Beauty Amid Ruin
Buildings sit exposed, windows agape, like corpses left on the field after battle. The sun shines brightly and flowers bloom along the sidewalks in planters and cracks.
That’s what I jotted down walking through downtown Marshall, North Carolina. A year after hurricane Helene devastated the town, you can still see where the water climbed, where walls gave way, where lives were interrupted. Yet the place doesn’t feel dead. There’s color, warmth, the smell of coffee drifting from a shop that reopened in the face of long odds.
It’s strange, that coexistence, beauty growing out of ruin. It feels like a reminder that healing doesn’t wait for permission. Nature doesn’t pause for paperwork, insurance claims, or infrastructure. It just grows.
There’s something deeply human about that. We rebuild unevenly. Some parts of us stand tall again quickly; others remain gutted, boarded up, waiting for the right combination of time and energy to return to life.
I think about how often I expect things to feel whole before I move forward. Marshall suggests otherwise: you can be both broken and blooming. Sometimes all it takes is a little light, a little stubbornness, and the courage to keep standing amid the wreckage.