October in Belize is hurricane season—and we know to stay alert. But back in 2001, when I was still in high school, I didn’t fully understand how serious that could be. Not until Hurricane Iris.

I grew up in Placencia, a coastal village where storms were just part of the conversation every year. My grandma was our early warning system. She stayed glued to the radio, reminding us: “It’s not a threat until it hits 16-17 degrees latitude—somewhere near Jamaica. That’s when you check the charts.” Iris started as one of those distant storms. It was a Sunday. I got ready for school. Life felt normal.

Then everything changed overnight. By early Monday, we were told to pack and evacuate. We spent the day getting our things together. Around 2 p.m., my uncle picked us up in a boat and took us inland to Independence Village. He lived there—and it was considered a safer place to ride out the storm.

Even as the skies darkened early, we tried to stay calm. The adults listened to the news while us kids played. But by 5 p.m., things turned. Wind picked up. Rain started lashing sideways. The mood shifted.

By 7:30 p.m., the storm had fully arrived. Water was pushing through the cracks of the house. I could feel the walls move with the gusts. Suddenly, loud banging—blam blam blam—from the roof. One of the zinc panels had come loose.

Someone had to hold it down.

That someone was me.

With a wire hanger, I hooked the zinc and held on—doing my best to keep it from flying off and triggering a chain reaction. My hands shook. My arms ached. But I held it until the winds died down.

Iris passed quickly. But the silence afterward was heavy.

Three days later, we returned to Placencia. It looked like a war zone. Houses were reduced to splinters. Roads were unrecognizable. I picked through debris, finding what I could from our home—small pieces, fragments of a life interrupted.