I didn’t forfeit anything. I lost everything.

I’m more fortunate than I could ever anticipate. I am desperately fixated.

I have been rescued. No one else shall be rescued.

I am imploring loudly as I take a sharp turn into a cul-de-sac in the lush Altadena where I have resided for the past twelve years.

“Long live Mary, full of grace…”

This occurs Wednesday morning, mere hours after the Eaton Fire commenced ravaging thousands of lives, yet flames persist. On every block, the atmosphere remained thick with smoke and the streets were still obstructed by debris, but my fiancée Roxana and I had just experienced a sleepless night filled with dread. I had to be here. I needed to witness it.

Did we overlook this most malevolent lottery ticket? Have we faced the wrath of hell?

I roar and quiver as Roxana, with courageous resolve, maneuvers her vehicle through the flames and departs towards the blackened, scarred road. There you notice a small fence and a little white structure, and there it stands, resilient in the woods. The remnants of my cherished neighborhood.

Our residence. It persisted. Did it truly persist?

“The Lord is with you…”

I was overwhelmed with thankfulness and relief, leading me to tears. Then, as I surveyed the desolate, smoldering scenery, my heart quickly sank into a deeper feeling.

Experiencing guilt.

I was present, but where was everyone else? Where was my neighbor? Where were my companions? Why was I still here while they weren’t?

The individual who resided next to me inhabited a grand old house that was perpetually vibrant with life. It has vanished, a singed carcass, a depiction of demise. Why did that fire spare me?

Directly across the street was the neat dwelling of a gracious old professor who thrived in the shade of exquisite trees. No longer. There is nothing more exquisite than this. No more solitude. I am homeless now. The foundations of her shelter lay broken and piled up, with embers still flickering. Why was she so unfortunate when I was so fortunate?

She had a remarkable attorney living next door who never voiced a complaint about my car being parked in front of her beautifully restored home. Everything vanished. Absolute carnage. Her proud accomplishments were turned to dust. Why didn’t you simply lose everything instead?

Times columnist Bill Plaschke stands outside his home in Altadena on Monday, January 13, 2025. It was one of the few homes in his neighborhood that didn’t burn down during the wildfire.

(Mark Potts/Los Angeles Times)

Out of the eight residences in my cul-de-sac, four remained undamaged, three sustained some harm, and my house seemed to be the only one untouched. There was no justification for it. No reasoning behind it. Neighbor
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Phil Barrera mentioned he worked late last night and discovered a minor fire behind the boundary of the property. I will always commend him for protecting the structure, but it is certainly accurate that it went beyond that.

The blaze that encircled our home from every direction did not incinerate it. There must be some explanation. What could that explanation be?

During a chaotic visit on Wednesday morning, we hurried through the residence as flames danced in the street beneath us. We were enveloped by the aroma of smoke, yet everything else appeared normal. Every item remained as we had left it. Surrounding the brown prickly Christmas tree were all the decorations of daily existence: old magazines, blankets, hastily tossed socks.

Their lives have been altered forever, as have the lives of countless Angelenos who are thankful their residences endured.

Our house needed to be stripped, scraped, and essentially dismantled down to the drywall and insulation due to smoke impairment, yet we considered ourselves fortunate.

We could have lost every piece of our furniture, but we were fortunate.

Once we regain the ability to reside in our home again (which may require several months, given the issues with water and electricity), we will be living in the midst of a construction zone for the ensuing two years, yet we are fortunate.

If you detect guilt in these remarks, it feels appropriate—an intense guilt. Why have so many others been deprived of their treasured photo albums while we retain ours? Why have so many others lost their cherished photo albums while our fundamental floor plan persists unchanged? Will I have to recreate my daily life from the ground up?

A few years back, I authored a book about the resilient Paradise High School football team. The team achieved an almost undefeated season mere months after the 2018 Camp Fire devastated the town. It was titled “Paradise Found,” with its central figure being the resilient head coach Rick Prinz, whose home surprisingly escaped destruction.

This week, I contacted Prinz to discuss survivor’s guilt. He affirmed its reality, stating he felt it immediately.

Firefighters are trying to prevent the blaze from spreading to adjacent homes during the Eaton Fire in Altadena on January 8th.

(Gina Ferrazzi/Los Angeles Times)

“I was so moved when I discovered that the house was safe from the flames. I was incredibly thankful and astonished,” he remarked. “We also grappled with guilt for the many we lost. We kept our happiness to ourselves instead of sharing it with others. I would prefer to avoid telling people that I survived despite the significant losses I faced.”

