Experiencing the Trauma of the Los Angeles Wildfires as a Behavioral Scientist
Tiffany Rose / Contributor, Collection: Getty News, Getty Images | Tiffany Rose / Contributor, Collection: Getty News, Getty Images
It’s strange to be on this side of trauma.
I’ve spent years studying the human capacity to endure—to bend, to break, and somehow, to rebuild. I’ve taught others how to steady themselves in the storm, how to navigate chaos with grace, how to rise when it feels impossible to stand. But now, I am here, in the ashes, trying to remember how to breathe.
Resilience isn't built in the aftermath; it's built in the in-between—where survival feels like a whisper, not a roar.
We fled with nothing but each other, the life we built swallowed by flames. Homes, schools, streets lined with memories—gone in an instant. My children’s laughter once echoed in these spaces. Now, there is only silence, and the sky looks like mourning.
In the days since, I have held strangers in my arms, their grief pouring into me as if I could carry it for them. I wanted to collapse under the weight of my own loss, but instead, I stood. Not because I had to—because I know this is the only way I can help.
Sometimes strength isn't standing tall—it’s simply standing at all.
Remaining tiles from our precious preschool. Our children painted them every year and they are so special and full of memories
So, I do what I’ve spent my life teaching others: I breathe through the panic. I speak honestly to my children, explaining the inexplicable. I find small, fragile moments of safety amid the chaos—a hug, a joke, a shared glance that says, We are still here. I grieve in fragments, between refreshing updates and answering calls.
But mostly, I am reminded of what I’ve always believed: resilience is not about erasing pain. It’s about learning to carry it.
If you're standing in the rubble of your life—literal or figurative—here are a few ways to hold steady when everything feels impossible:
1. Let Your Senses Lead You Back
When the weight of trauma pulls you into the past or drags you into an uncertain future, anchor yourself in the present moment through sensory grounding.
Run your hands under cold water and feel its steadiness.
Eat something with intention—notice its texture, its taste.
Tune into a single sound around you and let it pull you back to now.
The mind may wander to yesterday, but the body always knows where you are.
2. Assign Meaning to the Mundane
The smallest rituals—making coffee, folding laundry, taking a familiar route—become sacred in times of upheaval. Choose one daily act and imbue it with purpose.
While you stir your coffee, whisper an affirmation: I am still standing.
As you make your bed, imagine tucking safety into the corners.
Turn small moments into tiny anchors of hope.
Healing isn’t found in grand gestures; it’s woven into the quiet, ordinary moments we choose to reclaim.
3. Write Letters You’ll Never Send
Grief has a way of bottling up the words we don’t say. Set aside a few minutes to write to what’s been lost—a home, a version of yourself, a sense of safety.
Address the letter to your “before” self.
Write to the fear that lingers.
Tell your future self what you hope for, even if it feels far away.
When words stay unspoken, they turn to weight. Let them go.
(AP Photo/Ethan Swope)
4. Find Your “One Thing” Every Day
On days when getting out of bed feels impossible, don’t focus on everything. Focus on one thing.
The one thing you can complete today.
The one conversation that will lighten your load.
The one moment of connection that keeps you moving forward.
Progress isn’t about how far you go; it’s about choosing to go at all.
5. Let Nature Remind You of Resilience
Grief can feel like an endless winter, but even the earth knows how to start over. Spend time outside—watch the wind carry the leaves, listen to the hum of life continuing around you, feel the ground beneath your feet.
Walk barefoot and remind yourself you are connected to something greater.
Breathe with the trees, slowing your breath to match theirs.
Let the quiet lessons of nature hold you.
Even the strongest storms bow to the persistence of a single root.
This moment has brought me to my knees. It has also reminded me of my purpose. Moving forward, I want this space—this blog—to be a source of strength, a place where science and heart converge to help us all rise.
Here, I will share tools rooted in both research and lived experience. Tools for recognizing grief in children when it doesn’t look like tears. Tools for understanding how trauma embeds itself in the body and how to release it. Tools for parents who are carrying too much and don’t know where to begin.
Because trauma is not unique to LA. Every day, people around the world face moments that shatter them—loss, change, the quiet devastation that rewrites what life once was. And yet, within that devastation, there is the chance to rebuild. Not just homes or structures, but the invisible things that tether us to ourselves and each other: love, trust, connection, resilience.
To the parents trying to anchor their children while feeling untethered themselves: I see you. You are extraordinary. To those standing in the rubble, unsure how to begin again: You are not alone. And to everyone who has reached out, offered kindness, or simply sat in the silence with me: Thank you.
This blog is my offering. A way to meet the moment with compassion and action. A way to hold space for grief while carving a path forward. A way to remind us all—myself included—that even when everything feels lost, there is something in us that cannot be destroyed.
Resilience is not found in rebuilding what was, but in discovering what remains.
We will rise. Not because it’s easy. Not because we want to. But because resilience is in our roots—woven into our very being. And with it, we’ll rebuild not just what was lost, but what was waiting to be found.
With love,
Zelana