For sixteen years I worked on a barrier island along the Texas coast. The rhythm of the tides, the salt in the air, the way storms gathered on the horizon—those things became familiar to me long before I ever called the island home. Eventually, when my children were grown and beginning lives of their own, I decided it was time to live a little smaller. A little simpler. I moved into a small duplex on the island and began the steady work of downsizing my life.

Not everything fit, of course. I rented a storage unit and told myself I would sort through it soon. Months passed. Bit by bit, I let things go. I gave my daughter the items that were always meant to be hers. My son, away at college, took a couple of pieces of furniture. Finally—right before the storm warnings grew urgent—I emptied the storage unit completely. Everything left was in the duplex. The plan was to go through it carefully, find each piece a home, and settle into this smaller version of my life.

Hurricane Harvey took care of that plan for me.

When the evacuation order came, I packed lightly: a suitcase of clothes, my pictures, and the dog. I drove a few hours inland and stayed with my son and his roommate. We watched the news and waited. When I returned days later, the duplex looked almost untouched from the outside. But inside, a dark line marked the walls several feet up—a quiet, devastating reminder of how high the water had risen.

Nearly everything I owned had been submerged. What wasn’t ruined by water was coated in mildew. I spent weeks dragging soaked furniture and boxes to the curb, salvaging what little I could. In the end, I was left with what I had carried out: a suitcase of clothes, my pictures, and the dog.

I had already begun the process of letting go, which in some ways softened the blow. But there were losses that still ache. My son had several boxes stored in the duplex—things he hadn’t yet sorted through or decided to keep. Those were gone. I lost artwork I had collected over thirty years, pieces that told the story of who I had been at different stages of my life. You don’t just lose objects in a storm; you lose chapters.

One thing that survived surprised me—my aluminum bicycle. It stood there as if nothing had happened. I kept thinking about the children in our town who had lost everything: their toys, their books, the small treasures that make up a childhood. I gave the bike to a coworker for her daughter. I liked imagining her smiling, even briefly, after such an ordeal. I could replace what I lost. Many families were starting over from far less.

A little over six years have passed. I’ve replaced my living room and bedroom furniture. When I find something that truly speaks to me, I hang it on my walls. I’m not one for knickknacks anymore—I don’t want to dust around a lot of things. But art on the walls makes a space feel like home. Gradually, thoughtfully, I’ve built a comfortable apartment that holds everything I need and very little I don’t.

I have a rule now: if something comes into my home, something else must go out. It keeps me honest. It keeps me light.

The hurricane taught me that I need far less than I once believed. It taught me that things are just things. That home is more than walls and furniture. That what we carry with us—love, memory, resilience—is what endures.

In the end, I returned from the storm with a suitcase of clothes, my pictures, and the dog.

It turns out that was enough.