Today, I’m sharing the story of one of my friends and fellow Palisades Mom—someone who is walking through the very specific, deeply misunderstood hell of surviving the fire… and still losing her home. For insurance reasons, she has to publish this under a pen name. So for now, we’ll call her Ashlee Ember (because if we can’t laugh at the darkness, we’ll drown in it).

Her story is honest, funny, enraging, and important. And it’s exactly why I created The Palisades Mom in the first place.

“It’s a Miracle!” (Except When It’s Not)

Written By Ashlee Embers

“Oh my goodness! Your house is still standing after the fire! It’s a miracle!”
“What a blessing!”
“An angel was watching over your house!”

All I can manage to say is: “Yup.”

While secretly wishing a rogue bulldozer would slam blade-first into my garage.

Record scratch. Freeze frame.

Yep, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I got here.

Here’s the story of how my house survived one of the most destructive fires in California history… and how it’s become a full-blown nightmare.

Welcome to District 12

Every family with a standing house has a unique version of this story. But ours? Our house is the one left standing on our block. It’s giving Hunger Games—but not in a hot, Katniss kind of way. More like, we’re living in District 12… except they had power and running water.

Meanwhile, in some parts of the Palisades, it’s business as usual—white picket fences, manicured lawns, Amazon packages on doorsteps. You’d never guess that just beyond, 24,000 acres look like the containment zone from The Last of Us.

The Santa Ana winds didn’t discriminate. It was completely random—some homes were reduced to ash, while others looked untouched, like nothing ever happened.

(Anyone in touch with Pedro Pascal? Asking for a friend.)

Due to the sensitive nature of this account, our source has chosen to remain anonymous. Please enjoy these photos of Pedro, Prince Harry, and scenes from Fifty Shades of Grey for your viewing pleasure.

So… How Did Our House Survive?

Honestly? We have no idea. Most likely a shift in the wind. Our fence melted into what now looks like a Salvador Dalí painting. It’s surreal.

But here’s the part no one wants to say out loud: I’m not exactly feeling “grateful.”

Because what’s left behind? It’s not livable. It’s toxic.

Not Your Average Wildfire

If you’ve ever Googled how wildfire smoke affects a house, you’ll find plenty of articles about soot, ash, and porous materials. But let me be clear—this wasn’t your typical pine-and-dry-brush fire.

We’re talking ash from incinerated refrigerators, Tesla Cybertrucks, and 100-year-old homes. Given the celeb density in the Palisades, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a little Red Room residue in the mix. (Fifty Shades, anyone?)

The chemicals, the heat, the unknowns… it’s all likely seeped into our insulation and anything remotely porous—fabric, wood, concrete. We haven’t touched a single item from the house because we don’t know what’s safe. Truthfully, we may have to throw everything away. And we may have to tear down the house.

*He won’t fix your insurance claim… but he will distract you from it.*

Technically Standing, Practically Gone

So yeah—our house is technically still standing. But like our neighbors who lost everything, we’ve also lost our home. And almost everything inside it.

I know what you’re thinking… Wouldn’t it have been better if the house had just burned down?

Some days, honestly—yes.

*That feeling when you finally take your bra off after a long day… and the only smoke left is emotional. Pretty sure that’s where most of us Palisades Moms live these days.*

The Insurance Limbo No One Talks About

If your house is a total loss, insurance is relatively straightforward. The home is gone? You had coverage? Great—here’s a check for your things, your rebuild, and temporary housing.

But when your house survives in a chemical war zone?

It’s a gray area. Insurance has sent a hygiene company to test for smoke and soot damage, as well as lead and asbestos levels.

How high do the lead levels have to be before they tear it down?

We don’t know.

What about all the other scary stuff—like cancer-causing chemicals from melted wiring and plastic?

That’s a great question! Much like Prince Harry in Vegas circa 2012, I don’t think the insurance company is all that interested in long-term consequences.

*How much do I think insurance adjusters care about the long-term health consequences for our families? About as much as Prince Harry cared during his Vegas party era: zero f*cks.*

Lawyers, Hygienists, and a Prayer for Rain

Because of how complex this is, we’ve hired an attorney who specializes in homes that survive wildfires. (Yes, that’s apparently a niche now.) We’ve also brought in our own hygienist—someone who literally cuts chunks out of our walls to test for all the contaminants.

Here’s how this might play out:

If both hygienists agree it’s unsafe, we’ll push forward with a rebuild.
If LADWP ever restores power (big “if”), we may at least be able to assess the interior.
If they tell us to throw everything away and hand us the bulldozer keys—honestly, at this point, that’s ideal.

But most likely? There will be disagreement.

Insurance will want to do the bare minimum: replace the upholstered stuff, wipe things down, and retest after “remediation.”

Our hygienist may recommend we manifest a mudslide and start fresh.

So Now, We Wait

We’re in limbo. Still homeless. Still trying to figure out how to parent through this chaos. And still holding space for the hope that one day, this won’t be our reality anymore.

Until then, we keep asking the hard questions. Pushing for answers. And praying someone gets Pedro Pascal to return our calls.

Guest Writer Series: The House That Lived (But Barely)