What Truly Matters
Loss knows no boundaries. Pain is pain, no matter your zip code, your story, or your bank account.
It’s January 10, 2025,
Words truly fail to capture the heartbreak of what’s happening to our city. First and foremost, I want to say that Torry, myself, the puppies, and our hummingbirds are safe, at the moment. But so many of our friends and people we know haven’t been so fortunate. Their homes, filled with memories and love, are gone.
Just a few days ago, we were preparing to launch a new podcast TODAY in fact, and also share some exciting announcements…
But in light of everything, it feels deeply tone-deaf for me to carry on with "business as usual."
We lost power in our area on Tuesday afternoon and are still without it. Thankfully, we have a small generator. Torr’s Oregon upbringing coming in clutch. It’s enough to keep our fridge running, charge our computers, and allow me the luxury of hot tea (which feels like a small miracle right now). Our internet has been spotty, and we’re under an evacuation warning, but we’re still able to stay in the house—for now. We’ve been in constant communication with loved ones and our neighbors, checking in and staying vigilant.
Tuesday night, we packed essentials in the dark, unsure if we’d have to leave. It’s a surreal moment, having to decide what truly matters when faced with the possibility of losing everything. The phrase “everything is replaceable” kept ringing in my head, and it’s true—most things are. But I found myself reaching for what felt irreplaceable: my Abuelita’s necklace, a picture of my dad from his younger years, the first book I wrote in kindergarten, a belt Torry made for me, and my sandalwood mala beads—the last thing my Abuelita touched before she passed, and something I just got back after leaving it in India (A story for another time). Torry, ever practical, grabbed our important documents: passports, birth certificates, and the like. Everything else? Replaceable.
The evacuation alerts have been relentless, popping up on our phones like an ominous drumbeat. Each one brings a fresh wave of anxiety, that pit in your stomach where fear and uncertainty meet. I’ve had to lean heavily on every mindfulness tool in my arsenal to stay calm and grounded, something that’s easier said than done. Deep breaths, quiet moments, and the reminder that panic serves no one have been my anchors. I won’t lie, it’s hard. But staying present, moment by moment, has helped me navigate this emotional rollercoaster. It’s a practice, one I’ve had to return to again and again as the situation evolves.
Sitting in the dim light of battery-operated candles now, I look around our home, a place we’ve poured so much love into over the past two years. We adore this home; it’s our sanctuary. But at the same time, I’m reminded of impermanence. Nothing in this life is guaranteed or permanent, a truth that’s simultaneously grounding and heartbreaking.
I’ve seen so many stories online…people sharing their grief over losing their homes, childhood memories, and everything they’ve worked for. And yet, there’s this insidious commentary from some corners of the internet dismissing these losses because “those areas are affluent” or “they can afford it.” Let me tell you, that couldn’t be further from the truth for most people. Many of those who’ve lost their homes lost everything. There are several fires, in different areas. For most, their homes are their entire life. To belittle someone’s loss because of an assumption about their financial status is not only cruel but deeply misguided. I’m not even getting into that…
It’s in moments like these that compassion becomes paramount, not just for those who’ve lost so much, but for ourselves and the way we process these events. It’s easy to judge from a distance or to make assumptions about someone else’s reality, but loss doesn’t discriminate. Pain is pain, regardless of someone’s zip code or bank account. And I’ve been reminding myself, especially now, that compassion isn’t about solving someone’s problems or fixing their grief, it’s about holding space for the truth of what they’re experiencing. It’s about saying, “I see you, and I care,” even when you don’t have the right words or a solution. Compassion is what connects us, what reminds us of our shared humanity, and what can carry us forward, together.
Torry and I didn’t come from privilege. Every single thing we have, we’ve worked for. But we’ve always practiced non-attachment. We know we can rebuild if we have to. Do we want to? Absolutely not. But if it comes to that, we will.
Unfortunately, so many people don’t have that same ability or support. This is an unprecedented time, and it’s a reminder that we must come together to help however we can. Whether it’s volunteering, donating to verified organizations, or simply holding space for others, every act of kindness matters.
If you’re able, please consider contributing to relief efforts or volunteering your time. I’ll continue to post resources and updates on Instagram. For now, I ask that you keep our city and everyone affected in your prayers. We’re a resilient community, but resilience doesn’t mean we don’t need support. Good energy, love, and “juju” are always welcome.
In moments like these, I’m reminded of a Buddhist story I heard a lecture:
The Broken Bowl
A Zen master once had a favorite bowl he used every day. It was simple, functional, and brought him great joy. One day, the bowl fell and shattered. The students, seeing his grief, asked why he was so upset, given his teachings about non-attachment. The master responded, “I am not mourning the bowl; I am mourning the moments we shared. Those moments are fleeting, as is everything in life, and that is why they matter so much.”
This story captures the delicate balance of resilience and grief. It’s not about avoiding pain or clinging to what’s lost, but honoring the beauty of what was and moving forward with grace.
As we navigate these challenging days, let’s hold space for both gratitude and loss, for resilience and fragility. Thank you for being here, for reading this, and for sending love and light to those who need it most.
With love and hope,
Rosie