By Shirin Yadegar
“Mom, there’s a big fire coming towards our house!” Camille, my 13-year-old, screamed from her room.
I rushed to her side, my heart pounding, and froze when I saw the flames—red and raging—getting closer, too close. I had never seen anything like it before.
“Pack a bag. Be ready to go, just in case we get the alert to evacuate,” I told her, my voice steady even though my insides were in turmoil. Lily, my 15-year-old, was already in tears, her face full of panic. I held her tight, trying to comfort her, while the fire continued its relentless march toward us.
Within 15 minutes, we had what we thought would be enough for just a night or two. But then the message came: we had to leave. The flames were too close. The evacuation was mandatory. We had no choice.
Hotels were already full, and we were forced into a kind of limbo—living like nomads—shuffling between friends’ houses and hotels, praying each night that we would wake up to good news, that we could return to our own beds, our own lives. But instead, we watched our community burn—our schools, our stores, our cafes, our sense of security, all gone.
My daughter’s high school was partially destroyed, so her classes moved online. And just a week away from Camille’s Bat Mitzvah, a day she had been preparing for all year, everything felt like it was falling apart.
I could feel the weight of it all—the grief, the uncertainty, the fear—but as a mother, I knew we had to make a choice. Do we cancel the Bat Mitzvah and let the fire steal one more piece of joy from us? Or do we hold on to something, anything, and make sure we bring light into the darkness? We decided to move forward.
With the help of the LAPD, we were granted seven minutes to rush back into our house and grab whatever we could—those precious Bat Mitzvah dresses, the things we needed for the day that was supposed to mark Camille’s transition into adulthood. It was chaotic, emotional, but it was also a reminder that we were blessed-our house was still standing.
The day of the Bat Mitzvah arrived, and in the face of everything—loss, heartbreak, fear—250 of our community members showed up. We gathered together, arm in arm, with tears in our eyes, but something beautiful happened. Camille, standing strong, managed to make room for both grief and joy in one sacred moment. We showed up, together, and honored what was still worth celebrating.
The next day, my mind raced. The air quality was unbearable, and the girls were both struggling—Lily on Zoom, because so much of her school had burned, and Camille still unable to attend in person due to the smoke and debris filling the air. As a mother, I knew I couldn’t let this continue.
It reminded me of what we went through during COVID—how quickly everything shifted, how we had to make decisions with little information, how the world seemed to move on while we were frozen in time. I remember thinking then that nothing was going to magically get better. There was no miracle to fix the situation; we had to act, take control, and do what we could. Now, in the face of this fire, it felt the same. I knew we couldn’t just sit around waiting for things to improve. This wasn’t going to fix itself overnight. I had to act.
I turned to Peyman, my husband, and asked, “What if we go to New York? The air here is toxic, and our oldest daughter is finishing her last semester at Columbia University. Maybe we could go, just for the rest of the semester, for their health.”
At first, the family thought I was just venting. I could see it in their eyes—”Oh, mom is always coming up with these big ideas.” But I wasn’t backing down. Within five days, both girls were accepted to Columbia Prep School, a friend offered us his apartment, and we found a family who had lost their home to rent our place.
I’m writing this exactly 52 days (seven weeks) later. Our girls are not happy with the decision to leave thir friends and family but they are settling into their new school, making new friends, and learning to navigate a new life in New York. We’ve slowed down, too—Peyman and I, in the hustle of one of the busiest cities in the world, we are rediscovering joy in the simple things. Long walks, talks, and a new kind of normal.
But more than anything, I’ve realized that adversity is not just something we survive. It’s something we learn from. I want my girls to know that they always have a choice. That when life throws a curveball, we don’t just sit back and accept it. We get creative. We fight. We figure out a way to make things better.
I know that not everyone has the luxury to pick up and move, but we all have the power to change our situations. We can always find a way to improve our lives, no matter how dark it feels. Even in the hardest moments, we can choose to find a way forward.
My heart breaks for everyone who has lost their homes, their businesses, their sense of safety. I know how paralyzing it can be. But life doesn’t stop for us to catch our breath.
The truth is, our children are watching. They see how we handle the hard moments. They watch how we choose to move forward, or if we let fear and indecision hold us back. If we freeze in the face of fear, they’ll learn to do the same. But if we stand up, make a decision, and take action, they will learn resilience.
Indecision breeds fear, and fear breeds emptiness. But when we decide, when we act, we show our children that even in the face of the hardest things, we can always find a way to move forward.
Shirin Yadegar is the CEO and founder of http://www.lamommagazine.com