Thoughts | The Agony of Not Knowing
Closure, or the Lack Thereof. From Hurricane Katrina to the Pacific Palisades.
On August 7th, one week ago today, I walked out the door of my house in Half Moon Bay, California, for the last time. Our house had just been listed for sale. On the same day, strangely, at about the same time that afternoon, the Pacific Palisades fire started.
From high up in the world, maybe 10,000 feet above, where planes fly, aerial photographs are taken and used to create animations, the Los Angeles fires looked like red lava dripping from the hills on its determined path toward the ocean shoreline. Bright red swaths of computer-generated color block out entire communities to show the devastation. But it doesn’t show families fleeing their California homes, shutting their doors for the last time without a choice in the matter.
The last time I flew into California, knowing we were about to sell our home, the plane descended into SFO over Half Moon Bay. It was my first time seeing my town from the sky—the aerial view 10,000 feet above. I couldn’t see our house, but I knew the place by the curve of the ocean, the crests of the mountains, and the distinct shapes created by side-by-side homes in the different neighborhoods.
I do not pretend to know what many Pacific Palisades individuals are experiencing right now. But I think about it. I try to imagine it so I can truly empathize.
When I closed the front door to our home, it was a quiet click, with tears dripping down my face, silently reminding myself that leaving our house was our choice. In contrast, I imagine Los Angeles families cramming keepsakes and favorite stuffed animals into the back of a trunk, slick sweat wiped across their brows from the heat, driving away and realizing it doesn’t matter if they locked the door behind them or not.
Because even after having lost everything I owned in a natural disaster 15 years ago, I still don’t know what to say to someone who has lost their home—or who already has but doesn’t know it yet.
In August 2005, days before Tulane University’s term was planned to start, my friends and I evacuated our house in New Orleans. We moved suitcases and boxes onto the second story—high enough up, we thought. Safe from the storm, we thought. The hurricane probably isn’t even going to hit us, we thought.
We thought wrong.
The weeks after Katrina, waiting for the floodwaters to recede, were surreal. We watched news reports and speculated about what might be left. The uncertainty gnawed at us. Knowing—eventually, regardless of the reality—was what we wanted.
A few weeks later, when the Coast Guard finally allowed residents of our area to return, my father drove to our house and called me to say that there wasn’t much left. He found our suitcases thickly covered with green-blue mold. He sent us photos. No front door. Black walls. And we knew. Finally.
I mourned not just what we had lost but what would never happen. The cozy nights in with friends that wouldn’t occur. The meals I had planned to cook in that kitchen. The senior year of University I thought I’d live in that home.
When I left my house in Half Moon Bay, I mourned in a similar way. I mourned the birthdays that wouldn’t be celebrated there and the Christmas mornings that wouldn’t unfold in that living room.
But I had the luxury of mourning—of feeling, grieving, and then, eventually, moving on. You need to know to mourn.
Now, as I think of the people in Pacific Palisades, I wonder, do they know? Are they able to mourn… yet? I’ve seen TikTok videos of people requesting footage of specific addresses and neighborhoods. The heartbreak emoji that litters the comment section just doesn’t do the devastation justice. Occasionally, I will see a comment in the feed, “At least now I know.”
My heart goes out to everyone who lost their home in the Pacific Palisades fires—those who know, but especially to those still enduring the uncertainty of not knowing. The horrible feeling of not knowing is its own kind of devastation.
Although this post isn’t about relationships, I can’t help but wonder, isn’t the worst part about the end of a relationship the not knowing as well? The part right before you break up, separate, or divorce when the outcome is still uncertain? When you aren’t quite sure if the relationship will go up in flames or be salvaged?
Moving forward will happen—it always does. Whether in life or in relationships, people rebuild. Lives continue. Knowing doesn’t bring comfort. But it brings clarity. For now, the first thing I wish for those affected by the fires is knowing.