Rising from the Floodwaters

I arrived in Asheville, North Carolina, in March, to find a city still in flux six months after experiencing one of the worst natural disasters in the state’s history. The normally bustling streets had an eerie calm — some storefronts were boarded up, others were gutted by floodwaters.

This was the aftermath of record floods that turned the French Broad River into a menace, crushing infrastructure and leaving much of the city without drinking water for weeks. The toll of Hurricane Helene was immense: neighborhoods inundated, businesses shuttered, and livelihoods upended.

Even before I unpacked my bag, I had signed up to volunteer. I’m not a disaster professional, just a concerned citizen from Pennsylvania driven by calls for help. I’m also a journalist, and what I found working hand-in-hand with organizations on the ground was a community leaning on faith, grit, and each other to rise from the floodwaters.

Bridging the Recovery Gap

On a crisp morning, I joined a Community Organized Relief Effort (CORE) team at the entrance of the hard-hit Alan Campos Mobile Home Park. CORE, a disaster relief organization that embeds in hard-hit communities, had set up in Swannanoa, a small valley town just east of Asheville. Entire neighborhoods and mobile home parks like Alan Campos had been ravaged, and now neon green flags marking CORE worksites dotted the muddy lanes between half-collapsed trailers. Pallets of bottled water labeled “No toma, para baño” — Don’t drink, for bathroom — and “Agua para cocinar” — Cooking water — were a reminder that many residents here were still without safe tap water​.

We spent that day helping a family clear debris from what had been their living room, and the mother, in her 30s, told us “pensé que lo había perdido todo, hasta que llegaron ustedes.” I thought I had lost everything until you all arrived.

CORE’s approach is different from many other emergency aid programs — most volunteers are local or regional folks, not outsiders swooping in. “It’s more of a helping the community help themselves,” explained Kirsty, a CORE staffer from Vermont, noting that CORE leans on local volunteers to build long-term relationships​. CORE maintains its presence for months, and as Kirsty put it, disaster survivors “see that people show up and they’re not going to leave.” 

That level of connectivity matters. By day’s end, everyone knew each other’s names, volunteers and residents exchanged hugs, we tarped a leaking roof, and CORE distributed hygiene kits and groceries to dozens of households. CORE’s stats across the region underscored the scale of need — they’d already helped over 60,000 people, tarped 31 homes, and handed out 230,000 relief items like food and water​. Those numbers represent real families, and they are slowly finding their footing thanks to neighbors helping neighbors.

In disaster zones, there are uplifting moments that reminded us why we show up. At one flood-damaged mobile home, an elderly man named Carlos insisted on feeding us a hot meal of arroz con pollo cooked over a camping stove as a thank you for cleaning out his wrecked shed. We ate while sitting on overturned buckets amid piles of rubble. Carlos had lost nearly everything he owned, but he smiled as he served us. “Estoy agradecido por la vida,” he said. I’m grateful to be alive.

Disaster recovery is complex. While emergency shelters and supply distribution were vital in those first weeks, community leaders understood the need to restore normalcy. Swannanoa’s local library reopened quickly, offering a warm haven with Wi-Fi for displaced families and storytime for kids. One afternoon, I read picture books to toddlers whose parents were busy filling out FEMA forms.

Another institution working to restore normalcy after the hurricane is the Covenant Community Church in Asheville. Covenant’s sanctuary had survived the storm, and this March the church hosted a Prom Dress Exchange for high school students affected by Helene. Hundreds of gowns in every color, size, and style had been donated by people across North Carolina. To the teens who had already lost so much, this was a chance to reclaim a rite of passage. 

For every front-line relief effort, there were countless behind-the-scenes tasks keeping the recovery going. The Asheville Buncombe Community Christian Ministry (ABCCM) – a local nonprofit that addresses poverty and crisis needs – has become a hub for distributing food, clothing, and household goods to storm survivors in the wake of Helene. The Ministry’s warehouse – normally used for thrift store operations – had been overtaken by mountains of donations. I joined with a motley crew of retirees, teenagers, and off-duty cops to sort and pack these items for delivery to affected communities. In human chains we loaded trucks with everything from bottled water to baby diapers, and while it was exhausting, dusty work, these are the logistics that keep front-line work moving.

