Living just outside of Columbia, South Carolina, we’ve always considered ourselves relatively safe from the full brunt of hurricanes. Columbia, being inland, is typically sheltered from the worst storms unless a hurricane takes a very specific and rare path. Because of this, when Hurricane Helene was forecasted, we were only expecting some rain and light winds—certainly nothing catastrophic. What unfolded caught us completely off guard, showing that nature is unpredictable and often unforgiving.
The night before Helene hit, I was more concerned about friends living in Tampa, Florida. I texted them to check if they were okay, since the news was portraying Tampa as the next Atlantis, about to be submerged by the rising tides. The media made it sound like Tampa would be swallowed by the ocean, a modern-day mystery that future generations would analyze on whatever replaced streaming services. My friends, however, laughed it off. "Just some rain," they said, completely unfazed by the storm.
Feeling reassured, my wife and I didn’t think much about the storm possibly affecting us. After all, hurricanes don’t typically have the strength to cause major issues this far inland. We went to bed that night without a second thought. Little did we know that would be the last peaceful moment before chaos descended on our home.
At 6:30 AM the next morning, the power went out. The house suddenly plunged into silence, felt strange. That silence was shattered moments later by an ear-splitting crash that rattled every inch of the house. The sound was so intense that I felt it in my bones. I knew immediately what had happened: a tree had fallen on the house. My wife, startled awake, asked, “Was that a tree?” "Yep," I said grimly, already getting dressed to assess the damage. I feared we might have to evacuate with our four dogs and three cats, so I told her to start gathering the animals.
"Do we have to get out?" she asked, the panic rising in her voice.
"I don’t know...maybe," I replied, still unsure of the extent of the damage but fully aware that it might be bad. I grabbed my cell phone and used its flashlight to navigate through the darkened house. I moved quickly, checking the ceilings in the hallway and living room. Everything seemed intact so far, and for a brief moment, I felt some relief.
But then I reached the hallway near my daughter’s bedroom. A small puddle on the floor caught my attention. Looking up, I saw a hole in the ceiling where water was dripping steadily. My stomach dropped. "Crap," I muttered, knowing that the attic was just above and fearing what was happening up there. I opened my daughter’s bedroom door and found a crack in the ceiling, but nothing more. A small sigh of relief escaped my mouth. Maybe things weren’t as bad as I thought.
Then I heard it—the unmistakable sound of flowing water. Not a drip, but a steady stream. My heart sank as I rushed to the girl’s bathroom and opened the door. What I saw was far worse than I had imagined. The ceiling was completely torn open, and water was pouring into the room in a torrent. It was like someone had opened the floodgates.
"Oh no," I whispered, completely overwhelmed by the sight. It was clear the roof and attic had been heavily damaged, and the relentless storm was now inside our home. I turned back to the hallway, needing to get a better look at the attic. My wife, who had been gathering the cats, looked at me with wide, terrified eyes. I shook my head grimly. "Grab them all and get them into our bedroom," I told her. I knew things were bad.
I pulled the string that opened the attic stairs, and the thin wooden steps creaked as they unfolded. I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to confront what awaited me up there. The storm’s fury was already so intense, but hearing it rage from inside the house was even more unnerving. With a deep breath, I climbed the creaky stairs, flashlight in hand. My wife handed me a stronger flashlight before I reached the top, and I switched it on, illuminating the destruction above.
I didn’t need to climb the last stairs into the attic to see the damage. From where I stood, the scene was clear: a massive oak tree had ripped through the roof, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. The rain poured in freely, soaking everything in sight. The tree had crushed parts of the roof’s framing, and even the sections where the roof was still intact had severe cracks. The framing was shattered in places, broken or disintegrated. Helene, which we had underestimated, had ripped our home apart.
I jumped down the old wooden stairs and quickly threw on a sweatshirt. I knew I had to see the full extent of the damage from the outside, though part of me dreaded what I might find. "What are you doing?" my wife asked, her voice laced with worry as she tried to herd the animals into a safer spot.
"I have to go outside and see how bad it is," I muttered, not waiting for a reply. My legs moved on their own, fueled by a mix of adrenaline and fear. I ran through the garage, instinctively hitting the garage door button out of habit—only to be reminded that the power was out. With a grunt of frustration, I grabbed the garage door release handle and yanked it down. The old chain groaned and creaked in protest but finally unlocked. I threw the door open as fast as I could, mindful not to damage it further in the process.
