I first saw the fire at 6:22 p.m. from my back patio. By 7 p.m., I had evacuated to a friend’s house in South Pasadena. As the San Gabriel Mountains—the background of my life—blazed away, my family and I anxiously texted friends, refreshed social media apps, and turned on the television, looking for any news to update me on the status of the fire.

Less than ten miles away, my life was in jeopardy. The places I call home—my house, my temple, my workplace, and the familiar shops and businesses I drove by every day—were at risk. After fleeing the flames, my family was glued to the TV. The live broadcast of the destruction only increased my sense of despair.

I watched in silence. At times, my heart beat so fast I wanted to stand up and take a walk to get fresh air—but there was nowhere to walk. I was not at home, surrounded by Altadena oaks and cool air. I could do nothing but watch the burning.

I watched the houses I drove by every day turn to ashes. Selfishly, I felt comforted by the anonymity of the people who lived in those homes. The fire hadn’t hit my life—yet.

But embers know no bounds. Carried by the wind, the flames reached my synagogue, the Pasadena Jewish Temple and Center. The place where I attended elementary school, youth group, and Hebrew school—and the building that housed the largest community of Jews in the San Gabriel Valley—burned to the ground, right in front of my eyes.

Reporters stood next to the flames. The synagogue was one of the first major structures to burn down. My group chats began exploding, texting a series of repetitive “OMG”s and “This is not real.”

I often walk to my synagogue. I knew my house could be next. I didn’t think I would be hearing my street’s name on the broadcast.

In the most climatic moment of my life, instead of channeling my emotions into words or action—as I usually would—I felt helpless. I retreated to the bed where I was staying for the night, put on an episode of How I Met Your Mother, and stared at the wall, listening to the familiar jokes I normally laugh at, this time with a straight face.

There was something uniquely traumatizing about watching the fire spread on a news broadcast. Perhaps it was the sense of helplessness, watching my life burn away and being so far removed. Perhaps it was instead that my life was on display in disarray and disaster for everyone to see—it was an invasion of privacy in the spaces I felt intimate with. Loss is a complex emotion, and I can’t pinpoint exactly what I felt and why I felt it.

The morning after the fire, which quite frankly felt like a nightmare, I found myself petrified. I didn’t want anyone to know I was awake. I didn’t want to wake up to a reality without my home. If I stayed still, I thought I could stop the inevitable.

I eventually faced my fears, rose up from the guest bed, and learned that we still knew nothing. My stoic dad decided that he needed to know, so he embarked on a drive up Orange Grove, all the way until he hit my home.

Tracking his location on my phone, my heart pounded as block by block, he approached our home. To my shock and extreme gratitude, the house was still standing. There was some damage. My trampoline was gone and so were the hedges on my fence; but in what felt like an act of God, my house remained.

We later found out that neighbors stayed behind and put out the fire on the side of my house themselves. Their act of kindness and bravery saved my most special place: my home.

I am privileged. I am grateful. My home emerged almost entirely unscathed, while much of my community cannot say the same.

Driving around Altadena before the National Guard arrived, I saw the devastation firsthand. Right now, it’s easy to feel that our community will never be the same. I can’t say that I have a positive outlook on the situation—that would be an insensitive take from someone who walked out lucky.

What I can and will say is that losing the places I love has forced me to ask: What does community mean?

Is community defined by a shared space or a shared people? The correct answer is probably both. But what I’ve learned is that the Altadena community can and will persist, no matter the place.

My synagogue has been gathering at different locations every week—a church, a Catholic high school, another synagogue. Despite the unfamiliar scenery, our prayers are the same, our conversations have the same magnitude, and the people who joined together express the same love and respect for one another.

I have no doubt that the other Altadena and Pasadena communities I re-enter will feel the same.

Our hearts, values, and unity are still here—in fact, they feel stronger than ever.
The coming months will no doubt be difficult. Efforts to rebuild will take time; future fires and winds will be traumatic. I still wake up at night thinking I smell smoke—maybe I do, as the toxins linger.

But what I walk away with comfort in is the strength of our communities. We will build back together.