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Opinion

Calling for Relief: A Personal Account of LA's Wildfires

Reflecting on the anxiety — and hope — surrounding the recent devastating fires in California

By Carly Quellman

Growing up in California, every season felt long and lofty, coinciding with the lack of urgency around time.

Wildfires burning in Los Angeles, Calif. Next Avenue
"I refuse to believe it's doomed. Yes, the fires are relentless, but so is the fight to create sustainable communities."  |  Credit: Getty

We prepared for a few bad weeks in late summer, maybe a sudden blaze in autumn. But our family also watched the leaves change from green to reddish golden brown. I begged and pleaded with the world to somehow give my California winters a tinge of snow.

There were a couple of Christmases when I was 7 or 8 years old where I remember using the lids to our garbage cans to slide around outside on the grass. I also remember as I got older there were Christmases where our pool cover was ripped off so we could spend the day swimming in our in-ground pool. 

I don't recall the stark difference back then that is so evident now. Now, the calendar offers no relief. Even the winter months feel hotter and drier than before. Winters used to bring steady rain, nourishing green hills alongside freeways as a result. The storms barely touched us, but when they did, only covering us for a short period, a kind of purge and binge effect. 

Living With Anxiety

Now I wake up to a heartbroken city, surrounded by humans responding to something entirely out of their control. Hearing that neighborhoods around the city are on fire, ash and soot seeping into neighborhoods that no longer stand, blowing across the city into the windows of those that do. Entire communities stay on high alert. Technology sent out alerts in case of evacuation — sometimes in error. The tension is palpable. The feeling of loss, an uncontrollable kind of surrender, emits through the city, illuminating our individual and collective emotion. As I'm writing this, 7,400 structures in Los Angeles have burned. 

It's the constant barrage of warnings, evacuations and breathlessness that takes a toll on everyone's nerves. It's the waiting period for bad news. Or the mood to shift.

I've been in Los Angeles for the past five years. I live with a friend who is new and acclimating to the West Coast. She's learning that beneath a sunny exterior lies a deep anxiety over many things — an anxiety I've felt my entire life. It's not the talk of the "big earthquake" or even the recent flames themselves; it's the constant barrage of warnings, evacuations and breathlessness that takes a toll on everyone's nerves. It's the waiting period for bad news. Or the mood to shift. Or the person to react. It's staying on edge for the inconceivable worst level of exhaustion in comparison to the devastation's proximity to you. All while rapidly cycling through a 24-hour period. 

Maybe you're like me and spent most days of your childhood with your local news channel on, the news reporter speaking in a monotone voice about something awful that happened. I remember asking my parents why this human, speaking face-to-face with me, only a display panel between us, didn't sound upset about the words coming out of their mouth. Neither of them had an answer. Even at a young age I was beginning the desensitization process all while noticing how loud the world outside my front door was. But it was only on TV, right? 

Today I'm aware that these disasters don't stem from bad luck or a simple cyclical process. Climate change is drying out our landscapes, leaving environments brittle. Mix that with the relentless push to build homes in fire-prone areas, and you have a recipe for near-constant catastrophes. Socioeconomic disparities magnify the suffering. When entire neighborhoods burn, wealthier residents rebuild quickly thanks to insurance and resources. Others struggle to navigate bureaucratic red tape and face homelessness or displacement. 

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A Moment to Breathe

When wildfire smoke drifts into LA's neighborhoods, it doesn't just make the sky look hazy — it can seriously mess with breathing. One of the biggest culprits is a pollutant called PM2.5, which is tiny enough to slip deep into lungs and even enter the bloodstream. Smoke from wildfires in the LA area means trouble for just about everyone — especially kids, older adults and people with asthma or chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD). Even otherwise healthy folks can end up coughing, wheezing or feeling short of breath when those levels stay high. 

It feels like the world needs a moment to slow down and breathe. But instead, we can only move forward. Perhaps literally. LA will try to catch up to each fire season both intellectually and literally — even though the fires, a climate crisis of this size, reveal how little progress has been made in addressing root causes. And as members of society we have to do more than address and respond to the problem. We have to do more than mitigate it. We have to change. 

I've witnessed hope — sometimes bordering on magical thinking — but I've also witnessed a call-to-action that's generous and consistent.

Yet, I refuse to believe it's doomed. Yes, the fires are relentless, but so is the fight to create sustainable communities. I've seen it over the past five years. In response to the fires, I see it in person and online. I've witnessed hope — sometimes bordering on magical thinking — but I've also witnessed a call-to-action that's generous and consistent. I watched as digital housing groups grew overnight, community organizations came together, and everyday people scrambled to set up hubs and centers to support those desperately seeking shelter and care. Two things can exist at once. After all, California has always been a place of contradictions: iconic beaches and traffic jams, ambitious glamour and crippling poverty, emerging mountains and monotone voices. 

During and in response to this moment, I often remind myself that self-care is part of the solution. Burning out only adds to the problem. And as cocooned as I often become inside my vortex of bustling emotions and feelings about the world, I'm reminded it's always been, and always will be, bigger than me. In a dream world, people look out for one another, offering safe havens and resources. Strangers step up to help families evacuate. I watched that dream world take place in front of my eyes. Furthermore, I was a participant in that dream. That gives me hope. 

An Opportunity and Task

As a writer, I'm documenting these crises, pitching stories to highlight lived experiences as a way to share the collective emotion that can feel both overwhelming and isolating. When we have conversations about our feelings and don't hide the glaring truth, I believe it's easier to navigate the emotions swirling around us, seemingly just as out of control as the world around us. 

As a yoga teacher, my focus is on creating a space where people can decompress. To be still with everything. The minute students roll out their mats, there's an awareness that lingers in the air. I try to build classes in a way where we can be still with our feelings rather than reactive or trying to escape them. (If that seems counterintuitive or contradictory to you, I say even more reason to begin.) 

Wildfires may continue to be a part of life in Southern California, but they don't have to define us. We can adapt, we can plan and we can insist on policies that address the root causes.

As a human, I'm checking in on my community and my close circle of friends. I am distributing supplies to people I know and trying to take time to reflect on how I can best navigate my feelings. If I let myself get consumed by fear and frustration, I can't effectively support anyone else. This solidarity is what keeps me motivated to make a difference in my own small way. 

This city is made up of us, which means we create opportunities for growth. Right now, a moment of stillness is key. Followed by bold action — not polite conversation — to preserve our state, our neighborhoods and friends alongside acknowledgement of what's shifting inside and outside of us, in support of the present moment. In support of future planning — and our own peace of mind. That's not a romantic notion; it's a practical necessity for surviving in a state that somehow nurtures and radicalizes our rapidly-changing world. 

Wildfires may continue to be a part of life in Southern California, but they don't have to define us. We can adapt, we can plan and we can insist on policies that address the root causes. Above all, we can hold space for ourselves and others, understanding that caring for our mental health is a crucial aspect of confronting any crisis. 

In the same way our lungs expand and contract, so do our experiences of despair and rebuilding. We inhale the uncertainty and smoke of crisis, then exhale hope and resilience — ready to breathe in, rebuild and keep going. While metaphor may seem fleeting, sometimes it can provide us with an understanding of what it means to live a life. To seek improvements and expect more from the people, policies and places that surround us. 

I believe in us. I care for us. And I know that it starts and ends with us.

Carly Quellman
Carly Quellman is a multimedia strategist and storyteller who sits at the intersection of technology and humanities investigating how perspective can enhance, rather than overstimulate, the world. Carly can be found online and near the closest south-facing window in Los Angeles, California. Read More
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