As the door lifted, I froze in place, momentarily stunned by the sight before me. The world outside looked alien, like a scene from another planet. The sun was beginning to rise, but instead of bringing clarity, it only added to the surrealness of the situation. The light was faint, filtered through thick clouds and the churning remnants of the storm. It was still dark—an eerie, swirling kind of darkness that felt alive. The wind howled, and the rain continued to lash against the house, but it wasn’t just the weather that made me pause.
I had grown up in New England, where I’d seen my fair share of snowstorms and blizzards. I knew what it felt like to be blinded by whiteouts, unable to see more than a few feet in front of you as the snow buried everything in sight. But this was different. The darkness here wasn’t static or soft like the blanket of snow; it was menacing, swirling and moving with an energy that seemed almost unnatural. The air felt heavy, thick with moisture and tension, as if the storm had a life of its own and wasn’t ready to leave yet.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I might find. Stepping out into the storm’s aftermath, I was immediately hit by the force of the wind, which nearly knocked me off balance. The rain pelted my face, sharp and stinging, but I pushed forward, desperate to get a better look at the damage.
The yard looked like a war zone. Branches, debris, and shattered shingles littered the ground, and the lawn—usually a peaceful stretch of green—had been transformed into a muddy, waterlogged mess. I fought against the relentless wind, forcing myself out into the street for a clearer view of the house. The oak tree that had fallen on it hadn’t snapped from the winds as I had first thought; instead, it had been completely uprooted. The winds had finally overpowered the tree, which had stood tall and defiant against nature for decades, and in its fall, it had taken my home with it. Its massive trunk lay sprawled like a fallen titan, branches stretching across the roof, clawing at the shingles and covering the entire length of the house. It had to be at least 140 feet long, with a tangled web of thick and thin branches extending in every direction.
My heart sank as I took in the full extent of the damage. The gaping hole I’d seen from the attic was far worse from the outside; entire sections of the roof had been torn away, leaving the interior exposed to the elements. Rain continued to pour into the house unimpeded, soaking everything inside.
As I stood there, staring at the destruction, an unsettling feeling washed over me. The tree had crushed the entire length of the roof, but it had only pierced the south side. The house had resisted the force about halfway through, as if fighting back against the crushing weight. I swallowed hard, a shiver running down my spine as the realization hit me. If that massive tree had continued its path just a few feet further, it could have been the last thing my wife and I ever saw. The thought shook me to my core.
I glanced up toward the stormy sky, feeling a deep sense of gratitude. By the grace of God, we had survived this. Standing there in the aftermath, I knew it was nothing short of a miracle that we were still here to witness the destruction.
As I stood there, thanking the Lord above, the world around me seemed to explode in a violent display of nature's wrath. The towering trees surrounding my yard swayed wildly under the relentless force of the wind, their branches bending like they were being pulled apart. Rain tore through the air, pelting my face with stinging droplets. The wind, no longer just an invisible force, now felt personal, like it had taken offense to my presence in the street. It pushed against me, making it hard to stand upright, as if challenging me, whispering, "How dare you stand there."
The rising sun fought a battle of its own, struggling to break through the thick clouds and push back the darkness. The scene felt almost biblical—an apocalyptic clash between light and shadow. I glanced down the street, taking in the full scope of the devastation. It wasn’t just my house that had suffered. Nature had unleashed its fury on my entire neighborhood.
My neighbor’s newly added porch had a tree resting on top of it, the structure splintered and crushed. While the tree wasn’t nearly as large as the one that had obliterated my roof, the damage was just as heartbreaking. Next door to him, another family’s driveway was littered with the ruins of two cars, now mangled wrecks beneath a fallen tree. The thick limbs had flattened them like toys, metal and plastic twisted beyond recognition. The cars had been parked there like any other night, with no one expecting the storm to bring destruction crashing down in the darkness.
Then it hit me, a realization that sent chills through my body: the damage followed a straight line. Hurricanes don’t usually behave like that. Hurricanes are chaotic by nature, swirling and shifting, unleashing their fury in all directions as they move. Their winds don’t discriminate; they strike randomly, battering everything in their path with unpredictable force.
