To be a mother is to be a home.

A record of our post-Helene displacement

Oct 18, 2024

My four-year-old called me a “mean mama” a few days ago.

I wanted to scream and sob and run away. But, I didn’t. For dear life, I held back the flood of tears cresting my eyelids, a flood that reminded me of the flood that demolished our mountains three weeks ago.

I took a deep breath and looked at her through the rearview mirror and said, “I hear you. Mom hasn’t been very nice since we left home. I’m sorry. I’ll work on being more patient, more kind, and more understanding. I’ve noticed that you’ve also been impatient, unkind, and not very understanding, too. Do you think you can work on that with me? I know we can work together to get through this.”

Two weeks ago, we left our small home in Asheville, North Carolina. The absence of electricity, running water, and cell service was too overwhelming—too stressful. Since then, power has been restored, and yesterday morning, our neighbors texted us to report that water, though murky and sediment-ridden, was slowly starting to flow into our North Asheville neighborhood. A boil water notice is in effect for the foreseeable future, and the thought of being able to turn on a faucet and receive that precious H2O seems too good to be true. A miracle, really.

While we were staying with a dear friend in Raleigh last week, my daughters and I met up with another displaced family, so that our children, who are schoolmates, could experience some level of normalcy and play together outside in a park that wasn’t wiped off the face of the Earth. So that, they could burn off that pent-up energy and soak in that downward-directed energy of the sun that sat suspended in a clear Carolina-blue sky, stalwart and strong.

As us tired parents supervised their play, we stood depleted in our own individual and empty capsules amongst our full and vibrant environment. Our vibe didn’t match the vibe of the park: the surrounding humans blissfully unaware of our pain, our exasperation, our grief. We existed on an entirely different plane yet stood on the same one as them.

The experience was discombobulating and infuriating and depressing.

Cardinals serving as a reminder of our collective grief at the downtown Cary Park. Photo by me.

We then moved to rest on the plastic grass and began to vent about our children’s abnormal and challenging behaviors since Helene—Katrina’s sister that we’ll not soon forget—unleashed her power and ferocity. That week, some of our kids spat on or screamed at us, or peed or pooped themselves, or asked us if we hated them or if we’d leave them, or refused to go to sleep, or woke up several times during the night, or pulled their hair out, or pushed or punched or kicked us, or asked if we could all just go home already.

Under the most usual of circumstances, being a parent is a demanding and exhausting job—the most difficult job of all. To stay regulated through our children’s severe dysregulation has been, by far, one of the most trying struggles of our parenting journeys to-date (with COVID being the worst). Yet, here we were trying our best to be the best versions of ourselves in one of the worst renderings of our stories: an unrehearsed, unforeseen displacement from our homes, which are nestled in the Blue Ridge mountains.

Through this harrowing experience, the notion that we are our children’s home has been affirmed and then re-affirmed. Ultimately, we are their shelter from the storm, their comfort in the uncomfortable, their source of light in the darkness.

Moreover, to be someone’s home when your own home as a kid was none of these things feels impossible most days. Day after day, I fail. I quietly cry in dark rooms, in the driver’s seat with sunglasses on, and with my comrades, the parents, who are doing the same: putting in “the work,” repairing with our kids, and giving ourselves grace for our shortcomings.

As we continued our parental debriefing in an unfamiliar town, we divulged our starting-to-surface, innermost struggles: the sting of “survivor’s guilt” and the blow of grief. We took turns asking one another: “Have you seen pictures of ___?” And, we’d reply with a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ and sit in a timeless, breathless silence. Images of the devastation played in our minds and tore our hearts. We would then micro-mourn and offer one another comfort in the form of compassionate words or strong embraces or knowing nods.

We’re all just humans, who also have tiny humans, adjusting and adapting to our “new normal”: life after catastrophe.

When all else fails, drive to a dairy farm and get you and your kids some homemade ice cream. Photo by me.

***

One of my other Asheville mom-friends is expecting her second child next month. Her family’s Burnsville home was spared, though they had several downed pines on their land and a mudslide that brought down an old tree right through their driveway where they typically parked their car. Fortunately, they moved their car into their garage before the storm, and with the help of neighbors and a chainsaw the next day, they were able to leave.

When I caught up with her on a playdate in Raleigh, she shared that the thought of returning to a home with no running and/or unsafe drinking water with a newborn and a five-year-old was all too much. Her and her partner decided to remain displaced: a very different picture from the one they’d envisioned after welcoming “home” their second bundle of joy.

Noticing her misty eyes, I could sense the weight she was carrying, and as we exchanged that “look” that only us mothers recognize in one another, I stood with her and held her and wept with her and told her with both spoken and unspoken words that she was seen and understood, that she was doing an incredible job, and that she was a human being living through an unnatural natural disaster.

A random field of wooden sheep. Photo by me.

***

Throughout our displacement for the past two weeks, I have wrestled with feelings of frustration and anger, sadness and grief, guilt and shame. I’m not on the ground volunteering or helping others clean or rebuild. ~~I’m at “home” with my kids~~ I am home for my kids. My husband is at “home,” too, continuing to work remotely and able to financially support our family, unlike so many others now.

We know that we are one of the lucky ones, which makes us one of the grateful ones, too. We are also the displaced: the ones who carry on away from our mountain city, so that we aren't exhausting the resources that others need more than us, and, hopefully soon, we will also be the ones who will return to our safe homes and help our unsafe communities.

Nevertheless, the world continues to spin at an uncanny rate, heading full-speed ahead into the insanity of voting season.

I beg of you, dear Reader: please, don’t forget us.

I held it together until I got in the car after getting a cold brew from Summit Coffee in Cornelius, NC. The River Arts District location was destroyed by Helene. Photo by me.

***

Below, I’ve compiled lists of resources and organizations intended for both folks afar and local. If you’re able to donate your time and/or money, please do. WNC needs all the help she can get. And, if you’re an AVL mama, like me, please peruse the offerings that our tiny but mighty mountain town is providing (and let me know if there are others I should add).

WNC mamas: I stand with you and hold you and weep with you and tell you with both spoken and unspoken words that you are seen and understood, that you are doing an incredible job, and that you are a human being living through an unnatural natural disaster.

PLACES TO DONATE FOR FAR-AWAY FOLKS:

Asheville Dream Center

Babies Need Bottoms

Beloved Asheville

Brother Wolf Animal Rescue

Discover Asheville Amazon Wish List - Hurricane Helene Relief

The Flow of Life Yoga (Personal Note: these two bad-ass women who support our community of mothers with such love and grace and care. Their pre-natal and post-natal yoga offerings helped me connect with my new community after our move from NYC. Let’s support this special community!)

Venmo: @theflowoflife

GoFundMe - Support WNC Community After Helene

GoFundMe - Daya Mental Health & Wellness

Hearts with Hands

Manna Food Bank

Mountain BizWorks

North Carolina Breastfeeding Coalition

North Carolina Diaper Bank

United Way of Asheville and Buncombe County

Wine to Water

RESOURCES FOR LOCALS:

Recommended Reading (After a Natural Disaster) for Parents: