My daughter lives in Asheville, and I lost contact with her for 3 days as the hurricane hit. I imagined the worst.

• My daughter moved from San Francisco to Asheville three years ago.
• I texted her when I heard Hurricane Helene was headed her way to see how she was preparing.
• I then didn’t hear from her for three days, and as I watched the news, I feared the worst.

There’s an adage that says worry is like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do but doesn’t get you anywhere. I found myself rocking back and forth for three days, imagining the worst for my ill-prepared daughter.

Three years ago, she moved to Asheville from San Francisco, where she weathered fire season for 10 years. After extensive environmental research around places free from major natural disasters, Asheville checked all her boxes.

But then Hurricane Helene hit North Carolina with force.

I lost contact with her

On Thursday evening, I texted her to ask how she was holding up. “This rain is insane.” She texted back but didn’t seem concerned.

Later on Friday, the news broke that Helene was pushing flash flood waters into Asheville at a rapid rate of behemoth rage. The water was overflowing the Swananoa and French Broad Rivers. She lived just above areas of concern.

News media recommended staying put or getting to higher ground. Evacuation for her was impossible. My girl would have to ride through what might be the worst experience of her life. I couldn’t save her.

She sent a series of short texts right before they lost power — “Five trees went down outside our building, water, and power out.” And then: “Stuck here! Love you!”

I responded, “I love you. Are you scared?” The text bubble went green and stayed green for days.

I started looking at maps to see if she could be OK

By Saturday, I rocked some more and found myself watching YouTube videos where homes were swept away, rooftops floated above 22 feet of water, and half of the I-40 slid into the abyss by a mudslide.

For hours I studied flood plains trying to estimate the distance of my daughter’s apartment building to the center of the disaster, virtually met with other concerned friends and family on Buncombe County Community Facebook. A woman shared that her sister was pregnant and stuck on top of her roof in Black Mountain, a neighborhood my daughter lived in when she first moved there. Another person shared that a helicopter was on its way to rescue the pregnant woman. We shared addresses and tears.

I used Zillow to look up her building address. I also used the 360º feature to imagine scenarios of safety, including one where Helene spared my heart.

I joined online meetings to distract myself

My younger daughter reminded me throughout Saturday afternoon of her older sister’s wit, her ability to think on her feet, and the fact that she has a Berkey filter that has enough water for a few days. My partner said that she had neighbors near her; she wasn’t alone.

I found an online Live Zoom update. City officials from Buncombe County shared about the next steps once flood waters receded. They also talked about the loss of life and massive casualties.

None of it calmed me. I distracted myself intermittently, taking aggression out on cleaning the floors.

I couldn’t pull myself away from the images of people’s lives being washed away on the Weather Channel. I stayed awake for 48 hours after our text messages stopped, and phone calls went right to voicemail.

As a therapist, I know none of this helps or manages stress, and yet my nervous system couldn’t get me to higher ground.

She finally reached out in the middle of the night

By Saturday evening, I was directed to a Missing Persons form for Buncombe County. I filled out her address, hoping it still existed. I imagined officials making the dreaded call that they couldn’t find her.

I replayed our last conversation, grateful that we have overcome some of our mother-daughter differences. I sent her a stream of green texts, saying I was praying for her, thinking of her daily, and hoping she was safe. I even prayed a chainsaw would appear. I read about a woman who was using one to clear downed trees.

My body gave in by 1:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, and I fell asleep.

At 4:08 a.m., my phone rang. Then my partner’s phone rang louder when I couldn’t get to mine. It was my girl; she was safe.

She and her partner borrowed a chainsaw. They chopped down trees and made a path for their neighbors. They shared how they had zero information. None of it made sense until they started to see the catastrophic details with their own eyes. They didn’t know why nobody was coming to help them.

Once they borrowed the chainsaw, they were able to reach others in their community, clear trees, and bring food and water to friends. They said they must’ve lifted a thousand pounds between them. Their voices were energetic and full of life.

I reveled in this momentary joy. I listened to the early morning voicemail she left. I’ll save the sweet sound of safety, knowing we are spared this time.

I texted her on Monday, asking if she got some rest. “A little bit. I have nightmares,” with a crying emoji. At least it was blue.