Back in January, I chose a theme word for 2024. Then I made a list of why I selected this powerful little word: Pause. Here is what I wrote:

After Hurricane Helene decimated huge swaths of Western North Carolina, I got to thinking about that word again: pause. After the storm passed, and we lost power, cell service and Internet, people wandered out of their homes to talk to neighbors, many of whom they have never met before. Our world was unplugged. We had to pause. We talked to neighbors and gathered together to help. For many of us, the rest of the world knew the full scope of what happened to WNC before we fully did. As the news made its way to us, it was tragic.

I’ve heard a lot of people say they feel guilty. Or they are afraid to share how immensely grateful they feel when others have lost so much. Many are feeling that weird combination of both guilt and gratitude. It’s understandable. Once we were all back online, the heartbreaking stories and videos of tragedies filled our ears. It’s hard to shift from the intensity of tragic loss to “OK, time to jump back into my daily routine.” It’s jarring and doesn’t feel right. It’s hard to feel sad about losing trees, when others lost family members. We worry that if we go about our day or tell someone “I am doing all right,” it means we don’t care or we aren’t reading the room well.

We have to pause for a minute. It’s natural to feel this way after a traumatic time. This time is a loss for everyone. We don’t have to compare losses. We can have massive empathy for others and be sad about what has happened without being hard on ourselves. If you go to the gym, laugh with your kids or have a cookout for your street, those are not signs you have forgotten or that you don’t care. We need to give ourselves and everyone else room to move about with love and compassion, free of judgment. No one wears a sign that lists what they are dealing with or how much empathy they are feeling at the moment. Grief isn’t neat and orderly. Everyone handles adversity differently and processes at a different pace. We can extend compassion to others knowing there is always more to a story that we don’t know.

What pulls me forward is seeing the best of humanity. Helpers. This is why I say, Helping is the only thing that helps. Even people who lost their homes and vehicles are saying, “I can’t complain. I still have my family.” There is such hope and resilience in humanity coming together to help after so much loss. If we take a pause, we will see it everywhere.

Out-of-town relatives were watching the news and trying to get through to us. First they wanted to know that we were safe, and then they wanted to know how to help. The men of Woodvine Road became a well-oiled chainsaw team after the storm. Our road was blocked on both ends by large downed trees. We spent the first two days making the roads and sidewalks around us passable.

One of the joys of living on Woodvine Road is having the school system in our backyard. Most of our children walk to school on the greenway or unpaved trails. After primary roads were cleared, we turned our attention to these trails. We cleared the greenway and most of the unpaved trails of fallen trees. We rebuilt the bridge that provides access to these trails. We learned new skills from each other, and by watching uncounted chainsaw videos. Now I know that in case of a crisis, my neighbors will be there to support me. —Gary Curran, Woodvine Road

Our neighbors at Ross Farm in Candler were so generous. They set up multiple pumps at their creek to pump nonpotable water for the Candler community. We helped as often as we could to help fill up and carry buckets. We operated the generator and had the kids help fill buckets. We met so many people in our community, and it filled our hearts to the brim to be doing something for others. Even if it was NOT the most glamorous work, people were so thankful for TOILET WATER. —Meriah Mozingo, Stroll Biltmore Park professional photographer