ABCCM’s warehouse manager — a man named Clarence who’d worked with the group for more than twenty years — explained how they were also helping families in another critical way: emergency financial assistance for rent and utilities to hundreds of families so they wouldn’t lose their homes in the crisis. “Lots of folks lost jobs or income when businesses closed,” he told Now Frolic, gesturing to a bulletin board covered in thank-you notes.

“Our goal is to help people stay in the area while they wait for a business to reopen or find new employment,” said Rev. Scott Rogers, ABCCM’s director, describing their mission​. That meant paying overdue electric bills, covering a month’s rent, or buying propane for heat. While we organized and disbursed donations in the warehouse to meet immediate needs, ABCCM was also fighting a longer-term battle — preventing homelessness and keeping the social fabric intact.

One of the most remarkable efforts I embedded with was the Grassroots AID Partnership (GAP). GAP is an Asheville-based nonprofit that sprang into action immediately after Helene, leveraging a network of volunteers, including members of Asheville’s Burning Man community, to fill aid gaps where they can.

Their operation was headquartered in a donated kitchen space in Swannanoa, and when I walked in, the savory smell of vegetable chili and cornbread greeted me. Dozens of volunteers chopped, stirred, and packed meals. With music playing and people laughing, it felt like a neighborhood potluck — with every dish destined for a local family in need.

At the height of the crisis, GAP’s crew was cooking hundreds of hot meals daily and sending them to flood survivors in remote mountain hollows and hard-hit neighborhoods. “We’ve served 60,000 healthy, hot meals so far, and we’re not stopping,” one of GAP’s coordinators said.

In fact, as of the new year, they had delivered more than 8,000 family meal boxes and $1 million worth of food and supplies through partnerships with local farms and conscious companies​. This grassroots operation also stepped up when the municipal water system failed, installing portable filtration systems and distributing over 2 million gallons of clean water to communities that went nearly two months without running water.

Working with GAP was humbling and exhilarating, and I got to know the operation as I helped box up servings of hot stew, load them into vans, and deliver them to nearby communities.

On one delivery run, we drove up a winding mountain road to a tiny community. Here, a dozen homes had initially been cut off for days after the storm, and the community still struggled with recovery. The residents — many of them elderly or without vehicles — lined up with gratitude as we handed out hot lunches and jugs of water. Some had tears in their eyes. “We thought everyone forgot us,” one man said quietly. That is the power of grassroots aid: it’s not just about the food or water, but about showing up, and showing up with solidarity. Even as large organizations and multiple national aid groups bolster these efforts, it is grassroots volunteering that works to maintain and heal the fabric of community.

Health-focused organizations are critical to recovery, too, and in the days after Helene Americares quickly deployed a mobile medical clinic to Western North Carolina, bringing free healthcare to reeling communities. They delivered truckloads of bottled water and worked with partners to install water purification towers around Asheville.

In March, I worked alongside an Americares team at a pop-up health fair where storm survivors could get basic check-ups, tetanus shots, and medications refilled — crucial services with local clinics damaged and pharmacies closed. 

“When disasters strike, those who have the least often struggle the most … they need our help now and in the months ahead,” Americares President Christine Squires said during a briefing​. Recovery is a long haul, especially for society’s most vulnerable and partnership between global NGOs and local groups make all the difference in bridging immediate relief and long-term recovery.

A Parallel Crisis

While volunteers labored on cleanup and relief, another crisis had been unfolding in parallel: Asheville’s tourism-dependent economy was in freefall. A popular mountain destination, Asheville typically sees throngs of visitors in the fall and holiday season, but after Helene, visitation screeched to a halt. Walking downtown shortly after the storm on what should have been a busy October weekend, visitors noted the ghostly quiet. Normally packed hotels were empty. Iconic attractions like the Biltmore Estate had temporarily closed for repairs. A fine silt of mud coated sidewalks and walls in low-lying areas. New Belgium Brewing Company’s loading dock was still caked in dried river muck, its solar-paneled roof overlooking a brown-stained River Arts District. 

