Life has been a living nightmare since we first saw footage of the fire on our Nest camera, the flames dancing devilishly in our backyard.
This piece was originally published on Zibby Owens’s substack, which you can subscribe to here.
The horrific “Palisades Fire,” the most destructive fire in U.S. history, started just feet away from our home in the Pacific Palisades two days ago. Life has been a living nightmare since then, when we first saw footage of the fire on our Nest camera, the flames dancing devilishly in our backyard. We’ve gone through every emotion as we’ve waited for news from friends, watching footage, trying to find information, mourning the loss of the life we were leading.
So many of our friends have now lost their homes.
“Any updates?”
“It’s gone.”
“We lost everything.”
“Nothing left.”
“We lost it.”
Literally. Everyone I know in the Palisades has lost all of their possessions. How is this possible?! I was just there! Everything was fine!
Kyle and I are still waiting for a complete update about our home, which we watched firefighters save (early on, before the fire spread) on the Nest video stream. They heroically put out flames in our shed and the hedges. But then the flames came back before we lost service.
However, late last night, we found a video online from a man on a motorbike zipping through our neighborhood, and we caught a quick glimpse of it. The house appears to still be standing, at least from the front. We don’t know the full extent of it yet.
But it isn’t about our house.
It’s about our life.
Our feelings. Our community. Our memories. Our beloved stores, restaurants, streets, sidewalks, neighbors. It’s about the homes where we sat at friends’ kitchen tables and played Uno, celebrated their birthdays, and truly connected.
It’s all gone.
It’s about the loss of a place we considered home. Even though we “live” in New York where our two younger kids still go to school, we split our time. Actually, Kyle probably spends more time in LA than he does in NY. His company and my bookstore are out there. We created a beautiful, idyllic life that sustained us and gave us something to look forward to, always counting down until we could go back the next time.
And now it’s gone.
The backstory:
On March 20, 2016, Kyle and I were visiting Santa Monica for one of our first visits together. I was newly divorced, and Kyle and I were in the butterfly days. I’d lived in LA (West Hollywood) for two years after graduating college, but he’d never been.
While we were there, I took a photo that I thought would make a great gift for a loved one, so I searched for a local photo printing store. I wanted to print and then frame the image. The closest photo store was in the Pacific Palisades. I’d heard of the Palisades and knew a few people who lived there but had never been. Kyle and I drove our rental car over and promptly fell in love with the most beautiful hidden gem of a town, seemingly frozen in time.
The little village was quaint, small, and filled with mom-and-pop shops. A local toy store. A stationery boutique. A frozen yogurt “shoppe” with a 1950s vibe. We wandered around the town as we waited the one hour for our photo print to be ready, ending up at Sweet Rose for ice cream. We were like, “What is this place?!”
It felt like we were in an episode of “The Wonder Years” in a place where the streets were safe, the families seemed beautiful and wholesome, and the scenery was lush, framed by rolling hills that were dotted by homes. As a jaded New Yorker, I thought, “Wait, do people really live like this?” It seemed…perfect. Was this an option?!
Kyle and I started visiting LA anytime it wasn’t “our” weekend with the kids. I reconnected with old friends and spent time with family. We made new friends. Kyle and I began to think, could we potentially live there when we didn’t have the kids? Of course, the travel itself seemed crazy, but once we got to LA, we relaxed, explored, and let ourselves grow into our new relationship.
We fell deeper in love with the city and each other on every trip.
So, we started just, you know, peeking at some homes at open houses, one of my favorite pastimes. Where would we live in this new, pretend life of ours? We looked all over. We looked so much that we decided to work with a real estate broker, Melanie, who, it turned out, was from the Palisades and was happy to show us lots of places there. Just for fun, though. Right?
By October, we had a signed contract on a new home — and had found a new friend in Melanie, who helped us when we needed to push back the purchase and wait until the following year to finalize things. She showed us the ropes of the neighborhood once we moved in and introduced us to everyone we needed to know, especially as we renovated the place.