But this... this was different. The destruction I was seeing wasn’t the erratic violence of a hurricane. This was something more focused, more deliberate. The trees, the cars, the homes—all of the damage had been in a straight path, as if something had barreled down the street with singular, unstoppable intent. The force hadn’t moved in every direction; it had moved in one. It hadn’t been the sporadic chaos of a swirling storm. No, this was the chaos of something far more sudden and concentrated.
A tornado had touched down on Greenetree Lane.
It all made sense now—the way the air had felt so charged, the sudden roar like a freight train in the middle of the night. Tornadoes strike without warning, appearing out of nowhere, tearing through everything in their path with merciless speed and precision. They don’t linger like hurricanes; they arrive, destroy, and disappear, leaving nothing but devastation in their wake. That’s what happened here. A tornado had come barreling down our street, ripping apart homes, cars, and trees with impunity. And then, as quickly as it had arrived, it had vanished, leaving us to stand amidst the ruins, shocked and bewildered by its fury.
As I stood there in the aftermath, it was hard to believe what had happened. The storm hadn’t just been a freak occurrence; it had been a focused attack by nature itself, a reminder of how vulnerable we are when the elements decide to unleash their power.
I stared in disbelief, trying to process what had transpired only moments before I rushed outside. Where I come from, there are stories—rumors, really—about twisters appearing once in a while, but they’re rare, almost more myth and legend than fact. Growing up, tornadoes were something you heard about in whispers, not something you truly expected to encounter. But here, in the Palmetto State, they’re a different kind of beast. They strike in the spring, usually during late afternoon thunderstorms, ripping through unsuspecting areas and then vanishing into the mist, leaving devastation and heartache behind.
I had known that tornadoes were a true force to be reckoned with here in the South. They’re part of the folklore and the fabric of life, a danger woven into the experience of living in this region. But I had never witnessed one or truly understood the life-altering impact they could have in just a matter of seconds. Now, standing in the street, surveying the aftermath, a new and terrifying respect—and fear—washed over me for the raw, unyielding power of nature. It was a sobering reminder that humans aren’t the apex predators we like to believe we are. We may stalk the land, build our homes, and shape our environment, but in the grand scheme of things, we’re just small, fragile creatures—like bugs on the windshield of the real force of nature: Mother Earth.
I shook my head, still trying to grasp what had just happened. But the wind, the rain, and the raging battle between the sun and the storm weren’t finished with me. They slapped me back to reality, reminding me of the danger I was standing in. Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of an oncoming freight train cut through all the other noise, the same sound people always describe when a tornado is about to hit. My heart stopped, and I spun around, desperately searching the sky for the telltale funnel cloud—but there was nothing. No tornado in sight.
A feeling of dread crept over me. It was as if Mother Nature herself was warning me, disturbed by my presence out in the open. “What am I doing right now?” I whispered to myself. “I need to get out of here.” The realization hit me hard—I was standing in the middle of a danger zone. Another tornado could touch down at any moment, or worse, another one of the towering trees that surrounded my house could give way under the relentless hammering of wind. I had barely survived one massive oak crashing down on my roof; would I be lucky enough to survive a second?
It felt like the very air was pressing in on me, as if the storm was watching, waiting to strike again. The primal instinct to flee kicked in. I could almost feel the eyes of nature herself, urging me to leave if I wanted to live. Without wasting another second, I bolted back toward the garage, my soaked clothes clinging to me as I fought against the wind. The elements were unforgiving, but I pushed through, my only thought to get back inside.
I wasn’t sure whether the fact that I was already drenched helped or hurt me in that moment. The wind was so fierce it was hard to keep moving forward, but all I knew was that once I crossed the threshold of the garage, I wasn’t taking any chances. I grabbed onto the door and pulled it shut with all my strength. This time, I didn’t care about preserving the door or being gentle. I slammed it down hard onto the concrete, feeling the satisfying thud as it finally closed me off from the maelstrom outside.
