We are on Worthy Ground.
My life has been marked by floods and recovery, a series of events that have shaped me the same way water shapes stone.
Like the rocks in our creeks, worn smooth until they look soft, I have been weathered by rising waters. On the surface, that wear can seem gentle, but inside it has hardened and reshaped me into a word I once resisted but now carry with pride: resilient.
After years of natural disaster work and storytelling, I have made peace with that word. Resilience is not just survival, although it often feels that way here in Appalachia. It also holds space for hope and the quiet belief that easier days lie ahead. While I wish we did not have to keep being shaped by floods, I can now see that our resilience is not only about enduring. It is about imagining and building something better beyond the storm.
My name is Willa Johnson, and I was born and raised in Letcher County, Kentucky. For nearly two decades, I have worked in the nonprofit sector as a media producer and organizer, focusing on youth leadership development and strengthening systems of mutual aid. As the daughter of a retired school teacher and a disabled coal truck driver, this was not the path anyone expected for me.
The turning point came the summer before middle school, when a coal silt pond on the mountain behind our home broke. These ponds, often built on strip mining sites, held the toxic slurry left from washing coal. When the dam gave way, sludge mixed into the creek waters. A neighbor’s house was destroyed, and we were forced to evacuate as our own yard was washed away. It was the first time I understood that extraction does not just take coal from the mountain. It leaves our land and communities vulnerable.
Standing there, watching the water carry away the ground I had walked on every day, something in me changed. It was the first time I understood how quickly life can be uprooted and how deeply a community depends on each other to survive and recover. That day planted the seed for the work I do now.
In 2022, when the Eastern Kentucky floods severely damaged my own home, I felt that same ground-shifting fear. This time, I also saw the power of the networks of care I had spent years helping to build. And just a year ago, Hurricane Helene reminded us again how disaster can carve through our lives, leaving both loss and determination in its wake. These anniversaries, three years since the 2022 floods and one year since Helene, are not just dates on a calendar. They are mile markers on a road that too many Appalachian communities must travel again and again.
It is with these experiences and values in mind that I am launching Worthy Ground, a storytelling project dedicated to documenting disasters and recovery in Central Appalachia. Worthy Ground is rooted in the belief that recovery does not end when the water recedes or the winds die down. Our communities are more than roots clinging to the soil to survive. We are ready to bloom with abundance as we rebuild the futures we dream of.
Through film, photography, and written narratives, Worthy Ground lifts up the voices of those on the ground: neighbors, organizations, and families piecing their lives back together. It is about honoring where we have been while demanding a future that is truly ours to shape.
Appalachia faces a growing crisis. The same resources taken from these mountains to power the growth of the nation have also left our communities more fragile, and now they threaten our long-term survival. Climate disasters strike our region again and again, yet recovery is slow and often underfunded. When the cameras leave, the work is only beginning. Without local leadership, trust, and sustained investment, communities remain vulnerable to the next storm.
Recovery in rural places is different. It takes longer because our infrastructure is fragile, our resources are limited, and our histories are complicated. What we lack in resources, we make up for in grit and care for one another. The challenge is making sure national philanthropy, policy, and media do not just show up for the storm but commit to the long road of recovery.
Worthy Ground is one way to bridge that gap. By sharing stories from within our communities, we can challenge the echo chamber of outside narratives that too often look down on this place. These stories keep attention on the work after the headlines fade and remind the world that Appalachia’s future is worth investing in.
My story is just one of many. Worthy Ground is not about me. It is about all of us who call these mountains home and refuse to let disaster have the last word.
I invite you to follow and support this work. Share these stories, fund community-led recovery, or simply remember that when the storm passes, the hardest work begins. Recovery is slow, messy, and deeply human. We are planting seeds of a future that is ours to claim. Come hell or high water, this is and will always remain worthy ground.
