Wildfire Wave: Managing Anxiety and Depression with ADAA

This blog post recounts the devastating Santa Rosa Wildfires of 2017

At 2 a.m. on that fateful Monday morning, I was jolted awake by the incessant ringing of my husband’s cell phone. He didn’t pick it up, and as I reached for the light switch, I realized the electricity was out. A raw sensation filled my throat, and the air was thick with acrid smoke. Frantically, I shouted for Doug to wake up while my phone rang too. It was our friend Steve, his voice urgent and frantic in my ear: “Get out of there, right away!” “We are!” I replied, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Using our cell phones as makeshift flashlights, Doug and I dashed through the dark, chaotic house, grabbing our laptops and cherished photo albums. Outside, a booming voice blared through a bullhorn: “Evacuate Now!” We hastily tossed our belongings into the trunk of the car. As Doug opened the garage door, we caught sight of our neighbors, silhouetted against the headlights, hurriedly loading their cars. The heat in the air felt reminiscent of a scorching summer day, and through the trees, I noticed a terrifying, glowing crimson light. As I navigated the car through the street, I clenched the steering wheel tightly, desperate to hold onto something solid while everything I loved slipped away behind me.

About twenty minutes later, I turned the key in the lock of my mother’s studio apartment in Sebastopol, a safe haven 15 miles away from Santa Rosa, CA. We gently woke her up and switched on the TV in her bedroom. My 85-year-old mother, who has mild cognitive impairment, remained calm as we absorbed the news reports, trying to piece together the catastrophic events unfolding. I felt like I was stuck in a surreal dream, yet my senses were heightened, fully aware of our situation. “We are alive,” I reminded myself. In this intense moment, my body instinctively reacted in a fight-or-flight response. Thank you, monkey mind!

Throughout the night and into the morning, my mind raced, replaying our escape in vivid detail. By Monday afternoon, nearly 24 hours after that wake-up call, a trusted neighbor phoned to confirm the heartbreaking news: our home had been reduced to ashes. It was a revelation I had braced myself for, yet I felt a numbing emptiness wash over me. That night, exhaustion took over, and I fell into a deep, long sleep, seeking refuge from the emotional turmoil.

The following morning, friends reached out about a potential rental space, and Doug and I decided to check it out. Upon arrival, we found it in rough shape, featuring only a wood stove for warmth. It would require extensive renovations, and I realized it could never truly feel like home to me. In that moment, the weight of our loss crashed down on me. As someone who naturally finds solace in home, I deeply cherished my space. I yearned for a place to recharge and regenerate, a sanctuary where I could snuggle with my husband and dog, slip between my soft sheets, and savor the joy of cooking while listening to music. My beloved kitchen and my desk overlooking the Santa Rosa valley—everything was gone! As my friends spoke about the rental and the fire, I struggled to focus on their words. I quietly turned to Doug and said, “I need to go.”

In my professional life, I teach my clients how to embrace anxiety and other negative emotions, viewing them as natural responses from the limbic brain—what I affectionately refer to as the monkey mind—designed for our safety and survival. Yet, in this moment, I was faced with the profound sorrow of loss, a reality I could no longer avoid.

Back at my mother’s studio, I sank onto the couch beside her as she knitted. Overwhelmed, my body trembled, and I curled into her lap. My heart ached in a way that felt almost physical. “Put your hand on the back of my heart,” I implored, feeling the comforting warmth of her hand penetrate my grief. “I don’t have a home; I loved my home,” I sobbed, the weight of my emotions pouring out.

For half an hour, I cried in my mother’s embrace, releasing every ounce of sorrow until I felt utterly exhausted and dry. In that moment, a sense of calm washed over me. My mind quieted, and I floated in a serene stillness, bracing myself for the next wave of emotion to hit.

As a therapist and author specializing in stress and anxiety, and having personally experienced the loss of my home in the Santa Rosa fire, I write this blog to remind myself of the powerful coping tools I utilize in my practice with clients. If my reflections can assist others in navigating their own challenges, it would bring me immense joy.

Originally written in 2017 about the Santa Rosa Wildfires

Read Part Two: Navigating the Challenge of Uncertainty