The Job I Didn’t Interview For

The week of the fire, I remember Eric saying to me on the 405 as we headed north to our new home aka living with my in-laws in my mid-30s:

“The number one thing I really want you to focus on for the next 12 months is helping us rebuild our lives. You are the matriarch and you hold this family together. I need your help with the kids, and I’ll be entirely focused on being the breadwinner.”

At the time, it felt like a team huddle. Like we were signing up for roles with one clear mission: survival mode. I didn’t realize how much harder my new job would be. And it all happened so quickly too. As we pulled into the parking lot of a hotel that first night and I panicked—because we didn’t have any of Ava’s milk bottles. (I know, I know… I’d been procrastinating on weaning her off the bottle. Guilty.) Leo was begging for his “shark aqua”—what he calls this very specific water bottle—and of course that was gone too. Ava was screaming. Leo was melting down. And his lovey? Burned in the fire—all three backups gone. (Target discontinued them, of course. IYKYK.) Eric looked at me and said, “We’re going to be okay,” and I remember thinking: Are we?

Out of Office (But Never Off Duty)

Whoever thinks that being a SAHM is easy, HA. Since temporarily stepping away from real estate since we’re displaced, I’ve actually been working so much more.

And no, it’s not that I can’t technically work. I could go into a Compass office up here in the Bay, smile politely, and maybe sit a few open houses on the weekends. But real estate is about deep roots, local knowledge, and trusted relationships—and I don’t have that here. I’m not a Lamorinda agent. (For those outside the Bay Area, Lamorinda = Lafayette + Moraga + Orinda—a very charming portmanteau, I have to say.) I’ve loved being an unofficial part of the Lamorinda Moms (okay #thepalisadesmoms, we need this) group during this chapter, and the support here has meant so much. But it’s not home.

Back home, I could walk into Gelson’s and know half the people in line. My clients are mostly young families like mine who value my knowledge of local schools, social networks, and relationships with other active Westside agents. (Humble brag, but one of my strengths is finding off-market properties for my buyers—and that’s not something these overnight “Palisades Expert” agents from other areas can fake. You really need to have an insider’s pulse on the market, especially in places like the Palisades, Malibu, and Topanga. We’re very tribal.) We were in the same rhythm of life—so even if my kid’s preschool wasn’t the right fit for their kid, I knew exactly which one would be. I understood their vibe, their commutes, their stage of life. That’s what makes it work. That’s what makes me work. That’s the rhythm I know, and that’s the rhythm that works for them.

It’s just different here.

There’s actually a lot I really like about being up in crunchy NorCal. Honestly, if the situation were reversed—if we were coming from low-key Bay Area to cosmopolitan LA—I think it would’ve been a lot harder. As shallow as it sounds, those first two weeks driving around in an ugly bright gold minivan were a lot easier here than they would’ve been in fancy Brentwood.

That said, my husband hates it here. He had a shitty high school experience, and being back in this town brings it all up again. As a wife and mom, I feel like you’re always walking a tightrope—keeping your husband happy, keeping your kids happy, and then of course, our own happiness comes last (lol).

So, to keep Eric sane but also keep Leo in a consistent preschool, I set an Orinda expiration date. We compromised by agreeing to ride it out here until the end of the school year.

So no, hustling for a maybe-maybe listing in Orinda just doesn’t feel aligned right now. If I’m going to pour myself into something, it’s going to be my family.

What “Not Working” Really Feels Like

The idea of filing for unemployment made me feel like such a loser—even though it’s literally called Disaster Unemployment Assistance. It exists for wildfire victims like me, and my entire livelihood went up in flames (literally). But still. The last time I filed for unemployment was during the first few weeks of another “once-in-a-lifetime” event: the pandemic. (Seriously… can I get a break?) And it wrecked my self-esteem.

