Ryan Mitchell is a professor in Henderson County Public Schoolssouth of Asheville. These are some of his reflections as he and his community recover from Hurricane Helene.

Friday, October 4, 9:30 am i have

“Dad, when are we going back to school?”

How do you answer a question that has no real answer? We sit here, both equally longing for the familiar comfort of the school building: the friends, the routine, and the joy that fills the classrooms. When I look at the world around us, now clouded by uncertainty, it is hard to imagine when we will regain the normalcy that school offers to so many. Even thinking that we could return in the coming weeks is impossible while living day by day. I can barely think about tomorrow, much less weeks from now.

I spend my days handing out supplies waiting for her question to be answered.

Wednesday, October 8, 10:30 am

As I drive to a school, I pass house after house that has had its entire interior moved to the side of the road. These people lost everything to the floods and now it is for the world to see. They are like houses: completely gutted. Everything these people have ever worked for sits in a pile. The feeling of grief and gratitude is a train that will not stop.

Wednesday, October 8, 11:00 am

Dana Elementary host an event for students and their families where they can come enjoy a meal, see their teachers, and get water, food, clothes, and other supplies.

Each of the supplies has a story, coming from all over the country to our rural community. Every shirt, water can, and food box comes from a place of care and concern.

While I’m sorting through clothes, I look at a tag and my former student’s name was written there in Sharpie. This connection goes deeper than just a piece of clothing. It is symbolic of what has happened since Helene arrived, the people in our community helping each other even though they themselves are suffering.

From the first minute of the event, it is beautiful.

I see a student running to hug his teacher. The hug is full of emotion for which there are no words.

Families come to receive support elements. Many different languages ​​are spoken, but there is no problem in understanding the language of love and the dialect of joy.

Principal Amy Cleveland, Assistant Principal Tim Fendley and their staff demonstrate that schools are the beating heart of a community, a comforting place where people can gather, feed and enjoy fellowship. The school became a sanctuary, a place of refuge and reconstruction for all those in need.

In the middle of the event, we all get the same text message: “Students will return to school on Tuesday, October 15th.”

Amy Cleveland reads this message into the microphone for everyone to hear. Screams and shouts of euphoria echoed around. The rhythm of normality synchronizes. It’s like the radio is turned up, the windows are down and everyone in the neighborhood is singing along.

And my daughter finally has an answer to her question.

Friday, October 10, 10:00 p.m

For the first time, I can watch the news, and the devastation in our beautiful part of our state is more extensive and widespread than I even imagined during my time in isolation. Feelings of guilt and grief wash over me, a reminder of the complex and nuanced nature of human emotion.

Despite the fact that the news reporters are talking, I can’t hear anything. It’s just silent. Dealing with the trauma of an event like this challenges your deepest personality traits. My positive and upbeat demeanor struggles to stay rooted like trees in a storm. The influence of the circle of friends around me keeps me grounded.

I’m watching the next segment which is about how neighbors have organized efforts to bring supplies to those who can’t get out. Click. The mute button inside my brain is pressed and I hear the song of our community.

Helene taught us so many lessons. The ones that will stay with us for the rest of our lives. The ones that will be displayed throughout our region for the next century.

Tuesday, October 15, 8:00am i have

The students return.

Today has that first day of school feeling. Everyone has butterflies and feels the excitement.

As the children enter the building, the sense of relief and happiness is contagious, a harmony of resilience that binds us all together.

When a kindergartner walks past me, she says, “I’m blessed. It didn’t flood. i am blessed It didn’t flood.”

This cord of gratitude is the bridge that connects us. We have all weathered the same storm, albeit in different ways. Yet we stand, not fallen and broken like the trees around us, but alive and purposeful, buoyed by the unwavering support of our network of caring people.

One of the first grade classes portrays their experiences through art. They say art makes you feel, and this art moves my soul. Seeing these drawings of fallen trees on houses, water inside houses and the faces of 6-year-olds in tears is so raw and emotionally charged that you can feel the honesty and pain leaping off the page.

Going through the storm as an adult, seeing the devastation firsthand is one thing, but seeing a hurricane through the lens of a child is humbling. As an educator, this makes me want to succeed so that they never feel this kind of pain again. To create an environment where they can escape the hurt that currently surrounds them. Helene changed whole worlds, but she didn’t change the kinds of spaces that educators want to establish for their students.

I walk into a second grade classroom and greet a student. The seven-year-old looks at me and says, “I rode a helicopter. The soldier took us. I have to wear yellow helmets and they dropped us off at a shelter. The shelter was really a school and they gave us food and water.”

School was a shelter, wasn’t it always?

Local public schools are a safe haven. A source of consistency for the community. Whether a distribution site, a shelter, or an educational institution, local public schools everywhere will meet the needs of all students. Forever and always.

Just because we’re back in school doesn’t mean we’re cured. Our road to recovery is just beginning.

Ryan Mitchell

Ryan Mitchell is an instructional coach for Henderson County Public Schools. In 2022, he was a finalist for North Carolina Teacher of the Year.