When I decided I wanted to “share my feelings” on a public forum, I wasn’t expecting the way I’d feel after. I had lofty, self-imposed goals. Write every couple of days. Get inspired. Maybe even inspire someone else. Instead, I published my first post and quit for months.

The grief that comes with a house fire is unpredictable, much like the scattered pattern of flames that took out my neighborhood. The waves swallowed me whole in the beginning. (Worth noting: I don’t swim well.) Then they subsided. I found myself shaking off water, squeezing it from my clothes, whipping my hair around, thinking I’d be dry in no time.

Then the next wave came. A tide of memories. I lost my footing and got pulled back out to sea, waving my arms around for something to hold on to.

Like many people who lost their homes in the fires, I miss my shit.

When I moved to California, I had nothing but a little money I’d squirreled away from summer camps teaching kids how to make butterflies out of coffee filters and pipe cleaners. I worked my way into a career I was determined to break into and did relatively well. I used that money to move into a shared space, cover my bus fare, and buy “business casual” clothes.

Losing my house meant losing every single thing I owned, saved for, collected, cherished and all the pieces that reminded me the pain of growth had been worth it. My first employee of the month certificate. My first metro pass. A leather jacket I blew my first real paycheck on. I didn’t have a storage unit or a garage. I didn’t have backup. Everything I had lived in that house. I thought by six months I’d feel more whole. That maybe I’d have some sea legs by now. But here I am, still struggling to swim.

At least I have the prayer hands emoji my mom sent when I told her my house burned down. Is that my lighthouse guiding me back to shore?

No, of course not. But it’s a detail that sticks. And somehow that makes it worth mentioning.