Our First Time Back to the Palisades
What My Kids Taught Me About Hope
We returned to the Palisades for the first time since the fire.
My kids hadn’t seen it since the day everything changed—since we lost the familiar contours of home and safety. I wasn’t sure how they’d react. And I wasn’t sure how I would react to them experiencing it all for the first time.
At first, I brought only my eldest two. I assumed my youngest was too little to process it all, that she didn’t need to see it yet. I thought I was protecting her.
There’s so much I could say about that day.
Maybe I will, eventually.
But for now, here’s what I want to share.
I’m writing this for anyone else walking through wreckage—literal or emotional. Because there’s no manual for this.
No one right way to grieve, to process, to rebuild.
Only your way.
Only your family’s way.
And that is enough.
Before we arrived, I felt the urge to prepare them—to explain what they were about to see, to soften the blow, to name the feelings for them.
But I paused.
Because I realized that if I said, “This is going to be scary and sad,”—I’d be inserting my grief into their experience.
And that didn’t feel right.
So the only thing I said was:
“What you’re about to see is a lot to take in. There’s no right way to do it. I’m going to stay pretty quiet, but I’m here however you want to move through it.”
That was it.
And it changed everything.
My son wasn’t scared.
He was in awe—curious.
He saw beauty, hope, and possibility.
My middle daughter felt something different.
Still beauty—but mixed with deep surrender.
It was tender. Quiet. Soft.
Each of them had their own response.
Their own way in.
Their own way through.
And that, to me, is the heart of parenting through loss—
making space for each experience
without needing them to match our own.
So instead of scripting their emotions, I got to witness them.
They weren’t afraid to look.
They saw the damage—but they also saw the grass pushing through the ashes.
They heard the hum of workers rebuilding.
They noticed the neighbors waving, the birds returning, the laughter echoing down the hill.
They were scanning for glimmers.
And they found them.
That’s not toxic positivity.
That’s resilience in motion.
That’s what it means to hold both devastation and hope in the same breath.
And as a mother, it brought me to my knees.
But here’s what I want to say, most of all:
Every family’s journey through loss will look different. And even within a single family, each child may walk through it in their own way—and their own timing.
The day after I brought my two older kids, our youngest—Ella—who just turned five, told us she wanted to go too. I had assumed she was too young. But she was adamant.
She said she didn’t want to be left out of knowing.
She suggested we go together the next day after her siblings did—on her dad’s birthday—so she could be part of it. Part of us.
As much as my mama heart hesitated—she’s sensitive, deeply empathetic, and only a toddler—I also trust her intuition. Even at this age, it runs deep.
Still, I worried. I questioned. Would this be too much? Was I asking her to carry something too heavy?
But I came back to this:
I trust her.
I trust my parenting of her.
And I trust our family.
So I went with it.
I didn’t say much. I let the older two walk her through it in their own way.
And what happened... was extraordinary.
She held her sister’s hand. She buried her little face in her brother’s shoulder.
Then she lifted her head, looked devastation in the face, took a breath, and kept going.
She talked herself through it. Out loud.
At one point, she said quietly,
“I see all the memories… not the ash.”
And I couldn’t stop my own tears.
Because I could see it on her—the way the weight of it all landed on her tender heart. I could feel it with her. And still, she found a way to hold the ache and still speak mainly of hope.
If you’re walking through something hard right now, and wondering if you’re doing it right, please hear me:
There’s no script for this.
No blueprint for how to help your children through grief.
No perfect timeline.
Sometimes they lead.
Sometimes they follow.
Sometimes they hold your hand, and sometimes they need to be held.
Just show up.
Stay grounded.
And don’t rush the pain.
Don’t force the light.
Both will come.
In their own time.
In their own way.
And when they do, they might just lead you home again.