As most of you know, devastating fires recently swept (and continue to sweep) through Los Angeles. For us, the Sunset Fire came too close for comfort. We got the evacuation call, packed bags in the dark, braced ourselves for the worst, and waited.
I've lived in LA for 13 years now. Technically, I’m from Northern California, but at what point does a place become home? A decade later? Once you have a family of your own? When your memories layer themselves into the streets you drive, the cafés you frequent, the sunsets you watch, and the seasons that come and go (or for the most part stay the same in LA) This is my home. And although we didn’t lose our house, my heart aches for our home.
I’ve been to this place before—the in-between. It’s that strange, timeless space where nothing feels quite real, where you don’t know what day of the week it is, where life strips itself bare and forces you to stop and reckon with what matters. I’ve met it in moments of grief after a tragic death, in the quiet uncertainty of a big life move, and in the rawness of quitting a job without knowing what’s next.
I’ve also met it in the good.
After Zoya proposed, I found myself in the same in-between—where time feels suspended, and life comes into sharper focus. The joy was overwhelming, and yet it also had this stillness, a quiet clarity that allowed me to take it all in. It’s in those moments, too, that the unimportant fades away, leaving only what matters most.
The in-between is always there, waiting. But we are not always there.
This time, it came with smoke-filled skies and the smell of ash in the air. It’s humbling to realize how fragile it all is. The things we spend so much of our time building and worrying about—our work, our routines, our goals—can feel so small in moments like this. What you’re left with is the bare essentials: your people, your health, your memories, and the home you’ve built not just with walls, but with love.
And yet, the in-between isn’t just about what you almost lose—it’s about what you gain, too. When crisis strikes, you see the beauty of humanity at its rawest. Neighbors check in on one another. Strangers lend a hand, offer shelter, or simply share a meal. The community becomes your lifeline. You want life to go on, for the world to keep turning. But you also wish the connection, the collective care, could last just a little longer, because it feels like maybe that’s how life is supposed to be all the time.
It’s easy to feel alone in the trenches, but the truth is, we rarely are. Whether it’s through shared experiences, shared fears, or shared hope, we come together. We help each other rebuild, sometimes literally, but more often in smaller, quieter ways. A hug when words fail. A laugh that cuts through the tension. A reminder that even in the darkest moments, we’re not meant to carry it all alone.
The timing of all this feels significant. At the start of a new year, we’re conditioned to focus on how we can be better, do more, become more. But life has a way of cutting through the noise and showing us what really matters. The fires were a brutal reminder of how quickly everything can change. But they were also a lesson in resilience, in gratitude, and in the strength of community.
As I reflect, I realize the in-between isn’t just a pause. It’s a recalibration. It’s uncomfortable and humbling, but it’s also clarifying. It strips away the superficial and forces you to focus on the essential. The people you love. The things you’ve built. The stories you’ll carry with you no matter where you go. When the smoke clears, what truly matters remains.
If you’ve been to the in-between, you know it changes you. It has a way of pressing pause on the chaos, giving you the space to see what’s important. If you’re in it now, know you’re not alone. And if you’re lucky enough to be on the other side, hold close the lessons it taught you.
As for me, I’m still sitting with it, letting it teach me, letting it shape me. I’m holding close the reminders it’s given me: Home isn’t just a place; it’s the people you share it with. Strength doesn’t mean standing alone; it means leaning on others when the ground beneath you burns or shakes. And what really matters in the end isn’t how much we’ve accomplished, but how much love we’ve given and received along the way.
Lots of love from the in-between,
A
The way you describe the “in-between” as both unsettling and grounding captures such a poignant paradox. Thank you for sharing such a thoughtful and moving reflection.