Finding Connection: When Community Rises from Crisis

Jan 22

The past two weeks in Los Angeles have held us in a delicate balance between devastation and hope. From my window, I’ve seen the sky change from ominous colors filled with smoke to deceitful blue skies. I’ve seen ash in my patio and people posting photos of scorched pages from books and journals that have flown into their yards miles away from the fires––all while monitoring fire alerts and air quality reports, my anxiety rising with each red flag warning and feeling a burning sensation in my throat because of the toxic air. As both a resident and a mental health professional, I find myself navigating familiar territory—the uncertainty that comes with natural disasters and the hyper-vigilance of waiting for the next emergency alert.

Yet in this space of collective anxiety, I'm witnessing something profound: communities coming together, offering support in ways both practical and deeply touching. It reminds me of a truth I've encountered repeatedly in my work as an art therapist—that in times of crisis, human connection becomes our most potent medicine.

The way Angelenos and others have rallied to support those affected by the fires reflects what I've long observed in art therapy groups: when we create space to hold each other's experiences, something transformative happens. Whether it's through sharing resources or sharing creative expression, we find ways to strengthen our collective resilience.

Echoes of Past Crises

The anxiety that comes with watching natural disasters unfold feels eerily familiar. Each alert notification from the Watch Duty app on my phone triggers the same physical response I experienced during the aftershocks of Chile's devastating earthquake in 2010––that constant state of anticipation, wondering if each shift of the ground below me would bring another big one and wondering if they would ever stop. Now, with these fires, I have found myself obsessively checking fire maps, my body remembering that same helpless vigilance.

Like during COVID, there's that gnawing uncertainty of our health. Then, it was invisible droplets that threatened our health; now it’s about the air we breathe––do they even have the tools to measure what we are breathing in the zones not directly affected? The isolation also feels similar too––staying indoors with air purifiers, checking air quality indexes before venturing out, wondering when it will be safe again. My nervous system remembers this dance all too well: the hyper-awareness, the difficulty sleeping, the constant monitoring of potential threats.

I recognize that not everyone shares this level of anxiety. While some of my friends seem to take the situation in stride, not masking outdoors and relying on the AQI, I find myself caught in old trauma responses. Sometimes I feel almost silly about my heightened state of alertness––after all, I'm in a safe zone, I didn’t even face evacuation orders like so many others. But I've learned through my work as an art therapist that trauma responses aren't always proportional to our current level of danger. Sometimes they're about what our bodies remember, what our nervous systems have learned to brace for.

What gives me hope is that like during COVID, where we had to invent new ways to be in community (hello, virtual birthday parties!), I'm watching our community mobilize in real-time. Social media feeds with resource information and showcasing neighbors helping neighbors, strangers offering shelter, communities coming together.

Los Angeles Community Response

The mobilization of Los Angeles communities has been swift and heartening. Within hours of the first evacuations, social media platforms transformed into command centers of mutual aid. Facebook groups and Instagram stories filled with offers of temporary housing, both free and at reduced costs. People opened their homes to strangers, offering spare rooms and guest houses to those fleeing the fires. Others coordinated donation drives, collecting everything from clothing and toiletries to pet supplies and children's toys.

What's particularly moving is how specific the support has become. Beyond the immediate needs of shelter and supplies, people are sharing detailed information about filing FEMA claims, navigating insurance processes, and documenting losses. Mental health professionals are offering crisis counseling and pro bono services to those affected. Neighboring schools take in students from children whose schools have either been destroyed or are not habitable. Pet owners are fostering animals until families can reunite with their pets.

The generosity extends beyond those directly impacted by the fires: local restaurants offering free meals to first responders and evacuees, AirBnB offered free housing, countless GoFundMe campaigns––and guidelines on how to word those campaigns to still receive aid from FEMA, and spreadsheet upon spreadsheet circulating to provide care and resources, even tracking the rent gouging that is unfortunately beginning to happen. It's as if the whole city understands that healing happens not just through grand gestures, but through these small acts of practical care.

Art & Art Therapy Community Response

What moves me most deeply about this crisis is watching my own professional community of art therapists spring into action. On Thursday, January 9, art therapists Gaby Espinoza, LMFT, ATR-BC, and Melissa Garcia, LMFT, ATR sent out a call that would transform individual helplessness into collective action. While I had spent that first week of fires paralyzed by news coverage and social media feeds of devastation, feeling simultaneously overwhelmed by the need and uncertain about how to help, I wasn't alone.

The next day, over 30 art therapists gathered on Zoom, a number that has since grown to 60 and continues to rise––with practitioners as far away as Canada wanting to provide virtual care. What started as individual art therapists feeling the weight of response has become a coordinated movement to support first responders and community members, both in-person and virtually. We are collaborating with former classmates and creating new connections with other professionals. There is something profoundly energizing about discovering that others share not just your concern, but your vision for healing through creative expression.

Now, art therapy groups are already underway, with more forming each week. Colleagues are connecting with community centers, local businesses, art institutions, and municipalities to create accessible spaces for healing. What felt impossible to shoulder alone has become not just manageable but inspiring when held by many. It's a vivid reminder that community isn't just something we offer our clients—it's also how we, as healers, sustain our ability to serve.

Artists across Los Angeles have also mobilized with LA AYUDA Network (Los Angeles Artists Yield: Union for Distributing Aid) providing vetted health communications and resources. Also the Grief & Hope Fund created by a group of five artists and art professionals have raised well over their initial goal of $500,000 to distribute evenly among artists and arts workers. And lastly, a coalition of major arts organizations and philanthropists are providing emergency relief for artists and art workers who have lost residences, studios, archives, artworks, livelihoods, or have otherwise been impacted by the devastating Los Angeles fires via the LA Arts Community Fire Relief Fund. It is heartening to see all this momentum during these difficult days.

Reflections on Collective Healing

In times of crisis, anxiety and hope often coexist in complex ways. While my body remembers the uncertainty of past disasters—the earthquake in Chile in 2010, the isolation and unknowing of COVID—it's also learning new patterns through our community's response to these fires. Each offer of shelter, each coordinated relief effort, each art therapy group forming reminds me that we hold tremendous capacity for collective care.

What began as individual responses to the crisis—my anxious monitoring of fire maps, art therapists feeling overwhelmed by the scope of need, neighbors wanting to help—has transformed into coordinated action. We're witnessing how community doesn't just happen; it's actively created through countless small decisions to reach out, to offer what we can, to hold space for each other's experiences.

Perhaps this is what collective healing looks like: not the absence of anxiety or fear, but the presence of mutual support. It's found in the practical acts of care, in the creative spaces we build together, in the simple recognition that none of us need to face crisis alone. As we continue to navigate this challenging time, I'm reminded that our strength lies not just in our individual resilience, but in our willingness to come together, to create together, to heal together.