Perfect Storm

The Perfect Storm

The weekend was cold that mid–January. A storm hovered in the forecast, the kind that makes you keep glancing out the window without even realizing it. We had only been in our new home for five months. My mom had moved in with us that Thursday. We were just beginning to settle into this new reality—coming to terms with the fact that we were now responsible for her care in her later years. After decades of independence and accomplishment, she had just been diagnosed with dementia. We didn’t really know what the road ahead would look like.

That Saturday morning we watched the storm on the radar. When we bought the house, we knew the community had flooding issues, so anytime clouds rolled in there was this quiet urgency that drifted through the rooms like a draft. The creek behind our home usually trickled along like an afterthought—but that day it was roaring, wild and white-capped like something from a mountain river. The air smelled like rain and unsettled earth. We kept glancing at each other, silently wondering if we’d be okay through this one.

The boys were bustling around, bouncing between video games and TV. My mom was tucked comfortably in her room, watching The Waltons, sipping her coffee, eating her cookies—her little rituals that made her feel safe.

My husband and I whispered our worries back and forth. The creek was rising. Fast. The water whipped around the bends, carving away at the dirt. I moved the recliner closer to the window and pretended to scroll on my iPad, but really, I was watching. Every minute. Every inch. The radar was a mess of red and yellow, and the rain sounded like someone dumping buckets from the sky.

And then—out of nowhere—a large crane glided down and landed on the edge of the creek.

It turned its head toward me, tall and elegant, dripping with a kind of quiet confidence. But something about that moment made my stomach tighten. Why land here? Why now? Cranes belong near ponds, lakes—calm places. Not a creek in crisis. A part of me wished I could be that crane, just spread my wings and fly away. It stayed there, watching almost knowingly, like it understood something we didn’t.

The water breached the creek. It crawled into our backyard, inch by inch. The creek curves along the side of our home and wraps behind it, emptying through a culvert under the main road. With 1,247 homes in the community, we lived at the lowest point—where every drop eventually found its way.

A heaviness settled in my chest. We needed to act.

We lifted the couch and the big living room rug onto the stairs, just in case. Hours passed. The water kept rising. From the side windows we could see it surrounding us, cutting off one direction after another. When it hit our patio, we looked at each other and thought the same thing—Mom.

We needed to move her downstairs.

I packed a bag for her and told the boys to pack theirs. I wrapped the gait belt around her waist to help her manage the staircase, guiding her gently step by step. I didn’t tell her what was happening. I didn’t want to scare her, and I knew I’d only have to explain it over and over because the dementia had already taken her short-term memory.

We gathered in the dining area as the water crept to the back door.

I called 911. We began loading the car from inside the garage, keeping everything as calm as possible.

When we finally climbed in and opened the garage door, the water rushed in like it had been waiting for its cue. As we backed out, fire trucks arrived. A firefighter approached us, wading through the flood, and said, “I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do at this point.”

Shock doesn’t have a sound. It’s just silence, disbelief, and the beating of your heart in your ears.

We drove out of the neighborhood, water swirling around the tires, the street flooded all the way to the culvert. Rain still coming down.

Our friends—who had moved into their own new home just a month after we moved into ours—welcomed all of us without hesitation. We dropped off Mom and the boys and then drove back to see the damage.

Pulling up to our home and seeing the water was like stepping into a nightmare. Water surrounded the house and filled the main floor with two and a half feet of muddy, destructive floodwater. Our belongings floated where they didn’t belong.

My husband asked if I had grabbed the mail earlier; I hadn’t. So we drove to the mailbox. Inside was a single business card from a company called 24/7 Aquadry. Handwritten on the card were the words:

“Hi, I am your neighbor and I would like to help you free of charge.”

That small card felt like a miracle. And what that company ended up doing for our family… we will never forget. We call them friends now.

Because we knew the neighborhood had flood issues, we had flood insurance. When everything was assessed, the numbers staggered us:

$120,000 in structural damage. $60,000 in personal loss.

But we were covered.

We lived with our friends for almost four months. The boys drove 35 minutes back and forth to school and work. Our home was stripped down and rebuilt—walls replaced, flooring redone, cabinets chosen, granite selected, toilets replaced. We itemized every single thing we lost.

And in the middle of all this, life didn’t pause.

My husbands work was on strike in the movie industry.

My mom was placed on hospice.

My husband's mother passed away from cancer.

It was one of the hardest seasons our family had ever faced.

Yes… I still get PTSD when it rains. My heart still races. I still check the creek more than I should. But those months—those heartbreaking, heavy, exhausting months—were also filled with miracles. They were like roses pushing their way up through thorns.

We lost so much, yet somehow gained even more. Strength. Community. Gratitude. Resilience.

If I could go back, of course, I would wish the storm never happened.

But I am undeniably changed by it—

shaped by the perfect storm that wrecked our house,

and strengthened our hearts.