A year ago, I found hope in the shape of a checkmark beside a name — 475 names in all. Our staff and students, safe after Helene.
Now, one year later, time feels surreal. A reopened gallery signals progress, but one block away a gutted building keeps us captive in Sept. 27, 2024. A sudden loss of cell signal or a flicker of power pulls us back into the silence and panic of those first days. Storm clouds, the smell of wet earth, the empty space where the forest canopy once stretched — time insists on reminding us.
And yet, alongside the weight of grief, there has been so much resilience. Our school, like so many in western North Carolina, has been carried by an outpouring of love and support.
We have dug out of the mud, step by step, arm in arm, finding ways to serve one another even as we grieved ourselves.
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That is the strange gift of this work: We hold our own hardships while tending to the struggles of others, and in that shared space, we find unexpected healing.
In walking alongside our students and families, celebrating small victories and enduring setbacks together, we’ve learned that community is not just support in crisis — it’s the daily, ordinary presence that helps us all grow.
Today, hope looks like more than a checkmark. It looks like wholeness, curiosity, and the courage to imagine tomorrow — and all the Sept. 27ths to come.
This piece was first published by the Department of Public Instruction.
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