"Why do you care so much?"
It's a question I've heard repeatedly these past weeks, and it never fails to baffle me. If you have eyes and a beating heart, how could you not care?
"You don't even live there," they point out.
That's true. I'm not a McDowell County native. I'm not even a West Virginian. But I live just 20 minutes from that state and county line. It's where my parents are from, and their parents before them. Generations of my family can be traced back to the southern coalfields of West Virginia. I spent countless childhood summers there with grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles. No, I'm not from McDowell County, but I am definitely a product of her.
On February 17, two days after record flooding devastated the region, I drove to Iaeger with my father to deliver urgently needed supplies. We navigated through debris, landslides, and standing water on alternate routes until finally reaching the edge of town. My heart needed a slight detour before our drop-off. I had to see my grandparents' and great-grandmother's homes.
The mouth of the holler had succumbed to the river. The rains that had dumped into the mountains caused it to crest at 30.97 feet—for reference, the river usually sits at a depth of around 5 feet. No one was prepared for this unprecedented and unwelcome record. Homes had shifted from their foundations. Fences were washed away. Thankfully, the homes I hoped to check on appeared intact. My grandparents have been gone for over 10 years now, but part of me remains deeply attached to that holler.
We delivered our first food supplies to Iaeger's distribution center at the Elementary school. Grateful hands helped us unload as we discussed the flooding's known and unknown effects. Almost as quickly as we carried in cases of water, we were carrying them back out to fill ATVs delivering to unreachable areas. "You keep this and godspeed. Get this to the people," I said as I gave away my last ratchet strap to a woman determined to deliver supplies to those in need. My father and I made an unspoken decision in that moment: we would return with more supplies, more equipment, and more time. That's exactly what we did the following day.
I could talk for hours about the roads my father cleared with his tractor or the hollers and creek beds I navigated in an ATV loaded with water, heaters, oxygen, and other essentials. But this story isn't about me. It's about the survivors who continue fighting to survive each day, about their untold stories and the unimaginable conditions they're enduring in what remains of their homes and communities.
I've heard stories of heroism from a man who pulled two teenage girls from raging floodwaters, dramatic rescues over steep mountain ridges, and immense grief from those who have lost every material possession they've ever owned. I've stood with these people in their water-damaged homes and cried alongside them. And through all of this, who has been their voice?
The media has largely ignored the destruction in Southern West Virginia. Their Governor claimed that "West Virginia was in a position to act quickly. That compares to other state[s] that maybe have to apply for emergency assistance because the feds had to come in and do some of the very work that we were doing and were ready to do." What work? Seven weeks later, bridges remain impassable. Many homes are only accessible by foot. Water still stands in basements, and what flows from kitchen taps resembles chocolate milk more than drinking water.
The most requested resource in the area is simply hands willing to work. A quarter of McDowell County's population is elderly, and most of these seniors live in the hardest-hit areas. They lack the physical ability to perform the work required to mitigate flood damage. Without more volunteers, they face a desperate hopelessness.
The volunteer situation is especially critical given McDowell's status as the sixth poorest county in America. Residents simply cannot afford to hire contractors to repair their homes. Meanwhile, FEMA is severely underpaying for damages. I know of one man who lost everything in his rented home and received a mere $250 check—an insulting amount to replace his entire life.
Even the most basic recovery efforts have been abandoned. Residents were instructed to pile their flood debris alongside roads for pickup by the National Guard. But after fulfilling a mere two-week obligation, the Guard departed, leaving mountains of waterlogged possessions, damaged furniture, and hazardous materials rotting by roadsides. Now, adding insult to injury, the county has closed the dump sites altogether. Residents are left frustrated and helpless, surrounded by the moldering reminders of their losses with nowhere to dispose of them. Meanwhile, neighboring Mercer County has implemented a free garbage disposal program two days a week for their residents. McDowell County has yet to find any solution for its people, creating not just an eyesore but a growing public health concern.
On Friday, April 4—my grandfather's birthday—I traveled to Charleston, WV, intending to display eight flood photos. I hoped to show lawmakers the extent of the devastation alongside a group called From Below. Earlier that week, they had been granted two tables in the upper rotunda for Flood Resiliency Day. After the tables were approved, the Office for Flood Resiliency requested to view the display materials. Just an hour later, organizer Brad Davis was informed there was suddenly "no room" for them at the capitol.
Refusing to be silenced, Brad reached out to West Virginia Rivers Coalition, who had secured a table and offered to display our photos. Everything was submitted for approval, and our plan seemed set. The office would sign off and pass the content to the governor's desk for final authorization—or so we thought. As we drove to the capitol Friday morning, an email arrived: the photos had not been approved for display. We discovered this just as we arrived. We still have no explanation why.
These people feel forgotten. They've been forgotten by the media, forgotten by their state, and forgotten by their country. What does that say about us who are sitting comfortably in our warm, dry homes while they fight to scrub mold and air out walls? We cannot let their stories be drowned out like their homes were. We must raise awareness about this flooding and the ongoing suffering it has caused.
The sad reality is that the truth doesn't fit the current narrative. So many on the outside are led to believe that "it's being handled" while the reality is something completely different. Seven weeks later, people remain in desperate need. It's my belief that lawmakers see McDowell County as a bad investment. Why pour money into a county when the state will never get it back? The tax revenue isn't high enough to justify the spending.
But I argue that we aren't talking about dollar values when we're discussing human lives. This isn't about return on investment or economic calculations. These are people—our neighbors, our fellow Americans—who are suffering. When did we become a society that measures human worth by economic output? When did we decide that some communities deserve help while others can be left to struggle alone? The people of McDowell County are no less deserving of dignity, safety, and basic necessities than anyone else in this country.
So to answer the question, "Why do you care so much?" Because it feels like no one else does. My response has been tearful each time I'm asked. I see my grandparents in every face that greets me at their door. I could never have abandoned them in these conditions, and because of that, I cannot abandon these people. They deserve more. They deserve to have their stories told. They deserve to be known. I will continue posting images of their reality and exposing the true state of Southern West Virginia. "Help Lord!"