Buncombe County’s visitor economy was projected to experience a 70% decline in the last quarter of 2024 — more than $584 million in lost revenue for restaurants, breweries, hotels, shops, and attractions​. “This matters to our entire community,” said Vic Isley, President and CEO of Explore Asheville, stressing that those losses meant fewer wages for workers and less tax revenue for public services. Peak tourist season, which normally carries local businesses through winter, had vanished overnight.

Perhaps the toughest long-term challenge after Helene was helping hundreds of small businesses get back on their feet. Asheville’s economy is woven from mom-and-pop shops, farm-to-table restaurants, art galleries, outdoor outfitters, music venues and more. This “vibrant tapestry” of entrepreneurs is the city’s soul​, and Helene tore gaping holes in that tapestry. By year’s end, 844 small businesses had applied for emergency assistance, reporting $215.6 million in combined damages and losses​. 

On the ground, I witnessed this pain up close along with other volunteers. We helped the owner of a beloved bookstore haul out soggy books and warped shelves and assisted a bakery with cleaning equipment so they could reopen in a limited capacity. Each story was unique, but the refrain was the same: we need help to rebuild, or we may not make it.

In response, the city, county, and local nonprofits created the Asheville-Buncombe Rebuilding Together Grant Fund to offer direct grants up to $25,000 to the most affected small businesses​. Administered by Mountain BizWorks, this program pooled money from the City of Asheville, Buncombe County, the Asheville Chamber of Commerce, and private donors.

Sitting in on a grant information session at the Chamber with a room full of anxious business owners, both desperation and the determination were palpable. The first round of grants, awarded in early 2025, delivered a total of about $4 million to 339 businesses across the county​. It was a lifeline for those lucky enough to get it, helping cover cleanup costs, replace ruined inventory, and pay employees. “It has been one of the hardest times ever to operate a restaurant in downtown Asheville, and the grant funds helped us to keep things afloat,” said Chef William Dissen, owner of The Market Place – one of the grant recipients​.

Yet, there was far more need than available resources. More than 500 eligible businesses received no grant in that first round due to limited funds​. In town, the weight of that resource disparity kept some shops dark, still shuttered as spring arrived. 

The community has rallied to do more. One inspiring initiative was WE ARE — the Women Entrepreneurs Asheville Recovery Endeavor. Four Asheville businesswomen whose own companies survived Helene — Ginger Frank of Poppy Handcrafted Popcorn, Allison Blake and Elisa Van Arnam of SoulKu, and Meg Ragland of Plum Print — banded together to help other women-owned businesses that “lost everything: their inventory, equipment, spaces, and, in some cases, the ability to reopen.” 

Through WE ARE, they set up a relief grant fund and organized a one-of-a-kind raffle of Asheville experiences and products to raise money​. The campaign was a hit, raising awareness and much-needed funds to “help these resilient women restore what they’ve lost.” This is grassroots economic recovery in action, a focus led by those who believe that when you lift up women in business, you lift up entire families and communities.

Where We Are Now

As spring unfolds in Asheville, more than half a year since Hurricane Helene’s rampage, the landscape of recovery is still patchwork.

There are days when the progress feels tangible — a once-flooded diner celebrates its reopening, a neighbor who lost his home finally moves into a renovated apartment, and volunteers plant trees along eroded riverbanks.

There are also days when the setbacks and gaps are apparent — “For Lease” signs where favorite boutiques used to be, families still in temporary housing, and a long wait for expected federal assistance funds. Recovery is not a linear path, and certainly not a solo journey. It’s a collective, continuous effort — a perseverance borne by the whole community.

Recovery is an ongoing commitment, a series of choices we make as neighbors and citizens to keep showing up for one another. It’s the church volunteer coordinating prom dresses so kids can feel normal for a night. It’s the local chef cooking free meals for people who can’t pay, months after the headlines have faded. It’s the city officials and nonprofit leaders crafting grant programs to give small businesses a fighting chance, and everyday people donating $20 to a raffle because they believe in Asheville’s future. 

The work here isn’t finished — far from it. Yet, the city is well on its way, powered by volunteers, local heroes, and a resilient spirit that no hurricane could wash away. If disaster recovery is a marathon, not a sprint, I would add that it’s a marathon we run together, hand in hand.