A Love Letter to the Palisades

A Love Letter to The Palisades

Written March 6, 2025

I’m an Angeleno—a Santa Monican, to be precise. I wasn’t always a Californian, but this is home more than any place I’ve ever known. I grew up on the East Coast, but I often say—I may have been made in New York, but I was born for LA.

California called to me long before I ever set foot here. I remember it well. I was only 21. A friend had moved to Laguna Beach and invited me to visit. The moment she spoke those words, something stirred deep inside me. A kind of knowing. One day, Southern California would be my home.

That calling stayed with me—through my twenties, marriage, two children, divorce, eight moves, and three job changes. With each change, I longed to be here, but life said, “Not yet.” So I spent fifteen years flying back and forth, staying with East Coast friends who had beaten me to it, getting my fix. With every visit, I fell deeper. Los Angeles took my heart.

I finally arrived at age 55.

I never dreamed of being an actor, but I understand the dream. To be here. To find your place. To make it. To call it home.

It’s been quite a love affair, these past eight years. Beach walks. Park picnics. Courtyard parties. Sunset gatherings. Farmers Markets. Street festivals. Outdoor dining, outdoor movies, outdoor concerts—outdoor everything! Coastal drives. Surf culture. The ocean. The mountains. The crisp air. The beauty. And day after day, that endless stretch of vibrant blue sky.

I live at the northern tip of Santa Monica, at the top of the bluff overlooking Rustic Canyon to Chautauqua Blvd, the Pacific Palisades border. On Tuesday, January 7, at 11:00 a.m., I walked outside to join a group of neighbors who were gathering. We stood on that bluff and watched as the worst day in Los Angeles history began to unfold.

The Palisades had become part of my daily rhythm. I dined there, shopped there, served clients there. I joined friends for daily walks there. I filled my prescriptions at the CVS there, just to linger there. I had just joined the bocce league at Rec Park, looking forward to weekly games with my Palisadian neighbors.

How I longed to move to the Palisades. It reminded me so much of the small town where I raised my family in Westport, Connecticut. It had that rare thing—a true sense of community—the kind you don’t find in much of LA.

In the summer of 2024, I was forced to leave my apartment for six weeks of structural repairs. The timing was brutal. I had just come through a major medical challenge—lung surgery. I needed home. I needed rest.

Then something incredible happened.

I found a beautiful Airbnb, right on Swarthmore. A little guest cottage tucked behind a house near the village. It felt like a gift from the heavens.

I cried as I packed my bags—overcome by deep sadness of not wanting to leave my home. I drove away deflated, yet just ten minutes later, as I stepped through the side gate of that home on Swarthmore, the magic began to unfold.

I was greeted by the owner, a warm and gracious woman whose kindness made it possible. Through the side gate, I followed a path to the rear of the house, through a charming yard, down a level of steps to a private retreat.

It took my breath away.

I’m an interior designer. I know what home should feel like. That little guest cottage—it had it. It opened its arms, embraced me, and said, “Welcome. You’ll have the rest you need here.”

During those weeks, I got to live like a Palisadian. Morning strolls to the village for coffee. Daily walks through Potrero Canyon. Watching the sun melt into the horizon from the bluffs at the end of Mt. Holyoke. Chatting with neighbors. Dining with locals. Resting in that cozy little guest cottage on Swarthmore.

I found peace there—in a community that embraced me without even knowing me.

Then came the fire.

Just two days before the fires, I received news that my lungs had another medical hurdle to overcome. As I tried to process the weight of that moment, I looked out my kitchen window across the canyon, and saw smoke. I stepped outside and watched as flames began to rise in the Palisades Highlands. There were a handful of us watching in disbelief.

Fires have happened during my eight years here. Terrible ones. But this one. It was close. Within an hour, more than a hundred neighbors gathered on that bluff.

The winds were wild that day—angrier than I have ever seen them. We stood in disbelief as we watched the winds carry the flames downhill. Eventually, they disappeared behind the ridge. Then came the explosions. The fire had reached homes.

We watched the super scoopers arrive and dive toward the ocean, skimming its surface, carrying water by air to the flames that fire trucks could not reach. They fought the good fight as long as they could, but the tumultuous winds gave them no choice but to retreat.

