The ashes from the fires coated the television screen in shades of grey and black, their dark tendrils searing into my heart as I watched with my family, huddled together in the living room. My hands trembled as I clutched a pillow against my chest, my heart racing with every image of destruction.
Flames devoured homes, trees, and places from my memory—all turning to dust in the place I once called home.
Fast forward to January 7th when my family and I huddled around our living room T.V. and watched the Palisades fire as it spread. The ashes on the screen weren’t just remnants of a fire. They ignited memories deep within me—of being a part of the Palisades community, where Sunday mornings meant trips to the farmers market with my family, the smell of fresh produce mingling with the salty breeze from the ocean. I recall warm afternoons spent at the quaint, sunlit Caruso Palisades Village or laughing with friends at the Garden Cafe. As a former student at Palisades Charter High School (“Pali High”), my friends and I would walk two blocks to get there, ordering iced drinks and snacks, sharing stories, and sometimes even finishing our homework together. These memories filled my heart, making it unbearable to watch such a prominent neighborhood in my community burn to ashes before my eyes.
As I stared at the T.V. screen in disbelief, my thoughts raced to friends still living in the Palisades, their homes dangerously close to the inferno. Many had to evacuate with little warning, scrambling to gather whatever they could carry. One of my closest friends fled with only his phone and laptop. He didn’t think much of it at the time. He was sure he would be back home in no time. I remember his house vividly; it had a room filled to the ceiling with impressive LEGO structures, and intricate projects he and his brothers had spent years perfecting. His sports medals and their family keepsakes were all gone. The fires consumed a lifetime of memories in minutes. The place they called home and they had filled with love, was reduced to rubble and smoke. I offered supplies, clothing, a place to stay…anything I could do to help. But it didn’t feel like enough. I knew it wasn’t going to ease the pain.
I couldn’t stop thinking about them—about all the families who lost everything. Thousands of homes, filled with years of memories, were destroyed. The devastation felt too immense to comprehend. Every night before bed, I prayed. I prayed for my friends, for their safety, for the strength of their parents, and for their homes to be spared. But every time I closed my eyes, vivid images haunted me: friends clutching keepsakes as they ran to their cars, the orange glow of flames reflected in tear-filled eyes, and families crowded around television sets in their grandparents’ houses, desperately scanning the news footage for a glimpse of their own homes. I could picture their terror as they recognized their white two-story house collapsing into embers. In mere moments, all that they had built over decades was gone.
The strangest part was how unreal it felt. Each morning when I woke up, I would forget—just for a second—that such devastation had occurred. It was only when I opened Instagram and saw post after post, story after story, of the fires raging through the Palisades that reality sank in again. It felt like a bad dream that I couldn’t escape. It wasn’t until I reached out—calling, texting, and checking on friends—that the gravity of it all truly hit me. The neighborhoods of the friends I had grown up with for years were all burned down. And I was left completely unharmed in my Westwood home. I called one of my friends, and he did not respond for days on end. Finally, when he texted me back, I learned his house fell to destruction. I offered food, water, clothing…anything I could to help. But it never felt like enough.
Now, as the flames subside and the ashes cool, my mission is clear. I will reach out to families who have lost their homes, listening to their misfortunes, and recording their stories. I’ve learned that even in the face of unimaginable tragedy, telling your story can begin to heal the pain. The memories remain, even when the physical space is gone. I want to hear those memories—every moment that made a house a home, every room that held a memory, every piece of joy that still lingers in the hearts of those who have lost so much. In sharing these stories, I hope to honor the strength and resilience of my community—the Palisades, my home—and remind us all that even from the ashes, new hope can rise.
