
It’s been a devastating week, leading into another worrying and heartbreaking one. January 2025 started off so positively for many, including myself. As soon as January 1st arrived, I began preparing for the year using my usual techniques. I created my “Pocket of Happiness.” I wrote and decorated my word of the year. I planned how I wanted to spend my time each week. I did all of this in the beautiful canyon city of Montrose, just next door to Altadena and Pasadena. The community was wonderful, and the sun was shining.
In fact, my initial article was about rose-tinted glasses—literally. When I arrived, everything looked so vibrant and lush. My daughter commented that it didn’t quite look that way to her, and when I removed my sunglasses, I realized she was right. But even without the glasses, I still saw the beauty, the energy, and the community that made this small LA town feel like another world. We even discussed the possibility of moving there. Then, I was fortunate enough to spend Sunday in Malibu, sitting by the beach and enjoying the most delicious vegan food.
I had made one big decision for 2025: to do something different every single day. Whether it was visiting a new place, wearing something unique, or trying a new experience—it didn’t matter. This was the year of embracing life fully, seeing everything through rose-tinted glasses, even when I wasn’t wearing them. A mindset that would carry me through 2025.
On Monday, January 6th, I started working with my daughter at Soho House Hollywood. We connected with new people. My “different” things included wearing my fun pink tutu, chatting with strangers, giving out my “pieces of pocket art,” and sharing blessings and happiness. I made people smile. I even said out loud, more than once, that this was going to be an amazing year.
Then, everything changed in the blink of an eye. Something unimaginable. The town I had come to love—the place I called home—began to burn to the ground. It felt like a dream, something surreal. This wasn’t actually happening.
For the next few days, the news was on 24/7 as I tried to make sense of it all. Friends were texting me, telling me they had lost their homes and everything in them. The sky turned dark with smoke. Everything I had known for the past decade was in jeopardy. By Friday night, we could see the fire lighting up the sky from the bottom of our street. We were advised to evacuate. Knowing how quickly disaster can unfold, we made the decision to leave.
My daughter and I packed our tiny Fiat with what we thought were the irreplaceables. I didn’t have time to grab everything from storage, nor did I have the space in the car. But somehow, I took an avocado and a sweet potato. Why? I honestly don’t know. Was it a comfort thing? Was I worried about being hungry later? Did I just grab it without thinking? I have no answer. But I do know that my body has been running on confusion since this all began. My mind doesn’t know whether to feel scared or safe, happy that I’m okay or devastated for everyone else. Should I be concerned or calm? Should I fight, flee, or freeze?
And then there’s the numbness. The moments where I don’t know what I feel at all. Do I care about anything? Can I even function? Then comes the guilt—I am one of the lucky ones. We came back to our home. We should just move on, volunteer, work, get back to “normal.”
But what is normal? Our sense of normalcy has been shattered. And there is no right or wrong way to process this. There’s no universal timeline for grief. Each of us will experience this differently.
For now, I have gratitude in my heart for what I have in this moment. I am questioning what the future looks like. I am staying present, allowing myself to feel whatever emotions arise—even the ones that haven’t surfaced yet.
I recognize that I don’t want to be too far from my daughter. I’m never far from my dog anyway, but I imagine many people won’t want to leave their pets alone for a while. I feel hyper aware of every siren, every aircraft, every helicopter. I notice the smell of the air—even when it isn’t there, I wonder what lingers. I see the empty spaces where businesses once stood and want to support those that remain. I hesitate to drive, worried about taking resources away from first responders if something were to happen. I want to avoid conversations where I feel I must justify how I feel.
Yet, at the same time, I want to do the exact opposite. I want to go out, be around people, live my life, and be grateful for it—because I still can.
So for now, all I can suggest is this: Be kind to yourself and to each other, no matter what you’re feeling. This will affect everyone differently.
This experience has only reinforced the importance of living in the moment. We don’t know what tomorrow holds, and life can change in an instant. I want to appreciate the now, the people I love, the small joys that make each day meaningful. Even in chaos, there are glimpses of beauty—a kind word, a shared meal, a deep breath. We can’t control everything, but we can choose to be fully present in the moments we have.
And so, as I move forward, I remind myself daily: take nothing for granted. Live fully, love deeply, and embrace the now, because it is all we truly have.
I won’t trivialize things by saying, “Write your word of the year again” or “Create your Pyramid of Purpose.” But if you can find even a moment to sit, breathe, feel, and acknowledge what you’re experiencing—you’re already doing brilliantly. And when you’re ready, reach out. Maybe I can bring a little joy, fun, or creativity back into your life.
I’m offering pro bono sessions to anyone affected by the wildfires. Please don’t hesitate to contact me.
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