The plume of smoke grew larger until my lungs tapped me on the shoulder and said, “It’s time to go now.” If the winds changed direction, I would be engulfed in a smoke bomb. So I packed an overnight bag and left before the evacuations on our street were officially ordered, thinking I’d be back the next day.

Driving eastbound on the 10, I couldn’t believe what I saw in my rearview mirror. The smoke plume stretched for miles down the coastline. This was no Hollywood movie. This was real.

By the next day, the Palisades was gone.

The shock. The grief. They hit like a wave. My heart ached so deep that I didn't even realize I had gone numb. It was the only way to cope. It was all too much.

How could the spirit of that village hold the weight of so many hearts that would grieve it?

Life would not be the same from here. The community was shattered. The air, compromised. The water, contaminated. The beach, off limits. PCH, a nightmare. The land, scarred. And so were the people.

I returned home a week later when evacuation orders were lifted. Ash coated everything—inside and out. My lungs said no way. So I packed a suitcase and left again, this time to stay with family out of state where the air would be safe. I thought I’d be gone a week. But it became so much more.

Doctors advised me it would be best to stay away as long as I could. Clean up dust. Air toxins. It might take months, or longer for it to be safe enough to return. More loss. More grief.

My heart wanted to stay. To help. To do what I love—help others rebuild their homes, their lives, and their community. But I had to choose health over service. The tears didn’t stop for days.

After six weeks away, I’ve returned to LA briefly for another medical procedure. My home has been properly remediated to allow me a place to rest and recover. But life here is not the same. My windows remain shut. Air purifiers humming day and night. Bottled water for brushing my teeth. A mask for every outing. No beach walks. No outdoor gatherings. And no Palisades.

It’s somber.

Last night, I ventured up San Vicente to grab some pizza at the newly opened Flour—a pizzeria I loved that once thrived on Via de la Paz. I was thrilled they reopened so quickly—and so close.

Before the fire, I used to end my Palisades walks there. A ritual I cherished. A slice of pizza, a salad, a table outside. Breathing in the life of the village. Watching the world go by.

I wanted to feel that again.

But this time, now in Brentwood Village, it wasn’t the same. The faces were unfamiliar. The energy, different. The spirit I knew—it just wasn’t there.

The pizza was as delicious as ever. But as I sat at the sterile counter, staring out through the plate-glass window at the endless stream of vehicle traffic on San Vicente, I felt empty.

I closed my eyes and remembered. The black-and-white café chairs. The warmth of the staff. The sound of karate students training next door. The kids bouncing in for an after-school slice. The parade of dogs passing by. Groups of teens walking past—goofing around, laughing, carefree.

That Flour had a pulse. An energy that flowed from the inside out. A soul.

I opened my eyes. And I knew.

We need to rebuild.

Rebuilding the Palisades will not be just about erecting structures. It will be about resurrecting its spirit. The restaurants and stores that gave it personality. The schools and parks that shaped childhoods. The places of worship that held space for faith. The homes that made neighborhoods. The people who made it the vibrant community it was. The energy. The magic. The soul of it all.

I believe it’s spirit is still out there—hovering about, waiting for a place to land. It lingers in the air—and travels sometimes—to whisper to those who grieve its absence, urging them to remember. To hold on. To breathe life back into what was lost.   

To guide it home.

From the ashes, a new chapter can rise—not just of rebuilt homes and businesses, but of a community bound even more tightly by what it has endured.

And so, for now, we will wait.

I need to leave LA again for a while—doctor’s orders. But I will return to continue this love affair. To join the people of the Palisades. To help rebuild and create homes where its spirit can dwell again. To bring its soul back. To make hearts whole again.

While I’m gone, I'll be holding space for those tending to their broken hearts. Sending love into the streets, the village, the Highlands—to the very air of the Palisades. I will be healing and sending hope for others to do the same. That those who are grieving can hear the whispers—reminding them of what was, and what can be again.

And when the time comes to resurrect the spirit that lies in wait, I will serve in any way I can. Watching from the bluffs once more. Watching the Palisades rise.

Dear Palisadians, we can’t do it without you.