january 7, 2025 - our lives up in flames
Hi, I’m Josephine Atluri. On Tuesday, January 7, 2025, my family’s life changed forever. The Palisades Fire swept through our neighborhood, reducing our home—and every house on our street—to ashes. As I sit down to write this on Saturday, January 11, at 7 a.m., I am finally catching my breath. The kids are still asleep, and we’ve found temporary refuge in a friend’s home. First and foremost, we are safe.
So many of you have reached out to check on us, and your support has been a lifeline in these chaotic days. Thank you for your patience as I try to respond to everyone. This post is my way of sharing our story, both to document these surreal events and to answer your kind inquiries.
Highlights:
- Safety: We are all safe.
- Evacuation: We had two hours to pack before leaving our home.
- Loss: Our house and everything in it is gone.
- Current Status: We’re staying in a friend’s home in the South Bay until January 19th.
- Next Steps: Securing a long-term rental, navigating insurance, and rebuilding our lives.
- How to Help: While we’re not in a position to accept many physical items and are so very fortunate to be able to provide for our family, we are deeply grateful for small gestures of kindness that lighten our spirits, most especially our kids.
Chronological Narrative:
Tuesday, January 7th
**10:30 a.m.**
I was working at the dining table when I decided to grab a quick change of clothes. As I stepped into our bedroom, the northwest-facing windows revealed a sight that stopped me cold: a plume of gray smoke billowing into the clear morning sky, fueled by the fierce winds we’d been warned about the day before.
**11:00 a.m.**
Mode, thankfully working from home, and I exchanged a look that spoke volumes. It was time to act. We had two hours to pack, but those hours slipped through our fingers like sand in a windstorm.
The kids were scattered—five older ones at school, the twins with our nanny in Culver City. I tried to pack deliberately, starting with essentials: clothes, toiletries, and important documents. But the urgency crept up on me like the rising smoke outside. By the end, I wasn’t packing—I was grabbing, dumping, and hoping.
While I was packing feverishly, sirens were wailing, the dull roar of helicopters buzzed nonstop overhead, and the wind’s relentless howl reminded me of its vicious capacity for destruction. I stood frozen in front of the boys’ bookshelf, torn between a framed picture of three birds drawn by their surrogate and their ultrasound pictures. A siren snapped me out of my reverie, and I left them both behind. The weight of those decisions and many other similar moments is something I carry now—small choices made under impossible circumstances that feel monumental in hindsight.
When I went finally went outside to pack the car, there was an acrid scent of smoke seeping into the air, an inescapable reminder of the threat. Ash swirling in the air, neighbors were dumbstruck, the horizon growing darker by the minute.
**12:30 p.m.**
We left our house for the last time. There was a palpable chaos on our street. I saw neighbors outside that I had not seen before. I turned back to look at our home - I thought of our countless memories: holidays, birthday parties, the milestones of a family of nine, the place where we raised our 9 year old boys starting at six months of age and where we brought home our baby girls. I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d see it intact.
The Fire’s Aftermath:
When the fire swept through our neighborhood later that day, it left nothing behind but smoldering rubble. A neighbor’s video of our street, shared in a group chat, confirmed the next day what we feared: our home was gone.
In the days since, I’ve tried to process what “losing everything” truly means. It’s the loss of tangible things—photo albums, heirlooms, the twin girls’ baby blankets. But it’s also the intangibles: the sense of safety and permanence that a home provides, the feeling of waking up surrounded by the life you’ve built.
Despite this, we’ve found glimmers of hope. Our community has rallied around us in ways I never imagined. Friends have opened their homes, sent meals, written us supportive notes, and shared resources. Strangers have paid for our meals and dropped off gifts for the kids. These gestures remind me that even in our darkest moments, light persists.
Looking Ahead:
For now, we are staying at a friend’s home in the South Bay. She generously shared her home to us while they were away. By January 19th, we hope to have secured a long-term rental, but if not, we have some backup plans in place. It’s hard to make decisions when the fires are still raging and potential neighborhoods are being evacuated. We’re also navigating the complex process of insurance claims and starting to imagine what “rebuilding” will look like for our family all while tyring to maintain a sense of “normalcy” for our seven kids and my 81 year old father who lives with us..
I’m trying to focus on the resilience we’ve cultivated over the years. Our family has faced challenges before—infertility, adoption, surrogacy, the balancing act of raising seven children. Each time, we’ve emerged stronger. I believe we will again.
How You Can Help:
Many of you have asked how you can support us. While we’re not in a position to accept many physical items due to limited space and our transient reality and more importantly, we are in a fortunate position to be able to provide for our family’s needs, here is an idea:
- Thoughtful Gestures: Notes of encouragement or some memories to share with us in a written note that the kids can see to remind them they are loved and supported or simply checking in mean more than you know.
My sister-in-law, Farita, is helping us by being our correspondent. You can reach her via text at 773-988-1424.
We are endlessly grateful for the love and support we’ve received. It’s a testament to the strength of community and the power of kindness. Thank you for holding us in your hearts as we navigate this journey.
With love and gratitude,
Josephine and Pramod