Nobody tells you just how much admin there is when your house burns down. Trying to find the mental space to complete mundane, tedious admin tasks whilst holding emotional space to process the trauma of what you’ve just been through is a difficult juggle to say the least.
I’m lucky, we had renters insurance. That means we’ll receive money for what was inside our house – although it won’t cover anywhere near what we owned.
Some of my neighbors didn’t. That’s left them turning to FEMA for help. On the phone, a FEMA agent will visually walk you through what was in your house – every room is reduced to a list with a price tag attached. The agency will then calculate roughly how much the belongings in your home are worth, and pay you a fraction of what they cost. One neighbor, who’d lived in her house for almost two decades with her family of four, was offered $11,000 for everything that was inside it. She broke out in hives and told me it had retraumatized her.
I’m actually doubly lucky. Our insurance company, by some act of God, decided that we wouldn’t have to individually itemize every single belonging we had ever bought. That’s what my other neighbor, a single mom, is going through right now. Can you imagine sitting down and making a list of everything you owned, and then trying to remember what you paid for it – and then tracking down the receipt? I burst into tears with relief when I found out I wouldn’t have to do that, and I mentally added it to my list of blessings that I’ve been counting since the fire broke out.
It’s funny actually, I’ve never been so grateful as I have been these last two weeks. (Has it really only been two weeks?!) I’ve certainly played mental gymnastics with myself. As soon as I start thinking about our home and community in the Palisades – about the now-destroyed public library where we homeschooled the kids, their karate dojo, the farmer’s market on Sundays, our tiny patio where I grew herbs, the way the morning sunlight streamed through the French doors at the back and hit the breakfast table just right – I pull myself out of it and I count our blessings.
For example, a group of women I spent a few days with on a fellowship back in 2023 pooled together and Venmo’d me money so I could buy some essentials. “If we lived closer we’d be bringing you food and clothes,” they told me. I haven’t spoken to these women since the fellowship, and I was deeply, deeply touched. Another friend I met up for breakfast with when I was in Seattle for two nights for a reporting job handed me a box of maternity clothes and baby onesies. She’d been collecting them for me, and a friend of hers – who I’ve never met – had gone out and bought me some brand new maternity bras.
And finally, the innumerable emails from complete strangers that I’ve received after TV interviews I’ve done, offering myself and my family a place to stay. One woman emailed me all the way from Seattle. She had seen CNN interview me, and I happened to do the interview from my car, because I had no other place to call in from. “You are so welcome to stay in my home for as long as you need,” she said in this email, telling me a bit about herself – a widow in her seventies, with two dogs. In a strange twist of fate, this was right before my reporting job in Seattle. My gut told me to reply, and I did, and we ended up staying with her for the two nights, and making a friend for life.
It’s truly these acts of kindness – and there are so many more I don’t have room to mention – that have pulled me through the past two weeks. On top of everything, I’m six months pregnant. These acts of kindness have kept me grateful, they’ve humbled me, and they’ve shown me that in the midst of all of this chaos and darkness and turbulence, there is so much generosity out there.
Los Angeles has a reputation for being a cold, detached city, where everyone lives in their self-centered silos, trying to “make it.” But this tragedy has united the city in a way I’ve never seen before. The entire city has banded together to volunteer and look after those of us who have been ousted from their homes. People have opened doors that have been shut for decades, offering to take in anyone who needs a bed. It’s given me a fondness for the city I never had before.
I’m driving back south along the I5 now, heading towards home. We’ve made the most of the credits AirBnB distributed to fire victims, but they’re about to run out. We have a complimentary hotel room booked for seven nights, thanks to LA’s 211 nonprofit partnership with the Hilton. I’m half dreading it – wondering whether this is when what I’ve lost will really hit home, when the four of us are all either trying to work and take Zoom calls or do schoolwork and online classes, all from the same hotel room. The other half of me can’t wait to get back to my community and pitch in to help where I can.
I’m deeply worried about the pollution, and the impact it might have on my unborn child. The air quality index I usually rely on tells me the air in LA – and even in the Palisades, the worst hit neighborhood – is “good.” I can’t believe that. Other reports tell me chlorine and lead levels have soared. One friend who lives in Santa Monica, where we will be staying in our hotel room, says the neighborhood is blanketed in ash. We tried to find a hotel room in a different part of the city but it feels as if the entire city is unsafe. We can’t go too far east because of the Altadena fires. At least this way we’ll be by the ocean breeze, which I figure will help dispel at least some of the pollutants. But to be honest, I’m just guessing.
As for the future, we’re trying not to think too far ahead. The next events on the horizon I’m focusing on are my stepson’s 9th birthday, and my 28-week scan – they’ll both take place while we’re staying at the Hilton. After we’ve exhausted our hotel stay, who knows where we’ll go.
Lucy Sherriff is a British journalist with over 10 years experience reporting on the environment, social justice and human rights. She is a regular contributor to The Story Exchange. We’ll be checking back with her to see how she (and baby) are doing.