Growing up, my mom always had candles around the house. The air was constantly filled with the scents of warm apples, spicy cinnamon, amber—basically anything that smelled how the color burgundy looks. It was a depth and warmth that seemed to make up for where that warmth didn’t exist elsewhere.

The candles didn’t just appear. My mom worked as a consultant for a home decor company and took full advantage of her ’employee discount.’ Our home wasn’t just filled with candles; it was overrun by silk flowers, deep green and burgundy decor, gold-leaf filigree mirrors, and—most notably—potpourri. So much fucking potpourri.

Anyway, looking back, I wouldn’t exactly call myself a pyromaniac. In fact, one experience was enough to make me swear off fire entirely. In our home, open flames were common, and I never paid them much attention—until one day, my seven-year-old brain wondered what would happen if I dipped a paper towel into a candle. No rhyme, no reason, just pure curiosity and ‘what if,’ followed very quickly by ‘oh shit, I’m holding a flaming paper towel.’ The obvious response was to put it out with water, right? No, wrong. You throw it in the trash can.

Thankfully, this story doesn’t end with my childhood home burning down. My older sister was home at the time to put out the budding flame in our Rubbermaid trashcan and proceeded to ask a bawling kid me why in the hell I did that. To this day, I couldn’t tell you.

I think about that moment often—it feels like a metaphor for how my life unfolds. I didn’t set any more paper towels on fire after that, and don’t plan to, but I did experience a fire that no one could put out. Two months later in this present time, I find myself almost grateful for that. (Good thing my sister wasn’t around to help—well, not that she’s a firefighter, but you get the emotional connection I’m making.) While it may not be the case for everyone, watching your life go up in flames can feel like a wake-up call—or a forced renewal.

I am among the thousands that lost their homes in the Los Angeles fires of 2025. Our town went up in uncontrollable flames, destroying everything I own and a community I found comfort within. In this case, it wasn’t caused by a paper towel, but rather intense winds and electric sparks. Nothing could contain them, nor could be predicted. After the life I’ve lived so far, nothing could have prepared me for a literal fire engulfing my life, agitating my psyche and stablity.

There have been a lot of other ‘spot fires’ in my life that I have put out on my own, some with help from my sister, others stomped out by friends, and a few I’ve let burn out. There’s one fire inside me that I try to protect, though, and I’d be lying if I said I’ve never considered putting it out.

Finding relief is a journey that won’t be easy, probably won’t even be fun at times, but it’s what I feel I must do. Funnily enough, lighting a scented candle brings me a sense of comfort – even after everything. I always say ‘words can’t fully express how I feel’ but I’ve found them now. I will write them. One part at a time, one flame at time.

I think I really like this ‘sharing my dramatic experiences’ nonsense.