Finding Home Again in Florida’s Changing Climate with a Hammock and Hope

I bought a hammock just a while back. A normal thing to do, all things considered, but the real importance was what it symbolized for me—recreating home and finding resilience in the new world we live in on the Florida coast. In our new normal of intensifying hurricanes, climate change and sea level rise, these circumstances are best pondered in a hammock.

Our home of twenty years flooded in 2024 in the aftermath of Hurricane Milton. Built in 1963, it had never flooded before, but the Green Swamp rose, the Withlacoochee River rose, and our home was filled with two to three feet of water. That water sat in the house for a long, long time.

Our family became part of the great diaspora of people fleeing flooded homes and altered lives. We found temporary shelter in my mom’s house, which we were deeply grateful for, and we were profoundly blessed to have a safe place to go and lots of friends, co-workers and fellow congregants to help us clean out our home when the waters receded. 

We had flood insurance, a wonderful support network, jobs and a tight knit family, but it still was one of the most challenging and overwhelming things we have endured. We eventually ended up in a rental house, high on a hill, with no bodies of water in sight. When our landlord offered to sell us this house, despite the fact it made sense, I hesitated. Did we really want to own another home again in Florida?

We could have renovated our flooded home in eastern Hernando County, a home we loved. We raised our children there, welcomed grandchildren into the world there, and made it through changes in jobs, loss of loved ones, health scares, and other upheavals. I always assumed that would be our home far into our old age. 

After the flood, when we faced renovating that home, I froze. I kept picturing looking out the window and seeing the flood waters slowly enveloping our home again. I had the acrid smell of mold in my nostrils and the memory of filling dumpster after dumpster with all our possessions. I could not do it. We sold the house.

We finally made the decision to buy the rental home after reflecting on a simple but profound gift of hope. My mom passed away last year, but before she did, she bought us a new hammock stand. She told me it was to help us create a new home, to start over, and to find new ways to connect with the place we now found ourselves. The box with the hammock stand arrived after we said goodbye to her and began to mourn.

I couldn’t open it for the longest time. The pain of her loss burned hot to the touch. But now it is softened with gentle and loving memories, and a realization that we must make peace with life and find a path forward.

So, this week I bought a hammock for that hammock stand. We are setting it up in the backyard, and we have started to think about finally unpacking all the things we have in storage. We want to sink new roots into this home and make it our new normal. We will hang our new hammock, start a new home, and find a sense of place and community again. Our journey continues with a gift of love and peace from my mom, a sense of hope and a leap of faith.

I look forward to the first night I lay out in our backyard and gaze up at the heavens in that hammock. I yearn for those bright stars, glowing moon, and celestial magic. I hope to find a small moment of peace and an island of stillness in the darkened night. I will offer a prayer for a changing climate and for those still struggling. And I will thank my mom for the gift of home and a hammock stand.

This column originally appeared in several Florida newspapers including the Tampa Bay Times, the Keysnews.com, and the Citrus County Chronicle.

Joe Murphy is a native and lifelong Floridian who lives along Florida’s Nature Coast. Joe is a former Wildlife Policy Specialist for NWF’s Gulf Program and contributes these posts as an alumnus and supporter. You can follow Joe on Facebook.