I'm a Therapist Who Escaped the LA Fires. Healing Has No Roadmap

The morning of Tuesday, January 7 began with an ominous warning. Not just wind, but 80 mph gusts that sent weighted patio furniture flying and stung my eyes with debris.

As I walked my dogs, I noticed the unprecedented strength of these Santa Ana winds—their chaos unmatched in my memory. Two hours later, when news broke of the Palisades Fire, that morning unease crystallized into stark reality.

I packed my car before the evacuation orders came. Within an hour, it arrived—my phone erupting with a shrill warning, followed by a barrage of neighborly texts. I evacuated to my mother's tiny home—where two large dogs, one kid, and a collection of hastily rescued musical instruments competed for space. I've cycled through waves of despair and hope, accepting our home must be gone, then daring to imagine it might survive.

As a therapist witnessing this disaster unfold in my own community, I find myself in a unique position—both professional and survivor. My heart breaks for the displaced families sleeping in shelters, the animals fleeing through charred canyons, and the 100,000 neighbors forced from their homes. The weight of this collective loss staggers me. What should I do? echoes in my mind. Yet healing begins when we accept that there's no perfect roadmap through trauma.

Your first step toward healing—turn off the constant news cycle. Information is one thing, but being repeatedly traumatized by the footage is another. Your healing won't come from refreshing news feeds. It lives in the small mercies—a stranger's helping hand, your child's resilient smile, the quiet courage of being present—even when presence feels impossible.

For those grappling with survivor's guilt—your home spared while others weren't—know this: you too have survived a horrible tragedy. The fire happened because of 100 mph winds and the force of Nature—it was out of your control. Rather than dwelling in guilt, choose one family or charity to help. Luck is random. It wasn't your fault.

Marci found solace in volunteering at a local distribution center. "I felt helpless watching the news," she told me, "but helping others sort donations gave me a sense of control." This illustrates a fundamental truth about trauma recovery—connection heals. When we reach out to neighbors, offer support, or simply share our stories, we weave a web of collective resilience.

For those who lost their homes, I recommend tying your heart to the memories of family—not the structure itself. Recently, I prescribed this for an elderly couple who spent an afternoon looking through old family photos—not of the house, but of birthdays, graduations, and summer picnics. This seemingly simple act of remembering joy serves a profound purpose.

The simple act of walking can rewire trauma's hold on our nervous systems. Our brains respond to this natural rhythm, processing what feels impossible to face still. Trauma can leave us in a functional freeze—and moving shifts the energy from stuck to flowing. Add conversation with a trusted friend, and you've created a powerful healing ritual.

Music pierces through trauma's fog when words can't reach you. Let familiar songs—happy or haunting—unlock those frozen feelings. Your playlist can become a powerful tool for emotional release. Whether it's your old workout playlist or a high school anthem, music speaks directly to our nervous system, creating a safe passage through grief. Put on headphones, close your eyes, and let the melodies guide you back to feeling.

In times of upheaval, establishing small daily rituals can anchor us. Start with morning coffee in the same cup, a brief meditation, or simply making your bed. These modest acts of normalcy tell your nervous system that despite the chaos, you can create pockets of predictability. When everything feels uncertain, routine becomes rebellion against helplessness.

When emotions feel too big to hold, let paper bear their weight. You don't need to be a writer—just honest. Document your experience without editing or judgment. These raw accounts become powerful testimony to both loss and survival. They also help you process deep hidden emotions.

Seek out others who understand your specific experience. Whether it's fellow evacuees, parents managing displaced children, or pet owners coordinating animal rescue—shared experience creates instant connection. Online support groups have emerged organically, offering 24/7 community when sleep eludes you.

Two weeks after evacuating, I returned to find wind damage to my home and air thick with smoke. One side of our canyon is scorched bare, yet miraculously, firefighters managed to save our little community with 30 structures lost. Access remains limited, with National Guard checkpoints allowing only residents to return. Topanga Canyon Boulevard to Pacific Coast Highway will remain closed long-term while crews restore power lines. But rain has been bringing hope for full fire containment.

The truth is, we're all finding our way through this together—stumbling sometimes, discovering new paths other times. There's no linear progression, no checklist to complete. Some days, healing looks like helping at a community center, other days, it's barely getting out of bed—and both are equally valid responses to extraordinary circumstances.

Feeling lost is not a failure of recovery, but part of the process itself. The path to healing often reveals itself not through knowing, but through doing what feels intuitively right in the moment—whether that's reaching out to a neighbor, humming a familiar tune, or simply stepping into the sunshine. In this shared journey of recovery, that is enough.

Melissa Garner Lee LMFT, is currently writing her novel "The Gleaner"

All views expressed are the author's own.

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