Helene survivor's poem shows emotional impact of storm's destruction

Liz Barker and her 12-year-old daughter lost their home and nearly all their belongings when Hurricane Helene swept through their North Carolina town last month.

Nearly three weeks after the Category 4 hurricane made landfall along Florida's Big Bend Coast and devastated parts of Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia and Tennessee, Barker, a labor and delivery nurse, said she and her daughter are living with her parents while they figure out what to do next.

Barker, a single mom, said buying her own home in Swannanoa, North Carolina, six years ago was a defining moment in her life.

Now, everything from the books she lovingly kept in her home to her clothes, her beloved hiking boots and backpack, and all of her daughter's belongings are covered in mud.

"There were a lot of special things in there that I can't get back, that can't be replaced," Barker told " Good Morning America ." "And then there are things that are replaceable, but still, it's hard."

Barker, 32, said that as recovery continues for her and her neighbors - which she described as a marathon now and not a sprint - she is beginning to feel the "real emotions" of what she and her daughter endured and all that they lost.

"The adrenaline's wearing off," she said. "Everything is settling in to the point that it's like, OK, now here come the emotions."

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To both help cope with her emotions and help other people understand what she and other Helene survivors are experiencing, Barker wrote an emotional poem she shared on Facebook.

"I am incredibly grateful to be alive. To have my family. My friends. Community. I feel selfish writing this. These are all just things I lost," she wrote. "But I need to grieve."

Read Barker's poem about surviving Hurricane Helene in full, below, reprinted with her permission.

What do you do when you've lost your identity?

What even is identity?

I know.

I know identity is more than things.

More than places and people.

I know identity comes from within.

A sense of self.

But my sense of self is lost.

I lost my home.

My daughter lost her home.

It's gone.

It's gone, along with the bed I slept in every night

It's gone, along with the couch where I watched "Friends" reruns and "Harry Potter" for the last eight and a half years of my life.

It's gone, along with the screened-in back porch where I would sit in the mornings with coffee or in the evenings reading a book with a glass of wine.

It's gone, along with the room where I hung my national park posters on the wall, the room where I would jump on the stationary bike almost daily for some exercise.

It's gone, with the front porch where I hung a porch swing on my own, where I would wave to my neighbors out on walks with their dogs or the kids riding their bikes, where we would take first day of school pictures.

It's gone, along with the purple bedroom where my daughter spent half her life sleeping.

It's gone, along with the driveway where she learned to ride her bike.

It's gone, along with the living room where she would build forts with her friends.

It's gone, along with the kitchen where she would experiment with recipes.

It's gone, along with the fenced-in backyard where neighbors would come to give Ginger head scratches and butt pats. The backyard with the firepit and hammock and swing set.

I know identity is more than a place and more than things.

But this was my safe place.

It's gone, along with my hiking boots, the shoes that I would put on to escape into the woods.

It's gone, along with my daypack with patches collected from different adventures, that had traveled to Maine, Utah, Wyoming, Montana, West Virginia, Colorado, Alaska, and all over NC with me.

It's gone, along with all my clothes, my favorite T-shirts and sweatshirts.

The ones that had been worn so many times they were the perfect softness that you can't buy.

The items I put on to be cozy to feel safe.

Now I'm wearing clothes handed down to me in a trash bag. Clothes I'm grateful for of course, but that aren't the same.

It's gone, along with my library of books.

The hundreds of books that are now a wet, muddy mess in a landfill.

The most loved books, whose pages were worn with notes in the margins.

It's gone, along with the countless notes and cards from family and friends.

It's gone, along with the notebook of letters from past patients.

They were all destroyed.

Those aren't things that can be replaced.

The home I worked so hard for is gone.