It Wasn't The Buildings

One year after the Eaton Fire

Trying to park, I found myself circling the block to attend the Collaboratory event for Eaton Fire survivors. Believe it or not, I questioned whether I even belonged there—whether I could call myself a survivor since my house was not lost.

I saw my daughter’s friend, who did lose her home. She waved and said she would save me a seat. I was grateful to sit beside her and another survivor, both of whom lost their homes, and to share in quiet solidarity—offering love and support, not explanations.

We listened to local leaders, survivors, and lawmakers. The atmosphere held both hope and seriousness, positivity set against a backdrop of unmistakable sadness. There was a moment of silent reflection, and in that silence I was transported back—evacuating, waiting, and everything that followed.

There isn’t much to say other than this: there is so much heartbreak. People lost so much, and it wasn’t the buildings. It was the memories and the life that happened inside them. It was the legacy of families, interrupted or forever altered. It was the stark reminder that life can change in an instant, and there is no way to recover what is truly lost.

It wasn’t the buildings. It was the memories and the life that happened inside them.

It is the moment when memories become only that. The images once represented by photos, art, and memorabilia are all that remain. It is the moment when the home you worked hard to buy, maintain, and celebrate your life in is simply gone.

I found myself thinking about how those who lost their homes seemed to reabsorb into their community almost immediately—back at work, back in motion. Or at least a shadow version of it. The motions mimicked reality in a superficial way. I tried to understand how deeply this event affected people, knowing full well that I never truly could.

The event included a commemoration meant only for survivors. It was a time for sharing, remembrance, and reflection. People who had never met connected in quiet, meaningful ways. These moments—the words spoken, the emotions shared—were profoundly moving.

Today is January 8. We go forward—not by forgetting, not by comparing losses, and not by rushing toward resolution. We go forward by staying present with one another, by remembering what was, and by choosing to show up long after the anniversary passes. This is not about rebuilding structures alone. It is about rebuilding trust, connection, and a sense of belonging that fire cannot erase.