A Belated Love Letter to Asheville

There’s a particular kind of morning light that takes my breath away. This morning, I saw the soft gold pouring over the park where Ross and I once sat on a bench by the river and decided to move to Asheville. Back to where our story began, having first met at summer camp in Western NC in the seventh grade. We can no longer sit on that bench. The French Broad River Park, just a quick walk down the hill from our house, still bears the scars of Helene, reminding us that nature humbles us all. And recovery takes years, not months.

Lately, in my work with leaders and in my own life, I’ve been thinking about what it means to grow through what we go through. As a cancer patient, enduring surgeries, radiation, chemo, and multiple hormone therapies, I have come to understand this through lived experience. Resilience isn’t about snapping back to who we were before; it’s about becoming something deeper, wiser, more weathered—and more whole. As I like to say, we must anchor from within to be agile outside. The world needs leaders who can be both strong and soft.

This love letter is for the French Broad River Park - still broken and muddy from the flood, with sunflowers blooming anyway. For the Asheville Beer Choir. For the local farmers bringing their best to market. For the bluegrass musicians (more than our fair share!). And for the scent of balsam that rises after our afternoon summer storms. For the neighbors who’ve stayed, and the visitors who return to experience #AVLStrong again and again.

Here’s to the blooms that continue to bend towards the light.