Last week, Barbara Weber, Moms’ California Field Organizer, went for a hike in Topanga State Park, near where one of the devastating Los Angeles wildfires broke out in January 2025. It was her first time there since the fires, and she couldn’t believe how green it was—but also still marked by charred trees. The neighborhoods in view were full of bare plots where homes had burned to the ground. The hike, a “cathartic return,” was a moment to reflect on the unprecedented blazes, made worse by climate-driven drought, that tore through Los Angeles, killing at least 31 people (though one study estimates a death toll of 440 people), wiping out 16,000 homes, and exposing millions to deadly air pollution. This is the story of her experience in Los Angeles one year ago.
Tell Congress: Protect Our Ability to Prepare for and Recover From Severe Weather Threats
As told to Julie Kimmel by Barbara Weber:
I was at home in Santa Monica, which is next to the Palisades, when the fire there started on January 7, a Tuesday. I live about two miles as the crow flies from the site of the fire, on a trail I hiked weekly in Temescal Canyon. I had just gotten off a work call when I looked out my living room window to see the smoke and flames coming off the hill—my stomach dropped. I knew it would be hard to manage given the strength of the Santa Ana winds; earlier that morning, the power had been flickering from them. I had hiked there just two days prior, and it felt like a tinderbox after nearly eight months without rain. Still, I couldn’t have imagined the scale of what was coming.
I immediately texted a friend who lived up there a video of what I was seeing, telling her to stay alert as it looked like the Palisades fire was spreading fast. She had no idea it was happening; the emergency alert to our phones wouldn’t come for another 10 minutes.
She quickly gathered her family of five and evacuated. They made it out—after abandoning their car, walking to the ocean, and hitchhiking to safety—but that night, they had to evacuate again.
The winds ultimately spared Santa Monica, but other areas were decimated. In addition to the Palisades fire, the deadly Eaton fire ignited in Altadena that same evening. By nightfall, winds were nearing hurricane strength. My windows shook as I watched a red glow on the hillside. Around 10 PM, I packed up and went to a friend’s house farther south. I live five blocks from the evacuation zone and wasn’t taking any chances.
On Wednesday morning, my friend who had twice evacuated the day before, texted: their house was gone, as were all their life’s belongings. That night, another fire broke out in the Hollywood Hills. Ash fell over Santa Monica—a surreal reminder that what blanketed the city were people’s homes and lives. It felt like Los Angeles was under siege. Fire crews arrived from across the western U.S., Canada, and Mexico. A year later, the sound of fire trucks still triggers me.
Photo by Barbara Weber.
For days, I was stuck between flight, fright, and fight. I was glued to the news and the Watch Duty app, which provides real-time wildfire mapping. By Saturday, I turned my devastation into action, joining thousands of Angelenos supporting displaced neighbors. I spent the day delivering donations across the city. For the first time in five days, I didn’t feel hollow. I had witnessed the worst and then one of the most inspiring things I’ve ever seen.
In the months that followed, we all learned just how many others had lost everything. It wasn’t only homes—it was communities, schools, businesses, and gathering places. Personally, I carried a heavy grief for a community and wilderness I loved, alongside guilt for still having a roof over my head.
One day, a month or so after the fires, I was in line at the grocery store when the cashier stepped out from the register and embraced the woman in front of me. They held each other for quite some time before I realized what was happening. The cashier had worked in the Gelson’s supermarket in the Palisades that had burned down and had been relocated, along with other staff, to a nearby store. The shopper was one of the thousands of displaced Palisades residents, and she teared up, telling the cashier it was so good to see a familiar face. I could tell you a thousand stories like this.
A year later, the reminders are constant. Sometimes, it’s just looking out my window at the hillside in the distance. Sadly, people who were directly impacted are still navigating a lot of unknowns, from insurance nightmares and lack of federal government support, to questions about soil quality, building safety, and what it looks like to rebuild responsibly—if rebuilding is even possible. Many have been forced to sell their land. Many people whose houses survived but are unlivable say the cleanup has been impossible. And while local officials have assured us things are safe over the last year, I don’t think we’ll fully understand the damage inhaling burning plastic, asbestos, and other hazardous materials will have, especially on the first responders.
I replaced multiple windows in my apartment as toxic smoke seeped in for weeks following the fires. I still run an air purifier daily. What many people don’t realize is how long the impacts of the Los Angeles fires are actually lasting. The fires changed our city. I don’t know anyone who wasn’t affected.
I’ve been a climate activist and advocate for more than a decade. I actually got my start in environmental work in the Pacific Palisades office of the climate change nonprofit Protect Our Winters in 2014. Since the fires, I’ve been more energized than ever to build collective action for protecting future generations from air pollution and global warming—especially in California—a state leading on environmental policy while also experiencing some of the most severe consequences of a warming climate.
Tell Congress: Protect Our Ability to Prepare for and Recover From Severe Weather Threats