The Places We Leave and What They Leave In Us

On running away and a season spent in Los Angeles

Earlier tonight, I saw a video of the Hollywood sign in flames. As a rush of emotions rapidly rose through my body, I was confused by how hard seeing this was hitting me.

Thankfully, the video was a fake. But the heaviness lingered. It was more than just the immediate heartbreak of knowing so many are grappling with the current wildfires. The fear I felt for my friends, loved ones, and everyone scrambling to evacuate was almost tangible. But beneath it, there was something older, a feeling I couldn’t shake.

Seeing pictures of smoke and flames closing in on familiar places, on the places I once took friends and family to visit, felt oddly personal, like the past had suddenly reached out and grabbed me. I didn’t expect this visceral, unsettling mix of grief and memory. Los Angeles is beautiful and complicated, but then again, I suppose that’s true of any place where we’ve built connections and experienced heartbreak.

For a short season, I lived in Valley Village, a neighborhood in L.A. I moved there to escape—to get away from the pain and memories waiting for me at home. But it never works out that way, does it? You can’t outrun yourself.

Around LA, 2009

No matter where you go, YOU go with you. You bring your grief with you, and I had plenty of it to unpack. A beautiful, sunny climate and geographical distance weren’t enough to dull the ache of losing my dad or to quiet the storms I was carrying inside of my body. I didn’t know about my own neurodivergence, though I suspected there was more to me than just grief and culture clash.

I don’t think about that chapter of my life often. It feels distant now, like a fever dream, so much so that I’ve rarely reflected on the person I was during those months, at least not in recent years. Life has changed so much since 2009, but looking back tonight, I realize how deeply unsettled I was back then. I doubt I was a good roommate. I’m not sure I was a good friend, either. I was hurting too much and too scared to acknowledge it. Grief and denial can do that to a person—turn them inward and brittle.

I always said I’d go back someday. Back then, I dreamed of working in PR, hiking the canyons, and having a cute little apartment where I’d host friends. Or maybe, I thought, maybe I’d return more often as a professional and a tourist. Definitely someone who wasn’t a broke college student this time. I promised I’d reconnect with the friends who were kind to me during a time when I couldn’t be kind to myself.

But I never returned, and life moved on. Somewhere between the years and the miles, it feels like I’ve glossed over that season entirely. It’s easy to forget about the choices I made—impulsive ones, like moving across the country so soon after losing my dad. I left because it was easier than telling my mother the truth about how deeply I was hurting. And less than a year later, I was back home, feeling like my life had blown up yet again. I stumbled forward, went back to school, found a job, and most unexpectedly, found my faith.

Maybe it’s a kind of grace that so much of my past feels like it has faded, buried under the clarity and healing that came with becoming a Christian and doing the intense work of therapy. The grief, the many ways I tried to escape the present, the chaos of my late teens and early 20s—it’s a chapter I’ve avoided rereading. It’s hard to reconcile that version of myself with who I’ve become. The pain feels like someone else’s story, one I’d prefer not to revisit. But sometimes revisiting matters.

There’s value in taking time to examine the parts we’d rather leave as ashes swept into a forgotten corner of our minds, as uncomfortable as it may be. We know growth doesn’t happen all at once in the natural world, either. It’s the accumulation of trials and missteps, of resilience forged through trial after trial. My first big failure made the second one a little easier to bear. Then the third, the fourth, and so on.

Along the way, life handed me tools like time, healing, and a maturing brain that finally started making sense of patterns and mistakes. Slowly, I think I may have built something resembling wisdom.

Perhaps it’s unique to a neurodivergent brain, but I doubt it. Maybe how we make sense of the patterns is different, but I take comfort in recognizing how universally human this process of maturing and learning is. We’re all sorting through experiences, filing away lessons, searching for what’s familiar because it feels safe, even if it isn’t. And we crave safety, especially when parts of our world are quite literally burning.

Maybe that’s why seeing those flames tonight unsettled me so deeply. It wasn’t just about the fire or the place. It was about who I was when I ran there, the safety I was searching for but didn’t find. It was about how far I’ve come since then, and how much I still have to reckon with.

L.A., and my brief time there, was part of that journey. It wasn’t the escape I’d hoped for, but it was a chapter that shaped me nonetheless. But watching images of it in flames tonight doesn’t feel transformative or hopeful. It just hurts. It reminds me that loss rarely resolves neatly, and we have to carry it with us, no matter how much we grow—no matter how much we build and rebuild around it.

---

If you’re still with me, I want to share a few resources and organizations who are helping on the ground right now:

• These are all of the GoFundMe pages for people affected by the wildfires.

• California Fire Foundation’s SAVE program provides immediate, short term relief to victims of home fires.

• LA Food Bank is working with 600+ local resources to help meet needs.

• Los Angeles Fire Department Foundation is taking donations to help fund emergency shelters, hydration packs for firefighters, tools to clear roads and slow the fires, and more.

• California Community Foundation’s Wildlife Recovery Fund

• If you’re local-ish, consider fostering a dog or a cat for a family who is displaced by the fires. Local humane societies and pet rescues may be able to help you. Here’s the link to an update from the Pasadena Humane Society if you want to donate directly to wildfire relief, as well.

• Also, this isn’t an immediately tangible way to support, but this is a comprehensive list of resources and supports from Disability Rights California.

I’m praying for a swift end to the fires around Los Angeles and for the safety, restoration, and recovery of all affected.

Until next time, friends.