The house didn’t feel like much of a shelter anymore—its roof was crushed under the weight of a fallen tree, and I knew if another twister touched down, it could tear through the walls with terrifying ease. But even under that battered, damaged roof, being inside felt safer than being out in the storm. The winds still howled outside, rain pounded against the windows, and the ominous, low rumble of the storm lingered in the air, but at least here, inside, I wasn’t standing directly in its path.
I stood there for a moment, catching my breath and collecting my thoughts. I had survived this once; I wasn’t sure if I’d survive it again. But for now, I was sheltered from the storm’s fury, and that was all I could ask for in the face of something so powerful and unstoppable. As I glanced around the dimly lit garage, I knew we still had a long way to go, but at least we were still here to face it.
Inside, my wife was a nervous wreck. She had managed to gather all of our animals—four dogs and three cats—into our bedroom and the adjoining bathroom, her face pale with worry. "Are we safe to be here? Should we leave?" she asked, her voice shaking as the reality of the situation set in.
I shook my head, knowing full well there was no safe escape. "There’s nowhere to go. Trees are down everywhere, and there are power lines blocking the entrance to the neighborhood. I imagine the roads in town are the same, if not worse. We have to stay here for now," I said, trying to sound calm and collected, though the tension in my chest was making it hard to breathe.
She nodded, though I could see the fear still in her eyes, her hand gripping one of the dogs tightly. "Just sit tight," I added, as I made my way through the house, grabbing a couple of flashlights from the drawers and stuffing them into my pockets. I needed to make sure we had enough light if the power stayed out through the night, which seemed more than likely at this point.
I hurriedly gathered a few of our more valuable belongings, starting with the Thomas Kinkade paintings hanging in the hallway. I carefully brought them into our bedroom, where they’d be safer, far from the side of the house that now bore the weight of the massive oak tree. I looked around, trying to prioritize what else needed to be moved. Our desktops and laptops couldn’t be left in harm’s way either. I grabbed them, moving them as far from the damaged side of the house as I could.
The water was pouring into the girl’s bathroom now, flowing with increasing intensity. I knew the tree must have obliterated the gutters, likely bending them inward, and now all the water they were meant to channel away was flooding into our home. The hallway was quickly becoming a river, the water pooling and creeping across the floor. I glanced up at the ceiling, checking for any new leaks, but my mind was already racing with what to do next.
The reality of the damage was setting in deeper. The roof wasn’t just compromised—it was actively letting the storm in, the very thing it was meant to protect us from. I could hear the relentless rain hammering the outside of the house, and now it felt like the house itself was surrendering to it. Every drip, every new trickle of water was a reminder that the structure holding us together was losing its fight.
My wife looked at me as I stepped back into the bedroom, her eyes scanning my face for some sign of reassurance. "What now?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
I paused, taking a deep breath. "We need to stay in here," I said. "The animals are safe with us, and this side of the house is still holding up. We just have to wait it out and pray no more trees come down."
She nodded, but I could see the doubt still lingering. We were safe for the moment, but both of us knew that our home was no longer a refuge. It was slowly being torn apart by forces beyond our control, and all we could do was stay put and hope for the best.
As the storm continued to rage outside, I stood there, trying to calculate our next move, knowing full well that staying calm was the only thing keeping us from slipping into panic. But underneath it all, the sinking feeling remained: that we were at the mercy of a storm we never expected, in a home that was fighting a battle it was already losing.
She handed me a towel, and I ran it through my soaked hair, letting out a small, ironic laugh. Drying off, even briefly, felt absurd in the face of what was happening. The towel reminded me of how easily I could dry myself off, but the house—our home—was a different story. I wished I could somehow "dry" the house, stop the water from pouring in and sinking it into the metaphorical abyss, like the next Atlantis being swallowed by the storm. But that was a fantasy. The reality was far harsher: the roof was failing, and if I didn’t do something soon, the entire ceiling could collapse under the weight of the relentless rain.
I knew I had to get back into the attic and at least try to stem the flow of water. But the situation felt impossible. I didn’t have any tarps, no real way to block the gaping hole the fallen tree had created. Even if I had the materials, could I even reach the part of the attic that was under siege without falling through the fragile, waterlogged beams? I wasn’t sure. The thought of it made my stomach churn. One wrong step up there, and I could come crashing down into the house, adding another layer of destruction to the mess we were already in.
