Writing through the Storm

This post is a few days late because our community in Western North Carolina been reeling from the aftermath of Hurricane Helene. We were out of power for a week and had very little ways to communicate with the outside world during that time. I simply fell behind on … well, everything. I hope this is worth the wait.

My husband thinks I’m strange, but I love thunderstorms. I grew up in south Florida where thunderstorms were just a part of afternoon life, especially in the summertime. I love to curl up in a blanket and let the rolling thunder outside lull me to sleep like a lullaby. 

But that wasn’t the case when Hurricane Helene slammed into our small mountain community just two weeks ago. We had been told it would be bad—even catastrophic. But we had heard that before. This time, it was. The warning alarm woke us up at 3 a.m.: flash flooding was imminent; head to higher ground immediately. The river roared across the street from our house, but we couldn’t see it. We waited. By morning it was over its banks, but thankfully, it never reached our neighborhood. 

After days of silence from the outside world—no electricity, internet, or mobile signal—the images of the devastation surrounding Asheville finally reached us. My family vacationed in Chimney Rock. Now it was gone. I went to college in Asheville and had an internship in Swannanoa; both were under water. My heart broke and the grieving process began—for everyone and everything our community had lost. 

Everything that was so critical just one week before the storm was suddenly unimportant in comparison. How do you write when you are surrounded by heartbreak?

How do you write when you are surrounded by heartbreak?

Can I be honest with you for a moment? At first, I couldn’t. I didn’t even want to try to write. I avoided social media—the images were too horrific to watch and the grief was too heavy to bear. I lost all interest in books, writing, or even pushing out the next newsletter. None of it felt important to me anymore. I even told a friend that I wanted to walk away from it all. 

That was the grief talking. I knew it, but I said it anyway. I think I had to—to get it out and begin to move forward. She asked me if I thought I could really leave it all behind. I had to be honest with myself again. No, I don’t think I could. But in the moment, I felt it so strongly. 

Here’s the thing … within the next week, I began to inch forward again. I picked up my computer and read through a few documents I had pulled for research on my next book. I didn’t spend a lot of time on it, but just enough to give my brain what it needed—a break from the grief and destruction around me. The very thing that I couldn’t bear to do became the thing I needed most to begin healing.

Then I was asked to write an article about my personal experience with the storm. At first, I didn’t think I could do it. I was too close—too emotional. But as I began to process my feelings about what happened to my community, the words began to flow. They came as a trickle at first. Then the dam broke, and I wrote fervently just to capture all the words before they disappeared. For the first time in years, I wrote out of my grief and heartbreak. 

Storms are a part of life. Most are small and just bring some rain and light wind. But others knock us over with the force of a hurricane. When that happens, we have to find that balance again. The grieving process is a real and necessary step to healing. If we skip it, the process will never be complete.

The grieving process is a real and necessary step to healing. If we skip it, the process will never be complete.

Some people create their best work during times of trial and great loss. Others simply need to step back from time to time and adjust—just to “be” for awhile. Both are okay. Do whatever moves the pendulum for you. Trust the process. Inch forward. One step at a time.

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