I take a lot of pride in my job. And I’m very good at it because I genuinely love what I do. I enjoy people, I love being around beautiful homes, and I’d found this sweet spot in real estate where work just fit into my life. I was lucky—most of my clients were friends, family, or referrals from people I knew. So networking looked like playdates and mom wine nights. Marketing? That was paying to have my face blown up on a life-size banner (awkward at first, lol) at Pali High and Marquez Elementary. It was basically school fundraising—with a perk.

***OG Assistant Energy:*** *You could find me (and Milo) on the fence at Temescal & Sunset at Pali High—repping ADC Real Estate from day one. 🐾*

The Heart of the Home: Family Therapist, Snack-Packing Ninja, Uber Driver, and Personal Cheer Squad on Call 24/7

What I didn’t expect was just how heavy this new role would feel. The pressure to recreate “normal” out of literal ashes is a full-time job—and one I never exactly applied for. It’s not the big, dramatic losses that break you. It’s the small, stupid ones that sneak up and gut-punch you in the middle of a Tuesday. It’s your toddler spiking a fever and realizing you don’t even have a thermometer. It’s showing up at Target at 6:45pm. for Ava’s pacifier, only to find out it’s no longer sold in stores and is only available on Amazon. (Yes, 2-day Prime shipping is great… unless you need it tonight.) It’s ordering seven different pairs of sneakers from Nordstrom that kind of resemble the mint green Adidas Superstars that used to be Leo’s favorite.

And still… I wake up and do it again.

Because here’s the truth: since stepping away from real estate, I’ve actually been working so much more. More physically. More emotionally. More mentally. More than any open house ever required. I’ve become a therapist, chauffeur, school transition coach, home organizer, lunch-packing machine, and emotional barometer for everyone in my family.

And I know I’m not alone. My SAHM friends are holding down so much right now—especially the ones who, like me, didn’t choose this role, but had it handed to us by crisis. There’s no PTO for picking up the pieces. No paycheck for patching together normalcy. But somehow we do it anyway.

I Miss Home

The Palisades just made everything so easy. Everything I needed was close by. (Side note: I hate driving. I know—why did I move to LA? 😂) But that’s the magic of the Palisades. It’s its own little town. I was spoiled. We were spoiled. Driving to Santa Monica and dealing with parking just for a Pilates class felt like such a trek. So when Neighborhood Pilates opened up in the village? Total game-changer. The best classes, hands down. Chic, welcoming, and run by powerhouse women who just get it—no surprise, considering the founders also created Daily Drills, one of my favorite brands.

After the fire, Daily Drills sent me the most thoughtful care package. What makes it even more meaningful? I know the founders also lost their homes. They are one of us. I can’t imagine being super pregnant and still having the energy to think about others, let alone send out care packages to fellow fire families. That’s real community. That’s women showing up for each other. They deserve all the praise.

And yes—mazel tov, Mary Ralph, on your newest arrival, Birdwell! (Okay, we’re not friends, but I follow you on IG and you’ve got a fan over here.)

Honestly, it’s worth pointing out: Daily Drills did more for local moms than, say, SKIMS.

*The Village won’t be the same without you. Wishing you all the love and leg circles in your next chapter,* *Neighborhood Pilates. Miss you already.*

Final Reflection: Owning the Matriarch Role

And also… figuring out how I feel about this massive identity shift. Because spoiler alert: it’s complicated. I miss parts of my career, and while I know this is only temporary until we’re back in LA, I’m also incredibly proud of the job I’m doing right now—in the middle of all this chaos I call life.

I know the work I’m doing is valuable. I know I’m showing up in a way that matters. But I also know how invisible it can feel. So this is me saying it out loud—for me, and for you if you needed to hear it too:

Being the matriarch is the hardest job I’ve ever loved. And listen—I know we’ve all heard “give yourself some grace” about a thousand times (I’ve probably said it, too). But let me say this louder for the moms in the back: you are f*cking killing it.

Seriously. Someone has to say it. Or in my case—shout it from the rooftop while holding a lukewarm coffee and a baby monitor (and no, it wasn’t a Nanit—thanks for not replacing, by the way).

Matriarch Energy Only: What It’s Actually Like Being a SAHM After the Fire