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Losing Everything in the Palisades Fire—And What Comes Next

On January 7, 2025, I lost my home and everything I owned in the Palisades Fire. My story is not unique—every single one of my friends, neighbors, clients, and colleagues affected by the fires are going through the exact same thing. It’s trauma bonding, but for the entire 90272 zip code.

Before the fires—our California dream. The home we bought in the early days of COVID, a beautifully designed and renovated 1954 Midcentury by the talented Lior Schapiro of Numi Home.

And here’s the thing—whether your house burned to the ground or miraculously “survived,” you’re still in for a nightmare. Pick your poison: lose everything and start from scratch, or keep your house and spend the foreseeable future locked in battles with your insurance company over rental assistance, repair costs, and whether your home is even safe to live in.

The morning after the fire on January 8, 2025: I was at the hotel with the kids, while Eric returned to what was left—just ashes and smoke.

But my home wasn’t just my home. I loved hosting, and my door was always open—the go-to spot for impromptu wine nights, playdates, and Mommy & Me classes. It meant so much when friends, neighbors, and parents of Leo’s classmates told me that losing my house felt like a loss for them too—a place filled with so many happy memories.

And that’s exactly what I always wanted it to be.

One of the last events I hosted—a baby shower for my friend, who, like me, lost everything in the fire. We had no idea at the time that this would be one of our final memories in this home.

The Breakdown Over a 13-Minute Drive

For me, the reality of it all hit in the weirdest moments—like the first week of Leo’s new preschool when I realized my once effortless 2-minute commute was now a grueling 13 minutes.(Okay, 13 minutes isn’t exactly a cross-country road trip—I’m being facetious—but you get what I mean.) It was a glaring reminder that nothing about our life was the same. And for whatever reason, that was the moment everything just clicked—I had been running on adrenaline, and suddenly, it wore off. Having to put my son's preschool into Waze was a small gut punch that this wasn’t home anymore. Everything I knew—our routines, our sense of normal—was gone.

This drive was going to be my new routine for who knows how long, and I would never drive Leo to preschool in the Palisades again. Because by the time we go back, he’ll be seven. Seven. He’ll be fucking seven and in second grade. It feels so unfair that we’re losing these precious years.

We had COVID. And now this.

I full-on ugly cried/bawled, but I didn’t want Leo to hear me losing it. So I did what any self-respecting mom in crisis would do—I blasted his favorite song, “Need a Favor” by Jelly Roll (so random, but I kind of love it) at full volume to drown out my sobs. Nothing like a power ballad from a tattooed country rapper to soundtrack your existential breakdown.

The Wardrobe Situation

Then there’s the wardrobe situation.

I know the term capsule wardrobe is overused, but honestly, I can’t think of a better way to describe the wardrobe you’re suddenly forced to rebuild from scratch—on a budget, because you are saving every last dollar for the rebuild. Plus, when you have no idea how many times you’re going to have to move while displaced, the last thing you want to do is schlep around a bunch of unnecessary stuff.

So if I’m going to buy something or keep a donation, I need to really like it. My rule has been: if I wouldn’t buy it, I don’t keep it. I was always kind of a minimalist, but this took it to another level.

I’ve also always been a firm believer in “buy once, cry once”—as in, spend up on a quality item rather than constantly replacing a cheaper version over and over. So as I rebuild my wardrobe, I’ve been a lot more judicious about what actually makes the cut.

My favorite Mommy x Mini knit sweater from Palisades Gift Shop—I repurchased this timeless piece, but this time for both of my minis, Leo and Ava.

But some things can’t be replaced, and those are the ones that hurt the most.

My wedding dress—the one I had carefully packed away, imagining one of my kids might one day want to see it. Our ketubah, signed by our closest friends and family on our wedding day. The purse collection I spent years building—each one tied to a memory, a milestone, a moment of pride. Our Shabbat candlesticks, passed down and used every Friday night to mark the start of something sacred and grounding. The jewelry—sentimental pieces gifted by people I love, or bought to celebrate something I worked hard for.

Clothes and bags are just things—until they aren’t.

And that sucks.

The Hit List & The Sh*t List

And because I have receipts, I’ll be keeping a running list of brands that actually stepped up for the Palisades community—and the ones that ghosted us when it mattered. (Looking at you, SKIMS.)

You can find them under “The Hit List” and “The Sh*t List” tabs, respectively.

Because the News Cycle Moves On, But We’re Still Here

So, why am I even writing this?

First, I need to document this insane journey—partly to process everything, partly to keep track of what I’m learning, and partly because Instagram stories disappear, but this blog will still be here long after my 24-hour meltdown.

But more than that, I don’t want the world to forget about us. And honestly? Some days, it feels like it already has. The news cycle moves on, but we’re still here—sifting through the wreckage, battling insurance, and trying to rebuild something that feels like home.

Whether you’re going through this too, supporting someone who is, or just here for the chaos—welcome. This blog is part survival guide, part therapy session, part escapism, and part unfiltered group text with your closest friends.

If nothing else, at least we can figure this out together.

This isn’t the life I planned, but it’s the one I’ve got—and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that sometimes, all you can do is laugh, ugly cry, and keep moving forward.

Preferably with friends who get it… and a really great glass of wine.

XOXO,

Alicia aka The Palisades Mom