But doing nothing wasn’t an option. The ceiling was already sagging in some places, the water pouring in faster with every passing minute. If I didn’t try to stop it, we could lose the entire roof—and with it, the safety of our home.
I looked at my wife, who was busy keeping the animals calm in the bedroom. I could see the worry etched on her face, though she was doing her best to stay strong for both of us. I knew she trusted me to figure this out, but I also knew that the situation was spiraling beyond our control.
"I need to try to do something about the water," I said, my voice steady despite the rising panic inside. "If I don’t at least try, the whole ceiling could come down."
She nodded, though her eyes were filled with fear. "Just be careful, please."
I gave her a small, reassuring smile, though I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince her or myself. "I will."
I felt it more than I heard or saw—the storm eased back, just a bit. It was a small window of opportunity, and I knew I had to act quickly. I needed to get to a neighbor’s house, someone who might have a tarp. Closing the bedroom door behind me, I told Colleen, "I’ll be back. Don’t leave the room." I could see the worry in her eyes as she nodded. While I had been outside earlier, she had already set up buckets to catch the leaking water, but they were overflowing now, doing little to stem the tide.
With no time to waste, I made the decision to step back out into Helene’s aftermath. The sun was beginning to win its battle, and the darkness that had cloaked the storm was slowly retreating as I opened the garage door again. The air still carried the storm’s bite, but I ignored it and moved quickly around the front of the house, my focus on reaching Pete’s place. I glanced at the massive oak tree resting on my roof, but I forced myself to look away. Maybe, just maybe, if I ignored it, the tree would disappear, as if the damage had never happened. I laughed bitterly at the thought—wishful thinking, nothing more.
As I approached Pete’s garage, I saw him struggling to close his door. He had just had knee surgery and was hobbling around with a cane, trying to assess his own damage. I sprinted toward him, heart pounding, and realized he needed help. "Pete!" I called, running over to support him. "Let’s get you inside."
We shuffled into his house, and once he was settled, he pointed out where he kept his tarps. I thanked him and grabbed as many as I could carry before bolting back to my house. My body moved on autopilot, ignoring the chaos around me. I repeated the now-familiar motion of slamming the garage door shut behind me and rushed inside, dripping wet and out of breath. There was no time to dry off; I had to get into the attic.
I pulled down the rickety old attic stairs again, my hands trembling slightly as I gripped the thin wooden steps. The storm still raged outside, but now it felt like it was inside the house, too—inside my attic. The rain and wind howled through the gaping hole in the roof, and the entire space groaned under the weight of the storm. I took a deep breath, the tarp clutched in my hands, and carefully climbed into the dark, cramped space.
The attic beams creaked and shifted underfoot, the entire structure groaning as if it were on the verge of collapse. I moved slowly and deliberately, ducking under damaged framing, careful not to grab onto any broken beams. I was worried that if I touched the wrong one, the entire roof might come crashing down on top of me. Massive branches lay sprawled across the attic, rain dripping from leaves and pooling on the already soaked insulation below. I weaved my way through the debris, desperately trying to find an area where I could spread out the tarp and at least slow the flow of water.
As I stretched the tarp over the damaged section, it became clear that I wouldn’t be able to cover the entire area. The gaping hole was simply too large, and the structure beneath me was too unstable. If I ventured any further into the attic, I risked falling through the weakened beams or, worse, causing the entire roof to collapse. But I managed to get the tarp to cover part of the area, enough to slow the relentless flow of water by just a little. It wasn’t much, and it definitely wasn’t perfect, but it was something. Every small victory counted right now.
I took a deep breath, my heart racing as I carefully made my way back across the attic. The beams groaned beneath my weight, and every step felt like it could be my last. I held my breath until I finally reached the attic stairs, then climbed down as quickly as I could, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief when my feet hit the floor. I pulled the attic door shut with a final thud, sealing off the storm above—for now.
It wasn’t much, but I had done what I could. As I stood there, drenched and exhausted, I knew we were still in the middle of the battle, but at least we had a small moment of reprieve. The tarp might not hold forever, but it had bought us time—time to regroup, time to figure out what to do next.
