that we might salvage some of the conference and do Zoom sessions somehow once everyone has their power and internet back online (my neighborhood doesn’t yet).
Thank you for an inspiring post and I’m very grateful you weren’t more than inconvenienced by the storm. Even with 160 gone, we were all lucky Helene wasn’t worse than she was. We’ll get through this together!
Oh, no, E.J.–my friends who live in Greenville and gave me a ride to the airport were just telling me they’re still without power and internet, and cleaning up the damage. I’m so sorry. My heart hurt for everyone at the conference, everyone who missed it, everyone who knew they were going back home to disaster (once they could get back home at all). And even so, as you say, that area was so lucky there compared to Asheville and other harder-hit areas. It’s just shocking how wide and severe a swath of damage this thing carved.
I know the organizers of the conference must have their hands full, but once things die down I had the same thought you did–to see if we can offer some of those sessions virtually. Meanwhile stay safe and I hope things get better soon.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Tiffany,
Thank you. My publisher had a conference in the middle of September and we extended our trip for our 50th anniversary. We came home to a water leak – hardwood floors all need to be removed, some walls, hassles with insurance, moving out of the house for a while, etc. Yet, reading your story put our problems into perspective. Prays for everyone hard hit.
Oh, no, Connie. I’m so sorry. I get that it can make you feel guilty to mourn your own hardships when you know others face greater ones–but that doesn’t negate the impact of your own damage and losses. Glad you got home safely, and that you’re making headway on getting back to normal.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Thank you, I think we are all feeling this one in some form and you want that hope to carry on. Let’s pray everyone finds a way to a little bit of hope no matter what situation they’re in. Love your newsletter. 💜
Lovely sentiment, Patty. And there are ways we can help, if we’re inclined too (a friend posted this excellent list of organizations people can donate to that are on the ground helping directly).
And thank you for the comment about the newsletter!
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
So glad you remained safe and were able to return home within a reasonable time frame. Your article pushed me to make a donation toward rescue efforts. I was without electricity for 4 days, a minor inconvenience, but am mindful of the death, extreme destruction of property, and the lives that have been turned upside-down by Hurricane Helene. The outpouring of money, resources, and sharing of talents during such a crisis is a testament to the human community. If only our better angels could stick around throughout the year!
That’s lovely, Lee! And yes, I wish we could stay in touch with the better angels that seem to come out toward one another after a crisis.
Sorry you endured four days without power–yes, a lot less than many are dealing with, but still tough!
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
It is Milton Eve at 7:31 am . The window in my bedroom is blocked with plywood so it is dark. I know being prepared for Milton is the priority thankful we are!!Manifesting Mother Nature will decided to weaken Milton somewhat🤔.
Oh, Deany, I can’t imagine what you must be going through, waiting for that monster to head your way. My heart has been in my throat watching Florida have to brace for another big one so soon after Helene…and Ian. I can’t get my mind around it–and I lived in Fort Myers for seven years and weathered Charley. I can’t imagine going through so much worse, over and over and over. Stay safe.