When we first walked into our future home at an open house, we drove up to the top of a windy hill in the Palisades, wondering what was even up there. We parked, walked in, and gasped. We barely even registered what the interior of the house looked like. Instead, we were immediately drawn to the backyard. Look at that view! From our perch on top of that quiet road dotted with 1950s-style one-story homes, one right next to the other, many seemingly trapped in a time warp, we beheld the most magnificent view ever. Mountains on the left. The city in the center. The ocean on the right.
Whoa.
Kyle and I looked at each other, jaws dropped.
We took it.
Over the next almost decade, we made that house our home. We hosted book events, cocktail parties, dinners at long tables under string lights (OK, we did that once), and even hosted a close friend’s wedding. We got to know all our neighbors. Any time I walked in the house, I forgot about the stress of life in New York, the long flight, all of it. I instantly decompressed. We filled it with books, framed family photos on the wall, and so many memories.
Our kids came out every vacation, playing games in the pool and jumping on the trampoline. As we settled in, Palisades Village opened, bringing an upscale luxury mall right to our neighborhood. We alternated dinners there at the Draycott, Hank’s, and later Angelini, with the “old” village. Beach Street. The Yogurt Shoppe. Cafe Vida. The “new” village even had a bookstore! How great to have a bookstore in our neighborhood! But then it closed.
Sitting outside by the pool one lazy Sunday, Kyle said, “Hey, now’s your chance to open that bookstore you always dreamed of.”
“Very funny,” I replied.
“Why don’t you just look into it? See if the lease is available.”
I was scrolling on my phone anyway, so why not? I called the broker, who laughed me off the phone. No, no. They weren’t looking for another bookstore there. (It became an Yves St. Laurent.) I hung up. Case closed. But then the broker called back — and kept calling.
“I know you wanted something in the Palisades,” he said, “but I have an owner who would love a bookstore on Montana.” Montana Avenue was the main strip of cute shops and restaurants in Santa Monica (also now on evacuation alert), about 15-20 minutes away.
“No, thanks,” I said repeatedly. “It’s too far away.”
Even though I was living in New York, when I got to LA, I wanted life to continue to be easy. But after a few months, I considered doing a pop-up and went to look at the space. Again, a perfect spot. Done.
Four months later, Zibby’s Bookshop opened on Montana. After all, it made perfect sense. In my dream life, at my home tucked away on top of the hill, I could own my dream bookstore. Of course, I could! Anything was possible. I could just pop over and spend a few hours at the store when I was in town and hire a great team to run it! Which I did. My dream came true. Zibby’s Bookshop introduced me to even more people on the Westside, the community of Santa Monica, Brentwood, and “the Palisades.”
The whole set-up was idyllic. Safe. Spectacular. Out of a movie.
It all felt too good to be true.
Apparently, it was.
Things started veering off course for me as soon as the holiday break started on December 19, 2024. My four kids, Kyle, and I headed out to LA for a week together during which I had many fun activities mapped out. We’d go to all the kids’ favorite places. The Village so they could run around the outdoor mall while we waited for our meal in one of the outdoor restaurants. The “old” pre-Caruso village for Beach Street pizza, dessert at the Yogurt Shoppe, and of course, some Starbucks. Maybe we’d hike to Skull Rock! (Ok, fine, we only did that once.)
But on our second night there, I was up all night sick. I went to the doctor in Santa Monica the next morning, certain I had a throat infection. It was Covid. Vacation plans: canceled. Instead, the six of us mostly hung around the house. We swam in the pool and played “Four Corners.” We lit the Hanukkah candles each night and opened gifts artfully arranged at the base of one of our potted trees. We watched family movies, baked cookies, and just chilled out after an intense Fall before the kids went to their dad’s for the second week and we stayed put.
Thank God we got to do that.
