It’s been not quite three weeks since our home of 26 years was lost in the Malibu fires. As I ease back into normal life (whatever that is) I wanted to write a little about the experience.

Sudden, significant loss takes time to process. When we first heard that our house had burned down, it was surreal — just too big to comprehend. Video footage of homes on our street was passed person to person with heartbreaking text messages. News on TV showed images of neighborhoods I’d spent time in for over 40 years that had been wiped clean, as if a bomb had been dropped. It was devastating.

As the smoke cleared we learned that over 600 homes in our small town were lost to the fire.

On November 20th, we were finally allowed through to see our house. I don’t have a way to describe it, other than to say that it we were mostly quiet, other than repeating, “Oh my God….” as we tried to take it in.

It’s more real now. And although it’s still overwhelming, there is a strange sense of peace — of slowly coming to terms with this loss, having my cries, asking for more hugs, and feeling so very thankful that we are safe.

To be sure, our experience is not the same as many of our friends. Paul and I moved to a nearby town last year so I’m not out shopping for underwear or trying to find a place to stay. But my loss, while different, is very real to me. My days are now filled with conversations about removing hazardous waste and trying to navigate insurance claims. I’m daunted by what lies ahead, from clearing the rubble to trying to imagine the prospects of rebuilding. It is definitely not what I expected to be doing with my life…and yet this is what is.

On Sunday we attended a community meeting in Malibu with hundreds of people who had been affected by the fires. It was both heartwarming and heartbreaking to hug friends and listen to their stories — many of them people I’d known for decades. Being with others and feeling shored up by loved ones — and strangers — has made the days easier.

I raised my son in our home from the time he was 8 months old. It was a place of celebration and joy. My heart is broken at our loss, but I am keenly aware that nothing can or will touch those memories. They are ours forever.

Humans have resources that emerge when we need them, like seeds that only germinate when touched by flames. We are sturdier, more resilient, and capable of deeper gratitude than we might have known.

The story unfolds. Ups, downs, tears, joy. It is something to be human, isn’t it?