We’ve lived in our home for over 15 years. Through countless summer storms, tropical systems, and close calls, the water has never even come close to our front door — not once. Until Hurricane Helene.
That night started like so many others before it: heavy rain, gusting wind, and a few nervous glances out the window. But this time, something was different. The water rose faster than we’d ever seen — inch by inch, until it crept past the front steps and spilled inside. Within minutes, we had nearly two feet of murky water swirling through our home.
Outside, the street had become a river. Inside, the sound of rushing water mixed with disbelief. We grabbed what we could, trying to lift things higher, but it was coming too fast. By the time we opened the back door, the water in the yard was knee-high — our only way out.
We weren’t alone. My father-in-law, who has Parkinson’s, was staying with us that night. As the water continued to rise, a neighbor rushed over to help us get him up the back stairs to the second floor — the only entrance to the upstairs space is through that porch. It was dark, slippery, and chaotic, but somehow we all made it to safety.
When daylight finally came, the silence hit harder than the storm itself. The power was out, the air thick with humidity, and our home was unrecognizable. We stood there, frozen, surrounded by soaked furniture, floating shoes, and memories we didn’t yet know how to face.
The days that followed were a blur. Friends, coworkers, and neighbors showed up — boxes in hand, sleeves rolled up, ready to help. Together, we packed what we could salvage and hauled the rest to the curb.
That curb became a painful symbol of loss — a row of our life laid bare for the world to see: furniture, photo albums, our daughter’s artwork, the familiar things that made our house feel like home.
And then came the pickers.
They’d drive slowly down the street, scanning piles for anything worth taking. Some would quietly pull over, rummaging through the debris while we stood nearby. Every now and then, one would mutter, “Sorry for your loss,” under their breath before loading up and driving off. Most didn’t say anything at all. They just picked through the pieces of our life and moved on. It was humbling in a way that’s hard to describe — to watch strangers sift through what had once been your family’s memories.
But amid the heartbreak, something beautiful happened too. Our community — our little village — showed up again and again. Every helping hand, every kind word, every box carried out to the street was a reminder that we weren’t alone.
By the end of that first week, exhausted and heartbroken, we made a decision: we would rebuild, and this time, we would build higher. We never wanted to live through this again — not just for safety, but for peace of mind.
And so begins our next chapter:
Two Dogs and a Demo
Resilience on wheels. Home on hold.
(Photos from those first few days below — a reminder of how it started, and how far we’ve come.)
Two Dogs and a Demo 