Rae sat on her porch, gazing over the holler. The sinking sun lit up the hill tops – thousands of vibrant trees against a brilliant blue sky. A family of deer made their way out of the forest to the creek below. Birds and frogs sang their evening choruses, a hummingbird visited the hibiscus bush nearby, and her two cats were sprawled out by her feet. How could such a beautiful place be so cruel? If you had told her six months ago that she would be living in eastern Kentucky, she would have snorted and rolled her eyes. She and her husband were saving their money for Colorado, where they had honeymooned; she had absolutely no desire to live anywhere east of the Mississippi. But then her husband lost his job, they were evicted from their apartment, and next thing she knew, all their belongings were in a storage unit save what they could fit in her SUV, and they were driving 13 hours south. A good friend of her husbands had opened his home to them and offered them jobs. It wouldn't be so bad, Rae had told herself during the drive. The weather would be warmer, and there were plenty of mountains for hiking. It would be an adventure, and she loved adventure. It was an adventure, all right. A month after they arrived, her mother died. A few weeks after that - the same week they were moving into their new place - changes in the Department of Energy caused them to lose their jobs. A few weeks after that, a flood wreaked havoc on their new town. And a few weeks after that, her husband – a recovering addict – relapsed. In the span of just three months, they had gone from a comfortable life of financial security and dreams of living in Colorado to a state of emotional anguish and financial destitution that required their church's support. Why was this happening? What did it all mean? As if those changes hadn't been devastating enough, living in eastern Kentucky was more of a culture shock than she'd been prepared for. They were in far eastern Kentucky – just 30 minutes from the West Virginia border. Coal country. A land rife with poverty and opioid addiction. A land dotted with dilapidated houses and abandoned vehicles. A land where the average wage was $12 an hour, but the average electric bill was $250 a month, car insurance ranged from $200 - $500, and the county governments were too corrupt to make any effective, lasting changes. A land where even the locals asked her “Why did you move here?” That was a good question. Why did anyone live here? Why would anyone stay in a place where it often felt like both the weather and the government were trying to kill you? Because of the people and the culture. Living in Appalachia was like stepping back in time. The people still held the same values most of society had before the invasion of the internet and social media. Mornings were meant for sipping coffee on front porches, the dollar did not define your worth, and conversation was plentiful. Human connection was more important than wherever you were in a hurry to get to. Neighborhoods were communities – the way she imagined they had been 200 years ago – because when the roads flooded and the wind took out your power – your neighbors were all you had. There was a good reason people living out in the hollers said, “God willing and the creek don't rise.” She and her husband would have been homeless and hungry if it hadn't been for their church and their neighbors. The church had paid their bills, its patrons had given them clothes, and when she'd reached her lowest point – crying on her kitchen floor, completely hopeless and ready to move home – her neighbors had filled her freezer with meat and her pantry with canned goods. She had come to understand that when someone said, “holler if you need anything,” they truly meant it. The people of Appalachia were the most generous, salt of the earth people she had ever known. And maybe that's why God had sent her to eastern Kentucky. Before living here, she hadn't known it was possible to both love and hate a place, to become both harder and softer at the same time. Their trials had made her able to endure more, but the people had taught her empathy and compassion. It was wild to think that six months ago, she hadn't known a place like eastern Kentucky existed. Appalachia, with enough biodiversity and moisture to classify it as a rain forest and a population of family-minded people who would literally give you the shirts off their backs, was how America was supposed to be – how she imagined it had been when people first settled here and dreamed the American Dream. This cast-aside region of the country was living proof that true humanity still existed, that the entire human race hadn't been sucked into the social media AI-fueled matrix. That is why people stayed here. This was real life. This was love, and faith, and hope. And she just might have fallen in love with it enough to not leave it.