I Lost Everything in the L.A. Fires

In 2016, I sold a short-form comedy series to truTV, an American cable network. The show—about a housewife who fantasizes about being a rapper—became part of Rachel Dratch’s Late Night Snack, an anthology of comedy sketches. That deal, along with a series of O-1 visas, allowed me to move from Toronto to L.A., where I’ve lived, on and off, for the past nine years. In 2022, I developed a following on TikTok, freestyle rapping and livestreaming from my living room in Topanga Canyon. TikTok is how I make my income now; hundreds of thousands of people tune in each month. 

For years, I had toyed with the idea of leaving Los Angeles. During the George Floyd protests in 2020, while I was living downtown, I saw the military roll in. Tear gas seeped into my apartment. Then came the wildfires. There was one near Topanga Canyon in 2022 and then the Franklin fire this past December. I evacuated each time, packing my car with everything I could fit and going to friends’ houses. By the time the U.S. elections rolled around, I’d decided to move to New York, which felt a lot more secure. 

I spent the first week of 2025 packing up my things. On the morning of January 7, an emergency alert lit up my phone: the Palisades fire was spreading fast, creeping toward my house. By that point, I was an evacuation pro. I made tea, then packed my car to the brim. At 3 p.m., the winds shifted, rising to 150 kilometres per hour. The fire was climbing up the canyon, and the smoke was moving closer. I took one last look at my home and pictured everything inside melting. Then I got into my car and drove away. As I wound down the hill, fire trucks zoomed past me. I knew my house would go up in flames. I’d always thought that moving to L.A. at 40 years old to chase an acting career was risky; I never imagined wildfires would be the real danger there.

The next week was a blur. I went to West Malibu, close to the site of the 2018 Woolsey fire, to stay with friends. Their house was as fireproof as it got—reinforced with storm windows that could withstand apocalyptic winds. Still, it felt like we were on a ship in the middle of the ocean. On my first night, the entire house shook from the winds. My cat was so scared she ripped out the bottom of the kitchen unit to wedge herself underneath. We had no power or internet—just a solar backup that died partway through the night. Later, a friend who worked as an insurance adjuster sent me satellite photos of my house. One showed the roof in flames. Everything I owned was gone. 

After the fire, I made a decision: instead of New York, I’d move back home to Toronto. I just wanted to feel safe, and I’ve never felt threatened in Canada, besides the occasional tornado warning. I called Air Canada, shipped my things to Toronto and scrambled to get a vaccination for my cat so she could fly. 

Being back is disorienting. I’m renting a room in a friend’s house, slowly decorating it and trying to make it feel like home. But I can’t shake the sense that a large part of myself is missing. My house in L.A. was filled with things I’d collected over time—they were thrifted or gathered in my travels. These objects were stories about my life. Without them, I feel untethered. 

Through it all, I keep making TikTok videos. My audience is mostly American, many of whom have weathered their own disasters—hurricanes in Miami, floods in North Carolina. We are there for each other, trading stories about FEMA and sharing resources. I used to livestream from the same spot in my Topanga Canyon home: in front of a shelf of trinkets, including a stained-glass owl from the ’80s. It was lost in the fire. But someone from TikTok tracked down a similar owl and bought it for me. When I’m finally settled in Toronto, they’ll send it my way.

I’m still dealing with FEMA inspections. I had no insurance and, due to the nature of my U.S. visa, I didn’t qualify for most American aid. My friend Natasha set up a GoFundMe for me, and it’s raised more than US$17,000 so far. It’s become my lifeline. I haven’t seen the wreckage of my house yet—it’s still unsafe to enter—but I’ll have to face it eventually. I don’t know how long I’ll be sorting through the aftermath.

—As told to Leah Cameron