Floods and Roots: Appalachia's Call for Healing
A Reflection on Loss, Belonging, and the Land that Heals
There’s massive flooding here. A hurricane in the mountains.
The tri-cities (Bristol, Johnson City, and Kingsport— I live in Bristol) were spared somehow. But everything around us was annihilated. Entire mountain communities have been wiped out.
(*Disclaimer: all the photos in this post are pre-hurricane. I want you see Appalachia in her full ripened wholeness.)
I haven’t done much over the past week as this has unfolded. When the storm hit, I lost power for a few days. Luckily, my parents, who live 20 minutes away, still had power, so I went there daily to shower and charge my phone.
I’ve checked in with my friends living in the hardest-hit areas, but I’ve mostly stayed still, watching everything unfold like a horror movie. Social media is flooded with pictures, videos, and updates. Communities are organizing, activating relief efforts.
I’m not entirely sure how to help. I’m not in a position to give much financially right now, and I don’t feel able to contribute through manual labor either. So, I shall write.
I’ll tell you about Appalachia. And I will ask those of you who can to help.
I’ve had a complicated relationship with Appalachia, as many do.
Am I Appalachian?
I am. I am.
I was raised in these hills, and even when I moved away, I kept returning. In 2014, I moved to Colorado for school but returned here for weeks and months during my breaks. I started relationships here, maintained my closest friendships, and all my family lives here. The wild places etched into my very being are here.
I never called Colorado home during my time living there— it didn’t feel right. Then in 2018, I moved to Illinois and stayed for six years. During that time, I visited Virginia less and less. With ancestral roots in the Midwest, I know on some soul level, I was mending parts of myself that needed the wide-open prairies to heal.
But when a time of transition came, and my ties to the Midwest unraveled, I felt lost.
So I got quiet. I listened.
And I heard the mountains. These mountains.
I felt the rivers, tasted the honeysuckle, heard the coyotes.
I saw the cardinal—our state bird.
I felt a powerful pull to return. To re-turn. To turn again to this land for healing and love.
And so, I moved back. I now live in a holler in southwest Virginia, on many acres of wild land that belong to one of my childhood best friends. It’s generational land, and the home her mother and grandmother grew up in. Now, I get to steward this place.
A close friend once told me the land heals us. We don’t have to do anything but show up. And so I’ve been doing that. I walk outside and just sit at the base of the mountains in my backyard.
When my heart breaks or is too full, too fragile, or too veiled for me to discern what She wants, I lay down on the earth and let my salty tears sink into the land.
And the land holds me. It heals me. Again and again, she brings me back to myself.
The love and comfort this place provides, in its abundant aliveness, are humbling and soul forging.
Sometimes, I feel unworthy. Sometimes, I still feel like an outsider. There are parts of the culture here I struggle with, and others I wish ran even deeper in my bones and lineage.
I left once. I went to many other places—across the world. I’ve seen and experienced the Rockies, the Himalayas, the Andes, the Atlas Mountains, the Scottish Highlands.
But there is no place like Appalachia.
The land here has a soul of its own. An ancient soul that’s been around since The Beginning.
And you can feel this Truth when you step into the full glory of the land that is Appalachia.
She is ripe here, and she is fortuitous. She is wise and uncanny.
And right now, She is hurting and needs your help.
Please, if you can, consider giving in any way. Whether through donations, sharing resources, or raising awareness—every little bit helps. Here’s a compiled list of relief efforts and ways to contribute: Hurricane Helene Relief Efforts.
Appalachia has endured so much over the centuries—its land shaped by both natural forces and the unyielding spirit of the people who call it home. Even now, after the devastation of this storm, I have faith that these mountains will heal, just as they have before. The resilience of this region is etched into its landscape, woven into its culture. The people here, rooted in community and care, will rise again—stronger, more connected, and ready to rebuild.
We will heal each other. We will heal the land.
We will show up with open hearts and willing souls, and She, our dear Appalachia, will heal us.
Mountain Mama
I have heard your call
deep in my crackling bones
to return
to the lands of my youth.
These lands lay bare
a truth only those
who hold her within
can hear.
Only those
who wade barefoot
in the frigid water
running clean through my toes.
Only those
whose hands carry
the decaying Earth
back to her grave.
Only those
who open their tender hearts
to the beckoning of home
belong.
Belong,
I do.
I belong to the river,
to the trees,
to the branches waving to the clouds.
I belong to the bird song,
the coyote howl,
even to the bear protecting her cubs.
This is my home.
A home that lives within,
made of memories
and longings
and regrets.
A home I shall never part,
no matter how far I go.
A home so true,
so ancient and omnipotent
that she leaves me no choice
but to surrender to her call.
I am here.
I'm listening.
What wisdom lives here?
Why have you called me home,
my Mountain Mama?