The 80-mile-an-hour winds blew all night. The noise was deafening. The glass doors rattled so hard it felt like they might explode. We woke to our home phones and cell phones ringing at the same time…….evacuation orders.

It is still hard to believe that one year ago today, we packed up our home along with all of our neighbors, assessed how little really mattered except photos and pets, and we left.

The night before, I had been at book club with girlfriends on the east side of Pasadena when our host’s sister-in-law walked in from Altadena and quietly said, “There’s a fire.” We wrapped up early and headed home. As I drove, trash cans blew across the street and the San Gabriel Mountains glowed ominously above us. None of us knew that glow was only the beginning.

When Everything Changes in an Instant

The days that followed were surreal. Our neighborhood was a ghost town, silent in a way that felt unnatural. We were the lucky ones…..our homes were spared. But 9,400 structures were gone, and more than 6,000 of them were homes. Schools vanished. Neighborhoods disappeared. Markets were reduced to ash. The beautiful San Gabriel Mountains turned charcoal. Our community was in shock. Life, as we knew it, changed on a dime across the San Gabriel Valley.

Loss always marks the beginning of these stories. And this loss was almost impossible to fathom. It’s one thing to hear about devastation on the news; it’s another to drive past it and see Anderson Cooper and CNN broadcasting from your town auditorium, to recognize a street corner where memories once lived, and to see nothing but emptiness.

Like any death, the casseroles arrived. The community arrived. People showed up in force. Clothes were gathered. GoFundMe pages sprang to life overnight. Friends who had lost everything were still in shock, and yet the help was immediate and overwhelming. Thousands volunteered. Thousands donated. Over and over again, we witnessed the absolute best of humanity.

I will never forget watching people who had lost everything themselves volunteer to help their neighbors receive clothes, choosing to serve before standing in line for their own needs. That kind of generosity stays with you forever.

The Wave of Kindness and What Comes After

I spent weekends for months volunteering and started and ran a GoFundMe for dear friends with some reluctance. They were one of thirteen families we knew who lost their homes in both this fire and the Palisades fires. Donations poured in from all over the country. From former neighbors. From strangers. From students. From people with very little to give, who gave anyway. Everyone was helping.

And then, just like after a death, the world slowly moved on.

But many of those who lost everything couldn’t move on so easily. Where do you go when your house is gone? How do you navigate insurance, temporary housing, rebuilding timelines, bureaucracy, and endless paperwork—while grieving? How do you keep going when the adrenaline fades and the silence sets in?

It was, and still is, a grief magnified by its scale. This wasn’t one family, one street, one school. It was thousands of lives upended at once. And grief, like healing, does not follow a timeline.

The Long Arc of Resilience

There is never a death without a rebirth. There is never an earthquake without a new city, or a forest fire without new growth. Nature teaches us this cycle over and over again, even when it feels unbearably brutal. People are still in every phase of loss…..shock, anger, sadness, rebuilding, acceptance. All of it is valid.

One story, though, has stayed with me as a reminder of what resilience can look like.

A close girlfriend lost her home. Weeks later, she was surprised to learn that their garage had survived. At the time, she wasn’t exactly thrilled to discover that all she had left were a few Christmas decorations, understandably so. It felt insignificant compared to everything else that was gone.

But right before Thanksgiving, she and her husband moved into a new home. When I visited a couple of weeks before Christmas, they were beaming. Truly beaming. They had lost everything and yet they had moved forward. Their neighbor bought their burned-out lot. Insurance settled. They found a beautiful new place. And those surviving Christmas decorations? They mattered more than anyone could have predicted.

Their resilience, their positive attitude, their willingness to move onward and upward made my Christmas. It reminded me that hope doesn’t always arrive loudly. Sometimes it shows up quietly, wrapped in gratitude, sitting on a shelf where memories still live.

What Moving On Really Means

Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean minimizing loss or pretending everything is fine. Moving on means learning how to carry grief while still choosing hope. It means honoring what was, while building what can be.

For our community, moving on looks different for everyone. For some, it means rebuilding on the same land. For others, it means starting fresh somewhere new. For many, it means navigating a maze of decisions with courage they didn’t know they had.

What I’ve learned this year is that resilience isn’t about strength in the loud moments. It’s about showing up in the quiet ones. Moments when the volunteers have gone home, when the news cameras leave, when the long road stretches ahead.

A Year Later, Still Holding Hope

I know my friend’s story isn’t everyone’s story. I know there are still families waiting, still grieving, still exhausted by a process that feels endless. And yet, one year later, stories like hers give me hope for Altadena, for the San Gabriel Valley, the Palisades and  for all of us.

Hope lives in the people who keep helping long after the headlines fade. Hope lives in neighbors who check in, in communities that remember, in small acts of kindness that continue long after the fire is out. Hope lives in resilience……the quiet, steady decision to keep going. Even this puppy pictured above found hope and a new home.

One year later, the scars remain. But so does the goodness we saw in people. And that goodness, the kind that shows up in the darkest nights, is what will continue to rebuild not just homes, but hearts.

Because even after everything burns, love, community, and hope still find a way to rise.

CHARITY MATTERS.

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