Our Big Oil-caused Climate Crisis is not an “issue.” It’s not hypothetical. It’s not future tense. It’s here, and it’s coming for our liveable planet and our children’s welfare.

[image or embed]

— Waylon & Elephant Journal (@elephantjournal.bsky.social) January 8, 2025 at 1:02 PM

Like so many of us, I’ve spent the past few days glued to the news watching the coverage of the devastating wildfires in Los Angeles.

As someone who’s never experienced a fire of that magnitude (or any magnitude really, having grown up on the East coast), I struggle to comprehend what it would feel like to watch my home—my sanctuary, my safe place—burn to the ground. And to be powerless to save it.

I’ve seen countless stories over the past few days from L.A. residents, both celebrities and everyday people, who have lost everything. Who have no homes to return to. Whose homes still stand but are unlivable. Who fled with their children and pets, and the clothes on their backs. Whose lives now consist of what they had time to toss in a suitcase. Who have watched their entire neighborhood disappear. Who are left wondering how they will start over.

I’ve cried for them. I’ve tried imagining what I would do and feel in their position. And every thought leaves me heartbroken.

But one thing that’s left me feeling more frustrated than heartbroken are all the comments I’ve seen online from people saying, “Be thankful you and your family are safe. The rest is just stuff.” Or “What matters is you’re okay. You can always replace stuff.”

Or, and this seems to be mostly directed to celebrities, “It’s not like you can’t afford to replace all that stuff.”

And the hardest is when those who have endured these fires try to minimize their own grief, and combat the impending trolls, by saying, “I’m grateful we survived, and I know the rest is just stuff. I really do.”

The truth is it’s not just stuff.

If we’re lucky, our homes are our refuge. Where we go to rest and recharge. Where we care for ourselves and raise our families and cuddle our pets. Where we cook our favorite foods and watch our kids play and lay with our partner late at night to dream about the future.

Some people work their whole lives to afford a home. To build a home. To fill their home with people and things that matter to them.

And the things we fill our home with aren’t just “stuff.”

They’re memories.
They’re moments.
They’re artifacts.

As I read post after post, I began to wonder about all the “stuff” I own. The stuff I would be desperately trying to grab in the case of a natural disaster. The stuff I would feel gutted to lose. The stuff I would ache for and cry over.

The ultrasound pictures of my son.
The religious statue my grandfather had for decades that he gave to my mom and that now sits on my altar.
The old photos from when I was young, from when my parents were young.
The children’s book I bought for my goddaughter before she was born that she regifted to my son before he was born.
The concert tickets I’ve collected since high school.
The trinkets I’ve gathered from my travels to Mexico, Sweden, Japan.
The nativity my grandmother bought decades ago and the plastic Santa sleigh that sat on my childhood Christmas tree.
The small drinking glasses with my parents’ wedding anniversary written on them in faded gold. 
The blanket my mom crocheted for my son and the ones my dog has slept with since we brought him home as a puppy.
The countless family photos that live on old computers and never made it to the Cloud.
The stuffed animals that comforted me as a child.

These things may not matter to anyone else, but to me they are a lifeline. They tell a story—my story. And no amount of money or status or financial security can replace that.

One Instagram post that so beautifully explained why our stuff matters so much, and why it should, came from musician John Mayer:

 

View this post on Instagram

This sentence alone broke me:

“Just behind the immeasurable loss of life is the loss of the proof of life.”

It’s true that not every item in our home holds great value. And it’s true that so many of our material possessions can be replaced. And yes, our lives and the lives of our loved ones will always matter most.

But it’s okay to grieve the loss of the things we loved. The things we inherited. The things we collected. The things we worked hard to afford. The things we were gifted.

The things that helped us create the life we love so dearly.

The things that prove we were here. That we’re still here.

~