“Fiona, wake up. Wake up and pray. Wake up and pray for Dad. Pray for our home.”
These were the first words my mom said to me on Jan. 8. It was 7:30 a.m. in Taipei, Taiwan, and 3:30 p.m. in Los Angeles, where the fire had begun its destruction just hours earlier. Five hours prior, in Pacific Palisades, Calif., dark, twisting plumes of smoke had curled through the sky, signaling the beginning of something far greater than I could imagine.
At first, my dad had been unperturbed. Wildfires were nothing new to us. I had grown up waking to ash scattered on our porch, the sun fighting to break through a sky turned an eerie orange–grey by the smoke. This was just part of life growing up against the mountains of the Palisades. I had evacuated before, watching the hills light up like a Christmas tree with burning embers at night. So when the fire started spreading, my dad left our house with only the clothes on his back, assuming it would be another quick evacuation, a temporary inconvenience.
But three hours later, the fire had enlarged to six times its size, turning roads into immovable queues of cars and forcing people to flee on foot. The embers blazed brighter than the sun, burning the edges of the roads like glowing coals in the dusk. By the time I woke up, the inferno had already consumed much more than we could have known.
In Taiwan, far from the chaos of the Palisades mountains, I was seated in a temple garden. The calm rain softly trickled against lush greenery, the cool air carrying the scent of incense from the open doors. Beads of water clung to the foliage, reflecting the muted glow of lanterns hanging from the eaves. Yet amidst the peace surrounding me, my heart thundered with the mounting sense of helplessness. Notifications blared from my phone, pulling me back into the fires raging thousands of miles away. In that moment, the stillness around me felt unattainable, distant, unreachable—my thoughts consumed by a desperate prayer, clinging to any trace of hope, even as they crashed through the floodgates of anxiety.
Long before the fires had started, I’ve grappled with climate anxiety. It has been a constant companion since I first felt the weight of the climate crisis in middle school.
This anxiety became particularly intense months prior, during my fall 2024 semester. Then, I couldn’t stop reading perpetually bleak news, a torrent of alarming statistics, wildfire warnings on both coasts, and urgency that wasn’t met with action. I spent countless nights drowning in articles, feeling the slow descent into despair. I kept moving, kept focusing on my assignments, on all the activities and events that filled up my Google calendar—but when I closed my eyes at night, I could see blazes swelling against the beat of my heart pounding. My sleep suffered as nothing seemed to quell it. It was a constant fear of impending disaster, one that came with no escape, no tangible solution, no relief in sight.
Then, my anxieties turned to reality.
For the week following that dreadful January morning, I couldn’t stop scrolling. I scrolled endlessly, ravenous for updates, for information—desperate to know what had become of my home, my friends. I scrolled to numb myself against the terrifying reality that loomed, inching closer to my sanity with each passing hour. The images began to flood in: my fire–scorched elementary school, ruined homes I spent time in for after–school playdates, a now blackened and crumbled mural I painted in high school, the grocery store where I bought my daily afternoon snacks reduced to ash, charred memories. I clung to these photos with a desperate need. With each image that arrived, I begged for more—filling the void, even as it dragged me deeper into sorrow.
After landing in Los Angeles, my mom, brother, and I were armed with N95 masks bought in preparation in Taiwan, ready to face the overwhelming task of figuring out everything. Our priorities included securing a roof over our heads, as my dad’s office and car simply didn’t have enough room for all four of us. But as friends saw us return to Los Angeles, they rallied around us in an outpouring of generosity. Clothes, toiletries, homes—anything to provide stability in the aftermath—arrived from friends and strangers alike.
In the midst of this overwhelming kindness, I began to reflect on how lucky and privileged I truly was. Despite the devastation, my house miraculously stood—still intact against a backdrop of melted cars and once lush mountains reduced to ash. Unscathed except for the acrid lingering smoke embedded within the walls, sofas, and curtains. My parents faced uncertainty, unsure of where they would stay long term as rebuilding and remediation efforts commenced. After our immediate needs were met (housing graciously provided by a close friend), I had the privilege of swiftly leaving for school at Penn, donning my N95 one last time to go to the airport.
What I didn’t expect to witness in the wake of this fire was the power of collective action. Across Los Angeles, communities rallied in ways that truly amazed me. Donations flooded in—not just the usual food, clothing, and toiletries, but items that breathed life into the soul of a city trying to heal. Musicians who had lost their instruments were gifted new ones, ready to create once again. Children who had lost their homes were soothed by puppet shows offered over FaceTime, finding comfort in laughter despite the turmoil surrounding them. Strangers opened their homes to those in need; neighbors came together to rebuild not only houses but the very heart of Los Angeles.
This outpouring of generosity and unity changed something in me. I realized that no matter how helpless or overwhelmed I may feel, I am never powerless in the face of crisis.
In times of tragedy, the temptation to falter is always present. The problems we face feel too large, too complex to tackle on our own. Even now, months after Jan. 8, I still carry the weight of anxiety. There are days when I quietly cry in lecture when I can’t help but think the worst of climate change is yet to come and the fear of the unknown tightens into a knot I can’t untangle.
But amid that fear, I’ve discovered that even the smallest actions can carve hope. Action can begin with something as simple as listening—being a compassionate ear for someone sharing their experiences, or absorbing the wisdom of those who have already walked similar paths of advocacy and rebuilding. From there, action can evolve into tangible contributions, like volunteering at a seed bank, aiding the recovery of native plants lost to fires, or assisting in food drives to support displaced families.
I don’t need to erase anxiety to find purpose. I can hold both: the ache of helplessness and the courage to act. Through the collective strength I’ve seen from Los Angeles, I find the will to keep pushing. For my home. For my community. And for a world that desperately needs all of us to keep pushing forward.