Prinz admitted that the guilt of survival led him to his most troubling thoughts: “There were instances when I pondered, ‘Well, perhaps it would have been better had the house burned down,” he stated.

However, he acknowledged that restoring the house would be immensely challenging and redirected his focus there. – “Existing amidst the scars of the fire, rising insurance costs, relentless construction, distressing road conditions…survivor guilt starts to diminish,” he noted.

That guilt still persists today. I don’t complain. I can’t complain. I have no justification to complain.

Even a single minute spent in that house is preferable to the dreadful fate that awaited many who were not afforded that chance.

From this point onward, each day in that house will stand as a testament to sheer fortune and favorable winds, along with Phil Barrera, and indeed, I had no involvement in any of it—how am I supposed to react to that?

Many individuals in Los Angeles find themselves in a comparable predicament. Forcibly uprooted nomads who dwell displaced despite their homes remaining intact, possibly unable to return home until spring, facing a long and convoluted journey, surely like Prinz, already yearning for the complete destruction of their homes. Some may wish for it, as it would allow them to begin the rebuilding process from absolute zero.

You know who you are, those among you whose homes were preserved in spite of the threats that sought to obliterate them. You’re aware of it, and others perceive you in the same light.

Not long ago, while I was browsing online waiting for the green light to return home, someone approached me while walking a large dog through the tight corridors of the hotel, a frequent sight these days.

“Good morning, are you an evacuee?” she asked brightly.

“Yes,” I responded.

“I lost everything,” she said.

“I didn’t,” I replied.

The conversation ended there. She abruptly turned and walked away in a different direction. I felt like an outsider. I was deemed unworthy to discuss unmeasurable losses. I wasn’t a true survivor.

Strong winds propel embers into the atmosphere, providing fuel to the Eaton Fire that ignited in Altadena on January 8th.

(Gina Ferrazzi/Los Angeles Times)

At that moment, I comprehended that, no, we are all survivors, and despite residing in unspoiled areas with electricity and water and life, we are all affected. We all have been scorched. We will all experience pain.

Just because your house is intact doesn’t imply you are too.

Currently, I’m attempting to stand tall, yet I’m not there yet. I consider myself fortunate, but I feel restricted. I’ve discovered in the past few days that although it pales in comparison to overt losses, hidden losses can still be deeply felt. For those of us whose residences remain undamaged from the blaze, we cannot and ought not openly confess it, but it is an undeniable truth.

I am a creature of habit and bound to routine. They plead for the same press box during the Dodgers’ playoff journey, navigate the same peculiar paths to USC football matches, and don the same simple black outfits to every sport event.

And now my home is present, yet everything else has vanished: my customs, my practices, my everyday routine.

I frequently traveled down the lovely Calle Altadena on my commute. That road now resembles an extensive junkyard. I used to stop at the Chevron station on the corner daily to grab snacks and chat about the Lakers with the proprietor. It has turned into a charred remnant.

My beloved hamburger joint is no more. One of my preferred breakfast spots is gone. The dive bar that helped unite the community has disappeared. The pizza place is no longer there. The hardware store where I purchased air filters last week has closed down.

From Altadena to the Pacific Palisades, you too have a narrative akin to this. You lost your favored watering hole, your preferred grocery outlet, a segment of the city that had become your sanctuary, your strength, your closest ally. These types of stories are prevalent throughout Los Angeles. Our everyday lives have been obliterated beyond recognition. There is loss, there is devastation, it is rampant, and no one is maintaining a tally; it’s all grim and demands resilience. Last week, its strength was palpable, even on my little charred street.

During a short visit to our residence the day after the blaze, neighbor Brian Pires stood in the center of the road as flames leaped from his corner lot, awestruck that his house had persevered as well. That was his garage. Suddenly, it ignited. He lacked water, no hose, no opportunity, but he did not surrender. He hopped into his vehicle and sped back to the highway, quickly returning with two fire trucks in tow. He somehow located the firefighters himself and led them into the blaze, which they swiftly quenched.

At that instant, he was not merely a chiropractor defending a house; all of Los Angeles was striving to revive it with an incredible bravery that transcended all tragedies.

Many of us might never overcome the guilt of residing in a home that remains upright. But truly, we owe it to those who have lost everything to ensure they endure.