What the Water couldn’t Wash Away…

What Helene is still teaching me…

Two Years After the Storm…

This past weekend, September 27, 2026, marked two years since Hurricane Helene.

Anniversaries have a way of bringing us back - not only to what happened, but to who we were before everything changed.

One of the most unexpected things Hurricane Helene has taught me had very little to do with wind or water.

It has taught me about being human.

When we think about disasters, we naturally focus on the visible devastation - the washed-out roads, the broken bridges, the homes, the riverbanks, and the landscapes forever changed.

Those scars are real.

But there are other scars that don’t appear in photographs.

The ones carried quietly in people’s hearts.

I’ve spent a great deal of time reflecting on what happens after the floodwaters recede, after the cameras leave, after the volunteers return home, and after the rest of the world believes life has somehow returned to “normal.”

For those of us who lived it, another journey begins.

The emotional one.

The rebuilding everyone can see is only part of the story.

The rebuilding inside a human heart is far less visible - and often takes much longer.

In the months that followed, I found myself longing for something that had nothing to do with rebuilding property.

I longed to feel understood.

Not because I expected anyone to fix what had happened.

Not because there were perfect words to say.

But because being seen is one of the deepest gifts another human being can offer.

I found myself wishing someone would simply ask,

“How are you… really?”

And then be willing to stay for the answer.

Trauma isn’t measured only by what happens to us.

It’s also shaped by what happens afterward.

Who remembers.

Who checks in months later when everyone else assumes you’re “over it.”

Who isn’t afraid to sit beside someone else’s pain without trying to explain it away or make it smaller.

What surprised me most wasn’t only the destruction Helene left behind.

It was the loneliness.

Some people showed up in extraordinary ways. Neighbors, volunteers, complete strangers, and friends whose kindness I’ll never forget. They reminded me that humanity is alive and well.

Others grew quiet.

Painfully quiet.

Some relationships changed in ways I never ever expected.

Some conversations never happened.

For a long time, I carried that hurt.

The truth is…

Part of me still does.

I quietly wondered why certain people I loved never really asked what this experience had been like.

Or simply checked in to ask if I was okay.

Then, somewhere along my own healing journey, I was confronted with a difficult truth.

There were people I loved that I hadn’t reached out to either.

Not because they weren’t important to me.

Not because I stopped caring.

But because I was emotionally exhausted.

Some days, simply getting through the day required everything I had.

I kept thinking…

I’ll call when life settles down.

I’ll write when I can find the words.

I’ll reconnect when I feel more like myself again.

The problem was…

For a very long time, I didn’t feel like myself.

And if I’m being honest…

Some days, I still don’t.

That realization humbled me.

It didn’t erase the loneliness I felt.

It didn’t make the silence hurt any less.

But it changed the way I looked at it.

I began to understand that my silence doesn’t always mean a lack of love.

Sometimes it’s grief.

Sometimes it’s overwhelm.

Sometimes it’s a nervous system that’s still waiting for the next storm.

Sometimes it’s a heart that simply doesn’t know where to begin.

I’ve come to believe that one of the greatest gifts we can give another person isn’t advice.

It isn’t having the perfect words.

It’s our presence.

It’s asking one more question.

It’s remembering six months later.

It’s saying,

“I don’t fully understand what you’ve been through, but I’d like to.”

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’ve finally begun writing these posts.

Not because I’ve finished healing.

But because I want to begin reconnecting - with my own voice, with the people I love, and with the parts of myself that felt washed away along with the riverbank.

If these stories have taught me anything so far, it’s that healing isn’t only about rebuilding roads, homes, or property.

It’s also about rebuilding connection.

It’s about extending grace - to others, and to ourselves.

Because the truth is, we never really know what another person is carrying.

We don’t know what storm they’re still living through.

We don’t know what memories they’re trying to make peace with.

Or what silence they’re struggling to break.

If Hurricane Helene has changed me, I hope it has changed me in this way:

I hope it has made me slower to judge.

Slower to assume.

Quicker to ask.

More willing to listen.

More willing to stay.

And more aware that sometimes the most healing words we can offer another human being are simply,

“I’m here. Tell me your story.”

Maybe that’s what this journey has been leading me toward all along.

Not just telling my own story.

But learning how to hold space for the stories of others.

Because while the water changed the mountains…

It also reminded me that we never really know what river someone else is trying to cross.

❤️‍🩹 What Helene Is Still Teaching Me…

I thought the hardest part of Hurricane Helene would be rebuilding what the water took away.

The land.

The gardens.

The riverbank.

The familiar view outside my window, from my porch.

I didn’t realize the deeper rebuilding would happen inside me.

Helene has been teaching me about grief, but also about gratitude in ways I never expected.

About loss, but also about love.

About disappointment, but also about grace.

It has taught me that healing is not a straight path.

Some days I feel strong.

Some days I feel the weight of everything that changed - physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Both can be true.

It has taught me that we all carry invisible storms, and that compassion begins when we remember we don’t always know what someone else is fighting.

It has taught me to be gentler - with others, and with myself.

And perhaps most importantly…

It has taught me that what is broken can still become beautiful.

The river changed its course.

So did I.

But I am still here…❤️‍🩹

Thank you for showing up.

Thank you for hearing my story.

And thank you for taking this journey with me.

With much love,

❤️ Lucia