After the kids left, as we were falling asleep on New Year’s Eve, I said to Kyle, “Honey, if there was a fire up here, couldn’t we just stay in our pool until it passed? Or do you think the fire would go into the ground and melt some important parts of the pool and still get to us?”
“What? No, honey, the smoke would kill us. That’s how most people die in fires.”
“Oh, right. So, what would we do? Would we just try to get down the hill?”
“I don’t know, love.”
We fell asleep.
Three hours later, there was a loud noise in our typically silent neighborhood, a lone dog barking the only rare disruption. At 3 a.m., I got out of bed to look outside to see what it was and saw a helicopter just beyond our window. I watched it as it turned and shined its light right into our bedroom. What the…
Turns out, there was a fire less than a mile from our home. Even though we hadn’t gotten an official warning, we decided to evacuate after watching helicopters get water from a nearby reservoir and dump it onto the fire just beyond our home. It was one mile away.
“This is how they put out fires?” I thought. “Two tiny helicopters?”
“Pack up! Let’s go!” I shouted.
I grabbed my passport, phone, charger, and books from the nightstand and shoved it all into a backpack. Thinking the house would likely burn down, I grabbed three outfits, threw them into a suitcase, grabbed my toiletries, and zipped it all up so fast that the arm of one of my sweaters stuck out and dragged behind it.
When we opened the garage door to leave, our neighbor was walking up the hill to see the flames. We followed him up, past a fire truck, into the fire road in the canyon behind us filled with wild animals. A skunk ran in front of us as our neighbor shined his flashlight. We watched the smoke billow up.
As we drove east in the dark in the middle of the night, Kyle said, “Honey, that was insane. You had a premonition.”
“Crazy, right?”
That fire was over by 9:30 the next morning. Thank God. We headed back to our home unscathed but rattled. I looked at the pajamas I’d left on my closet carpet in such a rush, not knowing if I’d ever see my home again. It shook me to my core.
Two days later, we left for New York.
And then, five days after that, I was on a Zoom business call at the dining room table in my apartment when Kyle texted.
“There’s a fire.”
What? Another one? But fires were common. So I stayed on the Zoom.
“We’re going to lose our house!” he texted.
Kyle was in Jersey City with his business partner Ethan, who was staying with us. They were at a work meeting for the new movie they’ll be producing, so we FaceTimed. He looked terrified.
“I can see the flames!” he said, looking at his phone, hysterical.
“What?!?! Wait, screen share,” I said. “I have to see.”
And with that, both of us were watching the footage of the fire on our Nest camera, to which we’d be glued for the next two hours until it went offline. We watched as our shed caught on fire. We watched as firemen raced back and forth from the front to the back. What were they doing? We could only see slivers and not in the direction they were looking in. How close was the fire? It was only later that a neighbor sent us a photo of what had burned: the hedges about 10 feet from our house.
We thought we’d been spared and that perhaps the fire would then be put out like last time. Phew. I even ran out to host a book event for the book we published, Happy to Help, at the Veronica Beard store on Madison Ave. as planned. It would probably be OK!
No. By the time we got home from the book event, the fire had spread. Everywhere. Three football fields per minute. We tried to figure out what was going on. By 8:30 p.m., Kyle got an alert from the security company on his phone that our indoor sprinkler system and fire alarm had gone off. By 9:30 p.m., another sprinkler alert. Then, a heat sensor at our front door.
Then nothing.
Nothing until our glimpse late last night. An update from a neighbor.
So possibly it’s OK? We’ll find out soon. But it isn’t about our one home and our little life. It’s about the magnification of what could be our loss times thousands. The depth of grief compounded. Because every single person I know and so many I don’t who live in the Palisades have lost everything.
Not just one or two friends. Everyone.
And then I saw video footage of our beloved village. The yogurt shop and Beach Street? Gone. Paliskates, our kids’ favorite store? Gone. Burned to the ground.
Gelson’s grocery store, where we just recently picked up the New York Post and groceries for the break? Gone.
The Starbucks where Kyle just took my daughter while I was sick? Gone.
