The original version of this article appeared on The Inertia.
On January 8, a scattering of wildfires in Los Angeles turned into the apocalypse. As Bad Religion once sang, “Palm trees are candles in the murder winds.” The Santa Ana winds howled throughout the night, and with the dawn came almost unbelievable scenes of devastation. The Palisades Fire torched entire communities. The Eaton Fire turned Altadena into a scene from Hell. The Hurst fire rages on as well.
As the dawn broke, thousands of people are facing a reality no one should have to.
The coming days, weeks, and months will be extraordinarily hard, whether you’re Billy Crystal or just some regular person with a job at Whole Foods. I know this because I lost my Malibu surf shack in the Woolsey Fire of 2018. Although everyone deals with grief and loss differently, I do at least have an inkling of what some people are feeling today, and what they’ll be feeling as time wears on.
Know this: It’ll get better. But first, it’ll feel as though you’ve become unmoored at the cellular level.
2018 Woolsey Fire: I Lost Everything
A quick recap of my experience: I spent a few fun years building a little house in the Malibu hills. I mixed tons of cement by hand, carted innumerable pieces of lumber and plywood up the hill, turned every screw, banged every nail, plumbed all the water, and wired every outlet.
I smashed my thumbs a million times, swore at the damn house a million and a half times, and loved it more than any home I’ve ever lived in. Not because it was particularly nice (although I tend to think it was), but because I could — still can all these years later, in fact — picture every single thing inside those walls and out.

I can walk through it in my mind, opening drawers in the little bureau I painted blue and wiping the dust off the bookshelves I planed and sanded and stained from a rotten piece of cedar that somehow found its way to my neighbor’s yard. And then, in the span of a few short hours one afternoon in November, a raging inferno turned it all into a smoldering pile of ashes.
It was a big pill to swallow, but I’m pretty much over it now. I find the experience similar to the loss of a loved one. It never goes away, not really, but new experiences and memories pile on top of it, muffling it like fresh snow landing on old ashes. The grief and outrage are still there, but it’s quieter now; less infected and covered by a thick scar.
A friend of mine texted me this morning, asking if reading the news about the fires was bringing up old trauma. It’s not, I don’t think, but it makes me feel incredibly sad and helpless to know how so many thousands of people are feeling as I sit here writing from my couch in Canada. A fire is in the fireplace and my dog is lying on one of my arms, making typing difficult.
The air outside is fresh and it rained last night. Thinking back to the morning after the Woolsey Fire, when I was scared, exhausted, and filled with dread and questions, I can smell the smoke. I can see the blood-red dawn, the sun’s weak rays filtering through immeasurable choking clouds of smoke.
I can see the tear-streaked faces of people on the streets, and I can still smell the perfume of a stranger who hugged me in the grocery store after she noticed I had ashes on my shoes. I don’t wish those memories on anyone, and it breaks my heart to know how many people are making them today.

Learning How to Cope
Take Stock of What You Have and Be Grateful
Accept Help

This Too Shall Pass
Reach Out to Others
