Five months ago, I sat in my living room watching Eden Golan perform her Eurovision entry, "October Rain." Now famously known as "Hurricane," the song captures the turbulent emotions many of us have faced over the past year. Yet, at that moment, the significance of the title eluded me.

Hi, I’m Logan Reich, an Aleph from THE Eastern Region: North Carolina Council, and more personally, Kol Harim BBYO. I’m from Asheville, NC—a small city tucked into the mountains of Western North Carolina, known for its breathtaking views, vibrant food scene, and, more recently, a hurricane that upended life as we knew it. Social media posts can show the aftermath, but they fall short of revealing the depth of what we’re enduring here. Unprecedented floods swept away homes and businesses. Ten days later, we’re just regaining power, and water isn’t expected to return for months.

In the midst of this, I escaped to Charlotte to celebrate Rosh Hashanah with friends, trying to find some semblance of normalcy. But on October 6th, my family returned to Asheville. We came back to mourn—not just for what the hurricane had destroyed, but for another event that shook us all: the October 7th attacks. In the aftermath of Hurricane Helene, my synagogue and the local Reform temple organized an impromptu joint Tashlich and remembrance ceremony.

My mom and I arrived early to set up essentials for those less fortunate, laying out chairs by the riverbank. As we prepared, I realized how much this past year, filled with death, pain, and loss, had been overshadowed by the devastation in my own backyard. Standing in that parking lot, with sirens in the distance and the sound of the rushing river, I grounded myself in the moment. For just that brief time, I allowed myself to grieve in all directions—to mourn both tragedies, something I hadn't prepared for.

As the crowd gathered, familiar questions filled the air: “How are you?” “Is everything okay?” In a town shattered by destruction, it was hard but essential to think beyond Asheville, to remember am Yisrael, the people of Israel. After the customary schmoozing, we gathered on the grass where chairs and Mahzorim had been laid out. Together, we remembered: through songs, through stories of those lost, and through prayers for those still held hostage. In that sacred space, our kehillah—our community—grew just a little closer.

As the service came to a close, we sang the Misheberach, a prayer I’ve sung every morning since October 7th. Tears streamed down my face as memories of the past year, the past month, and the past week rushed through me. The mourning of this hurricane and that “October Rain” reminded me that my heart remains in both places—grieving both losses and holding onto hope for peace. Let this day, one year after the attacks, remind us that no storm—whether literal or metaphorical—is too great for us to weather together.