As I sit in the window of my neighborhood Starbucks watching the rain pour down, I am overcome with sadness. Every drop that hits these Los Angeles streets feels cruel, almost like a mockery. Where were these clouds four weeks ago, when fires ravaged my community? Where was this steady precipitation that could have smothered the mere threat of an ember? Savage embers, relentless embers that spread without abandon, as if they were living creatures breathing with intent. Merciless embers that destroyed memories, lives, futures — one flame at a time.
I divert my attention to the people around me. I wonder what their lives look like. Are they now homeless? Displaced? Are they wearing the only shoes they now own, because everything else was lost? Do their kids have a school to go to? Is their community simply gone? Every single Angeleno is now walking around this city with a story. For some, it’s a tale of devastating loss. For the lucky ones, it’s secondhand accounts of destruction and despair. For all, it’s a story of tragedy, heartache, anxiety, and sobering new realities.
I fall into the lucky category.
Days into the fires, my family was forced to evacuate as the Palisades flames crept their way up the mountain ridges above my neighborhood. Like so many, we packed the important papers, a change of clothes, the photographs, the baby and wedding albums, my wife’s late grandmother’s rolling pin. We reduced a lifetime of personal things into the two suitcases that fit in the back of our SUV. It was an exercise ridden with urgency, fear, and utter disbelief. As I closed the front door and drove away with my wife and two young boys, I grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. No words were needed, but so much was said.
After four days of displacement and 96 hours of the worst anxiety I’ve ever experienced, we returned to our neighborhood and home. Since the winds had died down and the air tankers were able to fly, the fire that threatened our community was contained, and our evacuation mandate was lifted. The nightmare was over. I’ll never forget the moment I opened our front door and the subsequent feelings that enveloped me. I dropped our bags, watched the boys run off, and fell to my knees. I kissed the floor of my foyer and wept.
A month after the fires, friends and family will occasionally check in to see how the family and I are doing. The answer is always the same: We’re hanging in. How unbelievably fortunate am I to be “hanging in”? I have a roof over my head. My roof. I have my great-grandmother’s antique silverware. I have the onesies that my boys wore home from the hospital. I have the life we’ve built in our home.
I also have guilt, sadness, anxiety, and fear.
I can’t seem to wrap my head around why my family and immediate community were the lucky ones. Why the merciless flight of a windblown ember left so many with nothing, while others were spared. I’m plagued with worry about the potential damage of the toxic air quality, of what psychological effects this frightening experience will have on my children. I even now worry when the wind blows that, instead of a seasonal breeze, it signifies a disastrous threat.
I know I’m not alone swimming in an immense sea of gratitude while simultaneously drowning in feelings of fear and remorse. We are collectively suffering from an intangible loss and for the tangible loss spread across this city. But I also know, despite what “we” all feel, that I can’t be mediocre when others are devastated. I don’t get to be just “hanging in” when so many are picking up their pieces with strength and positivity, looking forward towards rebuilding.
I have to be better somehow; the grief I feel is starting to seem like a privilege. I have four walls to grieve within. I have safety and security to rely on. I have the certainty of tomorrow. I realized I have no choice but to take all of my big feelings and turn them into something meaningful.
About a week after the fires, my friend Meghan reached out to our friend group with a beautiful idea. She was converting her husband’s office into a donation center for single family fire victims who may not have a critical support system. I couldn’t raise my hand quickly enough. Through an amazing network of family and friends and a rock solid community, we collected everything — clothing, shoes, strollers, toys, books, jewelry, baby items, home goods, gift cards — and curated a comprehensive support center where displaced families can acquire what they need. What’s more, she assembled a team of generous, trained mental health professionals to help support the long term healing process for the victims.
Studio City Cares is playing its part to help fire-affected families navigate the unimaginable. (You can follow along on their Instagram page.) It’s become a beautiful haven of unity, strength, and community support. And I get to show up and turn my grief into purpose.
The local forecast said the rain is due to continue for the next three days. During these times, it’s hard not to let the natural world feel like it’s playing a cruel trick. But I realize something as I watch the droplets fall outside my window. Maybe it’s not taunting Los Angeles after all. Maybe it’s reminding us of what’s been lost so we can more clearly see all that can be gained.
Jill Goldstein is a freelance writer and co-founder of WeArePitch.tv, an agency specializing in writing and designing pitches for TV, film, and advertising. She is also a certified personal trainer in Los Angeles, helping people find fitness in healthy and realistic ways. She’s most fulfilled when she can combine these two passions by writing fitness content. Jill is married with two children. Follow both her Instagram accounts for exercise tips and personal updates.
