Grateful Beyond Measure

June 11, 2013, began like any ordinary day but by nightfall, my life would be marked as “before” and “after.” I was working as a Quality Assurance Analyst at the El Paso-Teller 911 Authority (Colorado, USA), reviewing cases for protocol compliance. It was a welcome promotion from years on the dispatch floor, and that day started out routinely—until we got word of a fire.

Our team prepared to activate backup systems and reverse 911 evacuation notifications, just as we had during the previous year’s wildfire that tore through the west side of Colorado Springs. I called my daughter’s best friend, asking her to grab our two dogs “just in case.” My husband and two kids were out of state on vacation, so it was just me that week, and I assumed this meant I would be working another late night as I had done during the previous fire.

At first, I wasn’t worried. The fire was seven miles southwest of our five-acre property. “They’ll get it contained,” I told myself. But when I saw the evacuation map expanding toward our neighborhood, that confidence vanished. My manager’s voice cut through the tension: “GO.”

Racing toward home, I called my family, but they were in an area with no cell signal. “At least they’re safe,” I thought. Ahead, I saw the massive plume of smoke quickly growing like a dark monster against the sky. When I reached the intersection closest to our property, all I could see was a wall of flames where my home had stood.

A deputy screamed at me to turn around and leave. I did, but I felt numb and paralyzed at that moment. I found safety in a parking lot a few miles away and sat frozen. I called my husband and kids again, and this time I reached them. “It’s gone,” I said. “The house … it’s gone. I saw it. Actually, I couldn’t even see it through the flames.”

The next hours were a blur: collecting the dogs, fielding calls from worried family and friends, trying to make sense of what had happened, and determining what to do next. By the end of that night, nearly 500 other families shared the same devastation. The Black Forest Fire burned for 10 days, destroyed over 14,000 acres, and claimed two lives.¹

That night, I told my grandmother, “It’s OK to be sad for us, but don’t worry about us. We’re going to be OK.” I made a quick habit from that day on; I didn’t say “We lost everything” because even though we had, we also hadn’t. The most important things weren’t things—they were my family members, who were all safe and on their way back home. “Home” became a place in our hearts more than a physical address in those moments when everything changed.

When we were finally allowed back in, the sight took my breath away. Steel beams were twisted by the intense heat, the concrete foundation had literally crumbled, and everything in and of the house was reduced to ashes. Friends and family came to help us sift through debris, but everything was just literal dust. Yet even in those moments, I remember thinking: It’s all just stuff. Everyone was safe. That was what truly mattered.

We spent the next 14 months rebuilding, clearing burnt trees, and finding a new sense of normal. The lessons we learned became part of our family’s story and points that every family should plan for:

1. Have a plan before you need one. In disaster, every second counts. Survival during tragedy is measured in moments and minutes, then hours, eventually days, and much later, months and beyond. Having even a basic plan and conversations ahead of disaster can mean the difference between chaos and calm.

2. Document your belongings. Take photos around the house including inside closets and cabinets. When filing insurance claims, those images are invaluable. (We had already done this since there had already been a wildfire the previous year.)

3. Safeguard important documents. Keep digital copies in the cloud or physical copies outside your home. (We had also already done this because of the previous fire.)

4. It’s OK to not be OK. Help will come in many forms; don’t be afraid or too proud to accept it. We were so very fortunate to have the most amazing support system of family, friends, and community that lifted us up in so many meaningful ways. Gratitude feels too small a word. I was humbled to my core, overwhelmed with thankfulness, and forever reshaped by the experience.

We also learned to laugh off well-meaning, but still hurtful, comments like “How LUCKY you are to get to build a new house and get brand-new everything.” I wouldn’t wish anyone else to experience firsthand how deeply comments like that can rip open the wounds that are just starting to scab over, so I would grit my teeth and simply respond “Thanks,” knowing that I would trade in a heartbeat the “brand-new everything” and go back to my drafty old house and old things if only to spare my family the trauma and heaviness of our loss.

We reminded ourselves often during those rebuilding months that memories live in our hearts, not in our possessions. No fire could take away the stories of laughter and love, the moments that shaped us. Some memories flow easily, others still catch in my chest. Even now, more than a decade later, my breath sometimes catches when I teach wildfire and evacuation scenarios in Fire ProQA^®. But through tragedy came a deeper understanding of resilience, gratitude, and what truly endures.

Because sometimes, when everything you’ve built turns to ash, what rises from the smoke isn’t loss … it’s strength.

Source
1. “After Action Report: State of Colorado 2013 Floods and Black Forest Fire.” Colorado Division of Homeland Security & Emergency Management. 2015; June 30.  https://dhsem.colorado.gov/sites/dhsem/files/documents/Colorado%202013%20Floods%20and%20Black%20Forest%20Fire_%20AAR_IP_Final_6_30_15%20%281%29.pdf (accessed Feb. 4, 2026).