How Hurricane Helene Became a Blessing in My Early Days of Motherhood

I woke up at 7am and the power was out. I peered out my window, the wind and rain were unlike anything I’d ever seen in my life. I turned my rocking chair around 180 degrees to face the window while holding my newborn wrapped in a blanket in my arms and simply watched the storm rumble on. The treetops leaned hard to the left, like hair blown back in a top-down car—caught in a constant, sideways gust. They looked like they could be ripped out of the ground. And eventually, I did see one tumble down in the distance.

That night, I borrowed a lighter from my neighbor and scurried about my apartment, searching for candles. I lit one candle, used it to light the others, and sat in the dim glow of my living room with my baby in my lap. It was quiet. Uncertain. Still.

The next day, I went out to see what the storm had done to Asheville. I parked my car, and clung my baby close, as I roamed the streets above the River Arts District which was submerged under water. remember one road covered in pine needles like a makeshift carpet and men chain-sawing the trees to remove the obstacle course. I zigzagged through the mess and couldn’t help but think “It smells like Christmas.” But it wasn’t a jolly Christmas morning—it was eerie, surreal.

I had no clue that the storm I had witnessed the morning before could cause so much damage. Yes, the winds and rain were fierce, but no electricity for weeks? Our water lines destroyed for months? I had a baby in my arms and felt a new kind of fear. Not panic, but a quiet awe. A reverence. It was humbling to realize how small we really are. How quickly nature can string away everything we depend on. In that moment, I understood something deeper: we are not the most powerful force on this planet. Not even close.

We stayed with my mom for a month because she had a generator. I slept in a pop-up camper with my baby. It was September, and at night it was chilly. Nova would sleep in my arms close to my body heat. Once, I woke up in the middle of the night and realized my face was cold, so I put the blanket over us to lock in the heat.

I breastfed her, so I didn’t have to worry about finding formula or using the generator to warm bottles— but I still had to eat for two. So we went to a middle school where we loaded these big black bags with cans of soup, bottled water, diapers, wipes, paper towels— really anything they offered.

I know some people lost everything. I know it was devastating. But for me—it felt like a break from life. I secretly loved the chaos, the halt of the mundane. I loved the stillness.

No one was working. My family was just together. Surviving. Living how people were always meant to—in community. We cranked the generator in the mornings to make coffee, sat on the porch with paper plates to eat breakfast, lounged in the grass during the day, and Nova did tummy time on the camper bed. At night, we gathered around a campfire and listened to music on a radio. It felt like a big camping trip, honestly.

While others lost things, the hurricane gave me two gifts:

• An extra month of maternity leave with my baby, which was a blessing to be with my baby longer.

• And when I returned to my apartment, it had completely molded from the moisture. My landlord agreed to move me into a another complex up the road— and this one was newer, cleaner, brighter, and even has a pool. A better home.

Walking through Carrier Park 8 months later, it still doesn’t look like home. But there’s still beauty and hope when you look around—and you can’t have something new without destruction.

I watched the world around me fall apart, and somehow, I felt safe. Like the whole world could crumble, and I would still be okay. In the end, I realized I don't need much—just my family together, slow days soaking up the sun, and warm fires with music at night. But most of all—my baby in my arms all day.