The CVS where he picked up my (useless) Paxlovid prescription for Covid? Gone. The football field at Pali High, where we just did the Turkey Trot over Thanksgiving? Gone. The Rec Center, where we played tennis, watched baseball games and soccer practice, and bandaged my younger daughter’s hand after too many monkey bars? Gone.
The. Whole. Town.
How? How is it possible?
How could everyone have lost everything? Schools, homes, power, cell service, cars, everything. All their belongings.
How, in the Palisades, the sleepy, safe, suburb where everything is (was?) so picturesque, could there be an apocalypse? Not here. Not in our hidden enclave. Not in our community of kind, wonderful people.
How? No.
Even Melanie, our real estate broker, lost her home. As did our contractor. Two contributors to my On Being Jewish Now anthology. Many author friends. Other friends. Their friends. All the schools, gone. It’s unthinkable.
But this isn’t about our house or anyone’s house alone. It’s about our entire community being destroyed. A way of life. The fabric of everyday life. It’s about the everyday interactions that will never be replicated. Everyone is now scattered all over LA in hotels and other people’s homes like the embers that flew through the sky.
The Palisades community is so special. Talented. Accomplished. Creative. Kind. Devoted. Patriotic. Proud. I’ve worked in the local library and watched the July 4 parade from streets that are now smoldering embers. I’ve parked on every street, greeted every shopkeeper. The spirit of this little village we considered our home was singular and spectacular, an antidote to the craziness of modernity.
It is an unspeakable loss.
At first, I was running on adrenaline. I felt the cold chill and sick belly ache that came with the intense fear of seeing the flames — and then I went into action, adrenaline mode. I would do anything I could. I posted our videos.
When ABC News asked if I’d come on to discuss it, I said yes. At least, that was something I could do. But then, more places asked. At first, I kept saying yes. Kyle and I could share. We went on ABC News Live, CBS KCal, Inside Edition, and a Canadian TV show. Then, we had to start turning down requests. There were too many. And we were too burned out. This morning, I went on CNN. Is it about me? No. But I want to put a face, a name, and an emotion into this tragedy.
The real loss of this fire isn’t just the acreage affected. It’s about the loss of a way of life, the backdrop of daily life, the connections, the community, the love, the homes, the kitchen tables, and conversations. The places where people raised their kids. The shelter from the crazy world. The containers of our lives. Ripped away. Where is the protection? Instead, we are like a sea of shell-less turtles looking for cover.
Yes, we are all safe. We are alive. But shouldn’t that just be the baseline?
“How great you weren’t there!” people say.
But I wish I had been. Being away feels like I’m not a part of it. And my heart and soul are aching across the country as I sit alone in my office and try to make sense of the devastation. As I replay the footage and try to process images of the alphabet streets, gone, the buildings, gone.
Am I allowed to be this upset? After all, I don’t live there full-time. But for almost a decade, I’ve been a part of it. I’ve longed for and lived it. Am I allowed to cancel work because I’m so distracted and distraught in New York? It seems ridiculous. But I can’t focus enough to even read, let alone prep for podcasts. One minute, I’m crying on the floor of my closet. The next, I’m reaching out to friends and trying to put on a happy face to my colleagues. Am I just being overly dramatic? After all, I have my “real” home here in New York. Shouldn’t I just suck it up and get back to work?
But how?
My soul feels crushed. Plus, soon, I know I need to jump in and find tactical ways to help. But first I have to get off the ground myself.
All I know is, I’m not ready for optimism and talk like “we’ll rebuild!” I don’t want to discuss home repair or construction. It misses the point. And I’m personally still too shocked and trying too hard to process to even think about recovering. I’m still uncovering the devastation.
Like so many others, I’m still trying to wrap my head around what has been lost. And even if my one home, or “structure” as newscasters call it, happens to be mostly OK, I’ve still lost something I loved more than anything.
We’ve all lost it. Together. And maybe that’s enough to keep the community together.
