I was born in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and lived in a small white house on a hill. When I was just three months old, my mom had a strong, intuitive feeling it was time to move to East Tennessee. Three weeks later, we discovered why. A massive tornado struck in the middle of the night, ripping our house from its foundation and leaving devastation in its wake. I am often reminded of my mother’s bravery when I need to realign with personal intuition.

Though our move wasn’t directly connected to the storm, it left a lasting mark on us. Afterward, my parents focused on documenting bicycle routes across the United States. They filmed their journey, creating a record of scenic, off-the-beaten-path routes for cyclists. We traveled the country, staying in campgrounds and meeting resilient, adventurous people whose stories shaped me. My folks gave me a camera at 4 years old and I have been a visual story teller ever since, celebrating how valuable people are by utilizing the medium of photography. I vividly remember one night in a campground, huddling at the bottom of our tent as yet another tornado passed nearby. My parents braced against the fierce winds outside, holding up the tent walls.

This foundation of resilience has guided my path ever since. As I grew, I traveled frequently to Asheville, drawn to its vibrant artistic community and the rugged mountain landscape. My fiancé and I had our first date hiking Roan Mountain, passing the red barn and exploring trails that felt like home. While pregnant with my daughter, I continued to hike long distance, finding solace and inspiration in nature and frequenting A Mountain Light Sanctuary. Preparing ultralight backpacking gear became a science. In Asheville, I found echoes of the supportive communities I encountered during my childhood travels. It was a sense of homecoming.

Hiking sections of the Appalachian Trail was a transformative experience for me, deepening my connection to the land. The vastness of nature has always inspired me — its raw, untamed beauty awakens something profound. This connection led me to explore scaled permaculture concepts, a sustainable approach to land stewardship that aligns with nature rather than exploiting it. Working with the land, regeneratively and thoughtfully, reflects the resilience I witnessed both in nature and in the people around me.

Today, through my involvement in relief efforts in WNC, I’ve met countless inspiring individuals. Whether it’s East Tennessee supporting Asheville, Georgia aiding Bat Cave, folks from around the USA driving hours to muck out homes, or women organizing online to send supplies to mountain towns, the uniting thread is clear: being a good neighbor is essential. These efforts highlight the power of community and remind us how vital it is to show up for one another, especially during times of need.

However, the growing threats on our climate and natural disasters are exacerbating an urgent crisis: the lack of affordable, sustainable housing. I’ve witnessed the heartbreaking reality of people living in tents, exposed to harsh winters and vulnerable to storms. In the wake of Helene, mother’s have been separated from their children due to displacement and lack of options. In many cases, housing regulations and zoning laws make it nearly impossible for alternative, affordable housing options — like tiny homes, RVs, or other low-impact solutions — to be implemented quickly. If you speak to any “revolutionary” who wants to experience an alternative, you will find there is red tape to navigate.

We must act now to address this crisis. Temporary shelters can provide immediate relief, but long-term solutions are essential. We need to rethink housing to include sustainable, affordable, and disaster-resilient options that prioritize both human dignity and environmental stewardship. Communities cannot thrive if their members are struggling to find or afford basic shelter.

As we face these mounting challenges, Indigenous design principles provide a path forward — one rooted in sustainability, resilience, and harmony with the earth. Julia Watson’s Lo-TEK initiative champions the adoption of Indigenous technologies, some thousands of years old, to help cities mitigate climate influences and build systems that are resilient for the future. This approach reimagines architecture, urban planning, and environmental stewardship, offering practical, nature-based solutions.

A core tenet of Lo-TEK is to work with the land, not against it. Indigenous practices remind us of the immense value of ancient knowledge refined over millennia. These techniques promote regeneration and balance, proving that sustainable living is not a trend but a necessity.

For example, rammed earth construction, an ancient technique using natural, locally sourced materials, creates durable, energy-efficient homes. These structures are environmentally friendly and provide insulation to keep interiors cool in summer and warm in winter — an elegant solution to modern housing needs.

Mycoremediation, another innovative concept, uses mycelium (mushroom root structures) to break down toxic materials in polluted soil and water. This eco-friendly process transforms environmental damage into healing opportunities, offering an alternative to chemical remediation methods.

Earthships, passive solar homes built from recycled and natural materials, offer a self-sufficient model for disaster-resilient housing. Designed to harvest rainwater, generate solar power, and even grow food, these homes are ideal for off-the-grid living. In areas hit by natural disasters, they provide a blueprint for creating sustainable, resilient communities.

Permaculture practices like hugelkultur, which repurpose organic debris into productive garden beds, further highlight how regenerative solutions can address both food security and environmental healing.

This is not novel information.

The time to act is now. We cannot ignore the urgency of providing safe, sustainable housing for those in need. By integrating Indigenous-inspired technologies and advocating for zoning reform, we can address both immediate housing crises and long-term environmental challenges. Communities thrive when everyone has a place to call home — a foundation from which they can grow, heal, and contribute.

As we move forward, we must listen to local communities and respect the resources and skills they already possess. Disasters shouldn’t be seen as opportunities for profit but as moments to unite and support those in need. By embracing low-tech, high-impact solutions and supporting businesses committed to rebuilding sustainably, we can help create a future where communities are stronger, more self-sufficient, and in harmony with the land that sustains them.

I am certain I am not the only one thinking this, or maybe it’s because I am just a “redneck’s” daughter? Just like the steps we took along the trail, my next steps will be for my daughter.