ICYMI: Originally published June 17th on Substack. Subscribe here to get the latest posts first.

Rootless, But Not Alone

I was raised to be a nomad.
Six countries before college. Foreign service kid. A diplobrat, as we jokingly call ourselves. I spent my childhood bouncing between continents—China, Indonesia, Vietnam, Saudi Arabia, Oman, France, and yes, the DMV (IYKYK) sprinkled in between posts.

Friday Night Lights, but make it Paris. Champs de Mars was our high school tailgate. The Eiffel Tower was our stadium light. Bacardi Breezers and vodka shots chased with Orangina (sorry, Mom) instead of solo cups and bleachers. It was chaotic, magical, and peak international school core.

I didn’t grow up with a hometown. But I grew up knowing how to land. There were goodbyes, there were boxes, there were new schools. But there was also structure. We didn’t get to choose when we moved—but we always had a system. We said proper goodbyes. We landed in schools with the same curriculum. My parents made transition feel safe, like some kind of emotional travel concierge.

Which is why this—this chapter of my life—has felt so disorienting.

This isn’t transition.
This is trauma.
And it’s not wrapped in a packing list—it’s wrapped in smoke and insurance inventory lists.

Sun Valley, and the Feelings I Didn’t Expect to Unpack

I started writing this blog post back in the Bay Area—somewhere between Leo’s last week of school and my third emotional support muffin. We had just made it through our first chapter of post-fire nomad life, and I thought I’d finally found a rhythm.

Then we got to Sun Valley.

*Sun Valley really is my happy place. It was the backdrop to one of the best days of my life. Which is probably why feeling off here hit even harder.*

It’s been two weeks now. I should feel at peace. I’m surrounded by beauty, the kids are happy, the altitude is doing things to my skin that no serum ever could.

And yet… I’ve felt off.
Buzzing. Unsettled. Like my nervous system is a shaken-up can of La Croix.

It took a few tears and one too many self-help podcasts to realize: Pulling out of routine cracked something open again. The wound I thought I was managing. The fear of not knowing what’s next.

During our time in the Bay, it was easier to mentally pause the fire. To compartmentalize. But now, with LA on the horizon—we move back in a month—the reality is setting in. We’re going home, but nothing about it feels stable. It’s like returning to a place that no longer exists.

I’ve been counting down the days.
And now that it’s almost here… I’m scared.

School’s Out, and So Are My Emotions

Leo finished school in Orinda before we left for Sun Valley, and based on my group chats, most LA moms are just now crawling toward the finish line in a trail of smashed juice boxes and broken crayons.

Meanwhile, I hit full emotional collapse a solid week earlier—Bay Area school calendars are like, “Let’s end on a high note,” and by that they mean, “good luck functioning post-Memorial Day.” I had a head start on the unraveling, and by the time we hit Sun Valley, I had… a lot of feelings.

*Me, explaining why I’m crying even though everything looks great on paper.*

Now that I’ve finally come up for air, this post was supposed to be a Bay Area round-up. A love letter to the people and places that helped us survive our first post-fire chapter.

And I still want to write that.

But first—I had to name what was buzzing under the surface: When you’re living without roots, school becomes your anchor. And when school ends? You drift.

*Sometimes the group chat is where it all spills out first. Grateful for my Palisades Moms—saying it out loud made space for others to say, “same.”*

Displacement Isn’t the Same as Moving

When we lost our home in the Palisades Fire, we didn’t just lose a house. We lost the entire world I’d spent years building from scratch.

For someone who used to move every two years like it was a hobby, that might sound dramatic—but I chose the Palisades. I threw myself into every Halloween block party, preschool social, and neighborhood group text like it was my full-time job.

So when we landed in Orinda, it wasn’t just about finding a roof. It was about recreating a feeling. Trying to feel safe in a place that wasn’t mine. And I tried.

I zhuzhed the playroom. I fluffed throw pillows like my mental health depended on it. I arranged Trader Joe’s flowers like they were emotional talismans. I hosted a “Moms & Mimosas” at Leo’s preschool—not in January, when I originally planned (lol, January-me was so delusional)—but in May, when I finally had the emotional bandwidth.

*Planned it for January. Pulled it off in May. Healing takes time—and sometimes a little bubbly.*

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t Palisades. But it helped me breathe. And that was enough.

The Community Is Still There—Just Scattered

We miss our people. Our group texts. Our impromptu, last-minute playdates. Our post-kids-bedtime wine nights I loved hosting. There were days when being far from LA felt like a gift—like we could forget the fire for just a little while. But there were also days when it felt like everyone else’s life was playing while ours was stuck on pause.

No pics from my countless post-bedtime wine nights, but this one gets close—my dear friend Kelsey let me host my real estate brand launch in her epic backyard. Proof that the right setting (and people) can make anywhere feel like home.

Now, with the return to LA in sight, the emotions are bubbling up.
We’re not there yet—but we’re getting close.
And it’s bringing everything back.

Still, we know this: we’re rebuilding in the Palisades.
We’re choosing our hometown again.
We’re putting down roots—again.
And this time, they’ll run even deeper.

Places That Felt Like Home (Even If Just a Little)

There were flickers of comfort along the way—Pilates studios, coffee shops, neighborhood parks, preschool teachers, and the sweetest tailor at our local cleaners who lit up every time she saw my kids.

I’ll share them soon—because people deserve to know when they make someone feel safe. And because I firmly believe in shouting out the places and people that didn’t make me cry.

It wasn’t just lunch—it was a ritual that kept us grounded. I’m so lucky I married a foodie who does all the research to find the best $25 lunch omakase in the Bay. Back in LA, sushi lunches were our standing date—so finding a version here felt like slipping into something familiar. One of many gems I’ll share in my next post—because good sushi is an emotional anchor too.

(Next up: my Bay Area recs—if you live there, are moving there, or just want a blueprint for building home wherever you land.)

Final Thoughts

Displacement isn’t just about zip codes. It’s about identity. It’s about waking up in someone else’s bed wondering when you’ll start feeling like yourself again.

But even in the thick of it, there are flickers of okay. Text threads that hold you. Kids who make you laugh mid-breakdown. Friends who say, “Same.” And Trader Joe’s bouquets that somehow, briefly, feel like stability.

I’m two weeks into Sun Valley and finally starting to feel steadier. Not fixed. Not whole. But held.

And that’s mostly because of you—my Palisades moms, our group chats, my mom, my sister, my people.

We’re all moving at different speeds.
Some of us are rebuilding. Some of us are still floating. Some of us are on Plan D.

But if you’re feeling off or weirdly low when you “should” be fine—
You’re not broken.
You’re not doing it wrong.
You’re just a little rootless right now.

And that’s okay.
Because even when we feel scattered—we’re still connected.
And when the roots come back, they won’t just be deep.
They’ll be chosen.

Displaced, But Make It Hot Mom Summer