We sat in the bedroom, doing our best to reassure the dogs that everything was okay, even though we weren’t entirely sure ourselves. Their eyes were wide with confusion and fear, picking up on the tension in the room, but we tried to soothe them, offering comfort they could cling to. The cats, in typical feline fashion, were less concerned. Their indifference had kicked in, and all they seemed to care about was eating. Still, they stayed close, nestled in the bathroom near their carriers, ready for a quick escape if things took another turn for the worse.
Despite the chaos outside and the power outage, one small mercy remained: our cell service was still intact. It felt strange to have such a lifeline while everything else seemed to be falling apart around us. We watched the news updates roll in on our phones, reading reports that the winds would die down in a couple of hours. The worst of Helene was passing, and soon, the world would begin the process of returning to normal. We clung to that hope, knowing it wouldn’t be easy but that it was at least on the horizon.
As we sat and waited, we could see the trees in our backyard still locked in battle with the storm. Their branches whipped and twisted, straining under the relentless force of the wind. I could almost feel their defiance, as if they were standing strong, shouting at Helene, “You claimed one of us, but you will not claim another!” It was a small, almost absurd thought, but it gave me a sense of strength. The trees, like us, were just trying to survive.
Time moved slowly, each minute feeling like an eternity, but Helene moved with it. Her wrath began to fade, the wind gradually lessening its grip on our home. The rain slowed, and the once-violent sky started to clear, as if the storm had tired herself out and moved on, seeking new victims to terrorize. We could feel her departure, and with it, the tension in the air lifted. Our neighborhood, though battered and bruised, had survived.
As soon as the worst of the storm passed, people began to emerge from their homes. You could hear doors creaking open and voices calling out to one another, checking in, making sure everyone was okay. In that moment, the sense of community was stronger than ever. Neighbors immediately began helping neighbors, assessing damage and lending hands wherever they could. It didn’t matter whose roof was damaged, whose tree had fallen, or whose yard was flooded—everyone just pitched in, doing whatever needed to be done to start the long process of recovery.
But even as we began to dig ourselves out, we knew we had been lucky. Within a few hours, we learned that Helene had been far worse to others. While she had shown her ruthless side to us, she had saved her most terrifying wrath for the northwestern part of South Carolina and our neighbors in North Carolina. News reports detailed the destruction—whole communities left in ruins, homes flattened, and, tragically, lives lost. It was a sobering realization. We had been through a lot, but others had been through far worse.
Sitting in the quiet aftermath, we felt a mixture of gratitude and sadness. We had been spared the worst, but Helene’s reach had extended far beyond our neighborhood. It was a reminder that while storms like this one can be localized, their impact ripples outward, affecting far more than just the people in their direct path. As we began the slow process of putting our lives back together, we couldn’t forget those who would be facing a much longer and harder road to recovery.
Now, three weeks later, I’ve finally started putting pen to paper, trying to capture the experience of that morning. It’s strange looking back on it, as if it were a nightmare I’m still processing, but there’s also a sense of urgency in writing it down—like if I don’t, I might forget the details or the lessons learned. I just took a break to check the score of the football game, needing a moment to breathe and escape the weight of the memories. When I turned on the TV, the channel that came on was airing The Perfect Storm. I shook my head, wondering if it was some kind of cruel irony or just fate playing tricks. Either way, I couldn’t help but laugh at the timing, though the humor was tinged with the gravity of what we’d been through.
Storms have a way of marking you, leaving scars that aren't always visible. We survived, but I know that many others weren’t so fortunate. Our town will recover, slowly but surely, but others—like Chimney Rock—won’t. They simply don’t exist anymore, wiped off the map by the same storm that nearly took our home. The devastation stretches beyond our small bubble, reminding me that no matter how prepared we think we are, we’re never truly in control when it comes to the forces of nature.
Going forward, I’ll never treat storms the same way. I'll take every warning seriously, prepare as best I can, and never assume that being inland means we’re safe. But even with the best preparations, I’ve come to realize that no one can fully be ready for the wrath of Mother Nature. You can have all the tarps, generators, and emergency plans in the world, but when a storm decides to strike with all its fury, you’re reminded of just how small and powerless we really are in the grand scheme of things.
We got through it, but the experience left its mark. Moving forward, I’ll respect the unpredictability of nature—and the resilience it demands from us.
