I don’t know about others, but the grief I felt after my mom died is the same grief I’m experiencing this week, watching a city I love and cherish burn to the ground.

Part of me wants to see the ruins with my own eyes, to make sure it’s real—just like when I visited the site where my mom was killed. But most of me doesn’t want to go anywhere near it, because seeing it would make it all too real.

It’s strange. I never lived in the Palisades. The closest I came was the Santa Monica/West LA border. I never lived in Altadena, either—North Hollywood was as close as I got.

Yet, this overwhelming feeling of loss and destruction hangs over me. Maybe it’s the hours and hours of watching TV. Maybe it’s the texts from friends who’ve lost everything.

I’ve had it easy. I haven’t lost anything personally. Do I feel guilty? Absolutely. While others are struggling, I’m remodeling a new house.

I love this city. I’ve loved it since I was 7, when I hung a map of the LA metro on my wall like a fan poster. This city drew me in, captured me, and I’ve never wanted to be anywhere else.

I think it’s okay to grieve what was lost, even though I didn’t lose a home or business. More than anything, I’m grieving for others and for what once was, and will never be again. 

This city, as odd and disjointed as it is, connects us in a spiritual way. If you know that feeling, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

I wanted to write out my thoughts publicly in hopes these feelings resonate with you too. Maybe they do, maybe I’m just sensitive I dunno.