When the Sky Caught Fire: Reflections on Loss, Fear, and Gratitude

Last weekend, three houses down from us, the sky lit up orange in the middle of the night. Lightning had struck, and before I could even fully register what was happening, flames were shooting into the street. It was surreal—like something out of a movie—but this was no movie. It was my neighborhood.

The heat radiated against my skin even from a distance. The smell of smoke filled the air, thick and unrelenting. The only sounds were the downpour of rain and the crackle of fire. First responders had not yet arrived. For a few minutes, it was just us—neighbors standing frozen in shock, helpless against something so fierce.

I will never forget that sense of being utterly debilitated, not knowing what to do as the fire consumed everything in its path.

My Daughter’s Worst Fear

For my daughter, this was not just another fire—it was her worst fear come to life. Since preschool, she’s carried an intense anxiety about fire. She would scan every building we entered for exits and alarms, asking about escape plans. She’s had nightmares about being trapped in flames. Even routine fire drills at school brought panic attacks.

And on this night? She was already awake at 3 a.m., unsettled by the severe storm. She heard the lightning strike. She checked the weather groups online, and then the police scanner page confirmed it: a house fire on our street.

She told my husband, who went to the front door and saw the flames. He woke me, and suddenly we were in the middle of this terrifying, surreal reality.

Together with our neighbors, we rushed to move cars away from the fire and to help evacuate nearby homes. The hardest part was not knowing if the older couple who lived in the burning house had made it out. Those minutes felt excruciatingly long. Eventually, we learned they were out of town—safe, but about to return to the devastation of losing everything they owned.

Living in the Aftermath

Almost 20 years they had lived there, just as long as we have. Now, the house is barely standing—walls collapsing, windows shattered, the inside gutted. Firefighters have had to return multiple times to put out smoldering flames. Every time I step outside, I see it: the wreckage, the reminder of how quickly everything can change.

Even inside my own home, the heaviness lingers. The smell of smoke, the images burned in my mind, the anxiety that hangs in the air. My daughter has barely slept. Truthfully, I haven’t either. Even our dogs are unsettled.

And to compound it all, the very next night, another severe weather alert swept through—tornado warnings, lightning, winds. The universe wasn’t subtle in its message.

Finding Meaning in the Flames

Not long ago, I wrote a piece titled “I Built a $2 Million Practice and Burned It Down.” At the time, I meant it figuratively—the story of closing a business I poured everything into, and the grief, clarity, and rebirth that followed.

And then here I was, watching a literal house burn to the ground, helpless to stop it. The metaphor I once used so freely suddenly took on a weight I could feel in my bones. It was no longer just a phrase—it was a visceral reminder of destruction, loss, and the way life can change in an instant.

I can’t help but see this tragedy as a call from the universe. A call not to take things for granted. A call to be present. To stop waiting for the “perfect” time to do the things that matter most.

Because life is fragile. Unpredictable. Gone in a moment.

This fire pressed pause on me. It reminded me of everything I’ve been carrying and processing these past two years:

• Losing my mom just three months ago.
• My oldest heading off to college next week.
• My youngest beginning high school.
• The grief of closing my first business and starting over.
• My own AuDHD diagnosis, which has reshaped how I understand myself. 

It’s a lot. And yet, in the midst of all this, I also finished creating Understanding AuDHD Women: Differences Not Deficits the very same day the fire happened. I pushed to meet that deadline—and in hindsight, I realize I wasn’t as present with my daughter as I wanted to be. Maybe I needed the distraction. Maybe my brain needed something to hold onto. But today, I can feel the pull to slow down and reassess what truly matters.

Gratitude in Divine Timing

Even in the devastation, there is gratitude. Gratitude that the couple wasn’t home. Gratitude that a neighbor happened to witness the strike and acted quickly. Gratitude for the rain that poured down and may have helped contain the fire. Gratitude that the winds died down and didn’t spread it further.

Gratitude for community—that in the middle of the night, we came together to move cars, wake neighbors, and stand in solidarity.

Moving Forward

I don’t know what the road ahead looks like for our neighbors who lost everything. I do know we’ll help however we can. And I know that for me, this experience is a sharp reminder that nothing is guaranteed.

All we can do is live fully in the moments we are given. Hug our children tighter. Tell the people we love that we love them. Take the risks that matter. Stop waiting for someday.

Life is now.

And even in the ashes, gratitude can still be found.