Before she became a teacher, my mother worked for the EPA, where she published a remarkable amount of research. After earning her second degree, she transitioned into teaching and taught nearly every branch of science imaginable. She is easily the most brilliant person I have ever known.
One topic she’s always spoken about candidly is Earth’s inevitable reclaiming of its autonomy from humankind. She believes that in response to our relentless exploitation of natural resources and the escalating climate crisis, the Earth will unleash climate disasters capable of causing permanent, irreversible damage. I’ve witnessed storms of this magnitude my entire life, yet the images and videos of the devastation never become easier to bear.
The crisis hit close to home when Hurricane Helene devastated western North Carolina. Back in the 1950s, my maternal grandmother’s family relocated from Alabama to Miami before moving one more time to Asheville, joining other family members already settled in the area. I have many relatives buried there, and in the weeks following the hurricane, we found ourselves calling the Memorial Park to confirm that their caskets were still secure. Heartbreakingly, scenes of caskets drifting in floodwaters have become more common across the region and throughout Appalachia.
Watching places tied to my memories simply disappear is gut-wrenching. I have photos of myself in spots that are now just… gone. Places where we used to grill out, gather around bonfires, and fall asleep under the stars to the sounds of Tame Impala—now completely wiped out. Swimming holes where we once skinny-dipped are now buried by landslides. The Blue Ridge Parkway, once a peaceful escape, has become impassable, with hundreds of feet of hazardous mountainside now exposed, posing a deadly risk to locals who have no alternate routes.
As a child, when I wasn’t at the beach, I spent my days in the mountains. I remember sunlight reflecting on rocks and streams, the soothing sound of rushing water, the fresh, clean air, and the fog blanketing the Smokies. Falling asleep to those sounds in a tent helped calm my nervous system; those moments are some of my most cherished memories.
And then there was the music. I feel incredibly lucky to have been immersed in the vibrant sounds of bluegrass, folk, jazz, and blues that flow through Appalachia like a heartbeat, giving the region its soul. From the foot-stomping rhythms at festivals to the soulful blues echoing in small, dimly lit bars, the music is magnetic, drawing people together and weaving its way into your bones. Appalachia’s music scene isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a lifeline, a reason to stay, and a reminder of the rich, endearing culture that makes the place so addictive.
As soon as school let out, all I wanted was to head to the mountains, where I could listen to musicians who simply got it. Local pros who had made their lives in the region were there, welcoming young players passing through, encouraging us to sharpen our skills, and embracing each visit as an opportunity to share the music as widely as possible. There was no gatekeeping, just an open invitation to step into the scene, to learn, to create, and to be part of something greater.
The people in this region are just so deeply good. They are loyal, hardworking, and defy so many of the stereotypes imposed on them. Contrary to popular belief, places like Asheville, Boone, and many other towns throughout the North Carolina and Tennessee mountains are safe and welcoming, and as a queer person, I never once felt in danger. These communities embrace diversity in ways that go unacknowledged, offering an accepting and open-minded refuge within the beauty of Appalachia.
Back then, you could find complete detachment and no cell service whatsoever; a kind of peace I long for now more than ever. Though some remote places like that still exist, it’s been a few years since I’ve ventured that far out, and even those areas are now feeling the effects of climate crises. Their distance from busy society, once a blessing, now makes it challenging to deliver aid and services to these regions after such large-scale disasters.
Seeing Western North Carolina torn apart has filled me with a heartache I didn’t anticipate, stirring up more nostalgia than I thought possible. But it’s also brought an unshakable sense of dread for what’s yet to come.
When Asheville was touted as a “climate haven,” I was skeptical. The local government reassured both long-time residents and newcomers that its high elevation, cooler temperatures, and distance from the coast made it a secure place as the climate crisis worsens. But even then, I couldn’t buy into the promise of safety in a changing world, where Mother Nature is an inescapable force.
I live by the motto: “Prepare for the worst, and hope for the best.” Wishful thinking no doubt played a role in the region’s unpreparedness for storms of this scale. But even with extensive planning, Western North Carolina could never have fully anticipated the sheer force of Hurricane Helene as it intensified dramatically within just 24 hours before landfall.
Humans are intricate creatures with layered experiences, yet I fear Mother Nature has little regard for such complexity; our identities would mean nothing if we became the next species facing extinction. Unfortunately, humanity has claimed a sense of dominance over the animal kingdom, but the Earth’s power to unleash devastating storms in hours serves as a stark reminder that we, too, can be swept away like countless species before us.
It hasn’t fully sunk in yet that my favorite places are gone. It’s something I’ll need time to process. The sheer amount of loss in such a short period leaves you in a state of shock and disbelief. Watching helplessly from afar as the good people I know, who call that region home, suffer is a feeling I can hardly put into words—embarrassing, even, to be so far removed from their pain, knowing I can’t do more.
The community has come together in a remarkable way. There’s a collective understanding that these rescue efforts are a matter of life and death, not a partisan struggle. It’s refreshing to see people working as one to support each other in the face of crisis.
We need to embrace a collective mindset, because Mother Earth sees us as a collective parasite—one that will require total eradication if we aren’t held in check. The way we’re exploiting the planet can’t continue without consequences, and the only hope for survival is to come together and change our approach.
The grief is overwhelming, but we have just under five years to make the crucial changes needed if there’s any hope of preserving our planet. The urgency is impossible to ignore—it’s now or never. Every day that passes without meaningful action brings us closer to a point of no return. The choices we make in the coming years will determine whether future generations can inherit a livable world or one devastated beyond repair. The weight of that responsibility is heavy, but it’s a weight we must bear if we want to leave anything worth saving.
As daunting as it is, there’s hope in our collective actions. By rethinking our impact, embracing sustainable practices, and demanding accountability, we can still chart a course toward a more balanced future. The changes we make today could mean the difference between a planet on the edge of destruction and one that survives, perhaps even thriving, for generations to come. The time to act is now.
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