How to Be Human in a Crisis

The LA fires are bringing out the best and worst in us

What right do I have to this anger? I’m not even in LA. I’m like the gratitude girl, am I not? Shouldn’t I keep this positive, list out the same places to donate that I’ve been seeing everywhere? Maybe type out a sample thank you note to a firefighter?

Those are the thoughts that have been swirling in my mind ever since I drafted this email yesterday from my sick bed in NYC, far from the smoke. Nevertheless, this is what is in my heart so I am sending it out.

I was born and raised in California, in a southern enclave that was spared (for now). But many of my friends have been uprooted, and some have lost everything.

I’ve been laid up in bed with the flu and I can’t look away from the videos, the gofundme pages. I am shooting out “checking in on you” texts and hearing from people whose brothers, mothers, friends are displaced or worse.

Online, I am observing a world of extremes—so much compassion and so much callousness. An upwelling of generosity against a backdrop of contempt.

The comments, about Angelenos deserving this. I can’t fathom them. What has happened to our humanity? How have we become so desensitized to tragedy? Or, we’ve become desensitized to tragedy when it happens to the presumed “rich.”

Yes, some of the people who lost all of their possessions are relatively well off and will generally be fine in the end. They won’t, like, die in the street after selling their teeth like Fantine in Les Miserables. Does that mean they don’t deserve our compassion?

What does it say about our society? Are people at a baseline so miserable, so desperate, that they don’t think of “rich” people as people at all? (I’m thinking, for one example, about the vitriol Mandy Moore has received upon posting a gofundme for her brother-in-law.)

(It goes without saying that, obviously, victims of this fire come in all socioeconomic stripes.)

I am of course bolstered and inspired by the helpers. (Although I’m not sure how many more times I can stomach the Mister Rogers voiceover, as much as I adore him; it’s become as cliched as a Mary Oliver poem; sorry again, love her too.) There are so many helpers to look to. Neighbors are holding each other; friends and strangers are opening their homes; people are volunteering, donating, cooking.

But I can’t stop thinking about the haters. The trolls and also the price gouging landlords and also the people far away from LA who are using the tragedy to smugly prove some political point. I am not talking about YOU. Of course I’m not. You follow a gratitude newsletter so I very much doubt that I am speaking to any trolls here. But how do we all, collectively, address this problem?

I was weirdly in LA for less than 24 hours last week; I took this from the plane on Tuesday the 7th at 11am, as the Palisades fire was just starting.

People come here for the gratitude. I keep hearing the word over and over from people who have lost everything. And gratitude is wonderful and healing, a feeling that will help get them through. “Gratitude is good medicine,” as I say in my book. But it’s just one of a symphony of emotions that a victim will feel over these months, and sometimes gratitude will quite naturally recede into the background of despair and anxiety and, like, red tape.

Please do not insist on beatific gratitude from someone who is in the midst of trauma. Never offer “stuff is just stuff”-type platitudes, my god. The hubris!

We as a society are so uncomfortable with discomfort. We are so scared of our own fragility, of our own mortality, that we cling desperately to silver linings. We want someone to tie a little bow for us, never mind that what’s wrapped up might not be a gift at all.

You know what? When someone has lost not only their belongings but their home, not only their home but their community and neighborhood, they are allowed any feeling, any emotion—without having to cosplay gratitude for anyone. (Even if they have some money in the bank!) They can curl into a ball wailing or ride the streets howling and cackling like the wicked f*ing witch. That is their right.

Any gratitude that comes will be hard-won and theirs to hold onto and savor and share as they wish. But they don’t owe it to anyone else. For their comfort.

So many people have been reaching out to me, knowing I come from LA, and asking how I am and how my people are. This is so appreciated. I suggest you do the same to anyone you know in Southern California (much like a thank you note, it’s not too late; it’s never too late).

Tomorrow I am getting on a call with my friend who lost everything, and perhaps she will have some additions to the below. But for now, here’s a place to start…

Here are some things you could say:

• You’ve been on my mind nonstop. How are you? How are your people? (No pressure to respond. Just know I am here for you.)

• Thinking of you. Let me know how you’re doing whenever you can. I love you.

• You and LA are in my heart and thoughts. I have some money to give; if you have a favorite charity or gofundme that’s where I will send it. (No need to respond in any timely fashion. Take care of yourself.)

And then, as they describe their circumstances and that of their friends, you can maybe say some combo of these words:

• Terrible, terrible, terrible.

• Thank goodness for that at least.

• What on earth.

• I love you.

• You are wonderful.

• Of course I am glad you’re okay—but my god.

Here are some things you should never under any circumstances say:

• Stuff is just stuff.

• At least you’re okay.

• At least you’re alive!

• But you and your family are okay, and that’s what matters.

A pulse shouldn’t be the baseline for sympathy, people! You know, in 2025 I find myself worrying less about AI—which very well might steal my jobs, my clients—and more about humans becoming so polarized, so desensitized, that they are no better than robots where it counts.

With love from the saltiest gratitude “expert” in the world. I really should rename this newsletter Gratitudes & Grievances.

xo

Gina

PS: Thank you thank you to the real ones out there: the firefighters working through the night; the people who don N95s to do Walmart runs; the industrious women who build NGOs overnight. Thank you to the ones who stayed to hose it down and the ones who left it all behind to keep their precious selves and families safe. Thank you to the impossibly beautiful place of my birth, for holding and keeping us for so long. Let us all come together and figure out how we can deserve you again.