This One’s for the Outsiders: Before You Judge the Free Stuff

Why I’ve Been Scared to Write This

If you’re watching from the outside—maybe you didn’t lose your home, but you care, you’re curious, or even a little skeptical—this one’s for you.

This is the post I’ve been scared to write. Scared of seeming ungrateful. Scared of sounding materialistic. Scared of the snarky comments. But also—tired of being misunderstood.

My best friend Jessica, along with the incredible volunteers from Samaritan's Purse, spent over four hours sifting through the ashes of our home on my behalf. Unfortunately, not much was found, but knowing they gave it their all means more than words can say.

In the Beginning, It Was Survival Mode

In the weeks after the fire, I didn’t have the bandwidth to think about skincare, clothes, or household items. Like most of the families affected, I was focused on my kids. On FEMA paperwork. On replacing birth certificates, passports, social security cards, and other essential documents. On insurance inventories. On grants and loans and sifting through the emotional wreckage of what used to be our normal. Shopping wasn’t even on my list—and trust me, I wasn’t alone in that.

Now That We’re Ready to Rebuild, the Help Has Slowed Down

Two months out, we’re finally coming up for air—barely. And just as we start to feel ready to piece together the little things that make up a home, that early wave of help and compassion has mostly dried up.

Yes, We’ve Received Things. But Here’s What You Might Not Know.

We are not okay. Most of us are severely underinsured. Even for the families whose homes didn’t burn down completely, the cost of cleaning, remediating, and rebuilding is overwhelming.

Debris removal? Not free. Even if you go with the government’s option, it doesn’t include things like removing driveways or hardscape—and yes, we’re required to cover that. Oh, and the cherry on top?FEMA is standing by its unprecedented decision not to include soil testing in the wildfire cleanup, leaving it as an “optional” out-of-pocket cost for homeowners—as if testing for asbestos, lead, and other toxic contaminants is truly optional. Every unexpected cost chips away at what little we have to actually rebuild.

If I had to replace everything myself, I wouldn’t be buying most of the things we’ve received. These packages aren’t luxuries—they’re donations. They’re lifelines.

It’s a Strange Feeling: Grateful, But Also Uncomfortable

There’s this odd emotional tightrope we walk. We don’t want to be pitied. We don’t want to be seen as charity cases. But at the same time, we do want compassion. We need it.

Some of these gifts have been deeply personal. Jenni Kayne, for example, didn’t just send a box—they sent handwritten notes. They checked in via DMs. It didn’t feel performative. It felt human. Like someone out there still saw us.

I saved them all: The notes tucked into care packages. The cards from friends, family, and total strangers. Every one reminded me: we’re not alone.

More Than Material: The Mental Health Impact

A friend of mine, also a fire survivor, said it so well:

"When I used fancy skincare or put on something soft and beautiful, it did something for my mental health. It reminded me of who I was before this happened. It gave me a boost to keep going."

That resonated deeply with me. These things—soft robes, skincare, a new hair tool—they help re-establish a sense of normalcy. They bring back slivers of identity in a time when everything feels lost. They’re not frivolous. They’re healing.

Why I’m Talking About It Publicly

One of the reasons I started this blog was to give something back. I wanted to publicly thank the brands that stepped up, not just because they sent something, but because they cared. I wanted to show the impact their generosity had, and continues to have.

I know how it looks. My mom even said, gently, after reading one of my early posts: “You might want to be careful with how much you focus on the nicer things… people might not understand.” And she wasn’t wrong. That thought is always in the back of my mind.

But I’m learning that you can’t please everyone. And that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell your truth.

It’s Not "Just Stuff"

So this post is me, trying to explain.

It’s not just stuff. It’s a reminder that we’re still human. It’s a sign that someone out there still cares. It’s comfort when everything else feels stripped away.

And if you’re someone who’s donated, or sent something, or simply not judged—thank you. Truly. You’ve made a hard road feel a little less lonely.