I never thought I would watch my home disappear in a wall of smoke. But in the aftermath of the Palisades Fire I found something unexpected--> strength, creativity, and a new way to tell my story.

My name is Ania and I am a creative designer, artist and founder alongside my momma here at House of Malibu. The work we do, design and create are deeply personal shaped by the journeys we walk through. Our latest collection of hand-painted sweatshirts landed as a saving grace for my getting through the highs and lows of surviving the fire, and the aftermath of all of it. 

Through our designs and fashion, we hope to share not just clothing but stories of strength, perseverance, and transformation. Whether you have faced challenges of your own or simply appreciate art that tells a deeper story, we invite you to be apart of our journey. 
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So here it is... My true and raw story starting from the morning of January 7th, 2025....

" The morning of the Palisades Fire started like any other. I had my usual view of the mountainside from my condo at Edgewater Towers—perched on Sunset Boulevard and PCH, just behind Vons. I call it my “Positano view,” a little slice of Palisades million dollar mansions and winding roads, even if the ocean stays mostly out of sight. It was 10:30 AM, and I was on the phone with my grandma when the alert came in:  “A small fire  .03 miles away”.

At first, just a wisp in the distance, but within moments, it plummeted toward my window. The chaos outside escalated at an impossible speed—fire trucks multiplied by the dozens, sirens overlapping, the deep roar of planes overhead. From my window, I started filming. I caught it all—the first thin trails of smoke, then, in minutes, new fires erupting, leaping across the hills. I watched flames lick at homes, swallowing them whole in explosions of heat and light.

Sunset Boulevard became a bottleneck of desperation. Traffic stood frozen, cars bumper to bumper, their drivers frantic to escape toward PCH. Pedestrians ran—parents clutching their children, people dragging luggage, some sprinting, some stunned and slow-moving, all caught in the same nightmare. I was still in disbelief. How bad could it be?

I stepped onto the pool deck of my building, where a few neighbors stood, watching. That deck is gone now—burned to nothing—but at that moment, I stood there, recording as two massive fire planes soared low overhead. When a bulldozer trundled up the hill, I laughed again—“A bulldozer? What’s that going to do against a fire?” The shock of it all made me cling to the absurd, unwilling to believe the fire had the upper hand.

Even as my mom yelled at me over the phone—“Leave! Now!”—I lingered, convinced this would all blow over. It wasn’t until 1 PM that I finally evacuated. I packed instinctively: my passport, my essentials, but also my latest collection of sweatshirts—the ones I had planned to hand-paint as part of my House of Malibu line. I didn’t know why, but I needed to take them. Maybe I thought I’d only be gone for a few hours. Maybe I just needed to hold onto something that felt like my future.

I headed to my grandma’s house in Hancock Park, where my mom soon arrived, having evacuated from Malibu herself. The house filled up quickly—my stepdad, my tiny Yorkie, their two dogs, my aunt’s three kids, all of us displaced, watching the news like it was a countdown to our worst fears.
I was glued to the updates, tracking the flames approaching my home. When the maps showed my building marked in red—damaged, burned—I shrieked. My home. Gone.

But then, conflicting reports. A friend of my aunt’s, an LAPD officer, went to check: “The buildings are still standing. The fire burned around them, but they’re there.” The back-and-forth, the uncertainty—it stretched into hours, days.

We weren’t allowed back into the Palisades for a week. And even after access was granted, even as my neighbors in hazmat suits sifted through ravines, searching for what was left, I couldn’t do it. I knew my condo was still standing, but I couldn’t bring myself to return—to drive through the place I had called home and face the truth of what had happened to my city, my community. I stayed away, avoiding what I knew I’d eventually have to see.
And then, two days ago, I finally went and saw it all.
And in the midst of all this—the shock, the grief, the waiting—I turned to the one thing I could control: creating.

dma's house and transformed her vintage little girl’s rolling school desk into my makeshift studio. It became my refuge, a tiny space where I could process the chaos through brushstrokes and color. When I moved into my parents’ home, I took over their dining table, turning it into my new creative space. What had started as a small collection of hand-painted sweatshirts now carried the weight of my emotions—grief, resilience, hope. Each piece became a reflection of this journey, a tangible reminder of what I had been through.

Exposing this collection to the world hasn’t been easy. Every design holds a part of me, a moment from these past few months—some painful, some powerful. But through it all, I feel like maybe, just maybe, this can help others, too. The Palisades Fire isn’t something that can ever be forgotten. It’s a memory that will always be there, woven into the fabric of our lives.

But what I’ve learned is that the fight isn’t just about remembering—it’s about getting through. It’s about finding patience in the waiting, strength in the rebuilding, and faith in the unknown. 

Somehow, through all of this, I have to believe that God has a bigger plan for all of us.

When searching for the silver lining, I found silver paint. Creating turned into my coping mechanism. 

And so if nothing else, I know this: I am not what burned. I am what rose from my burning desire to create and to create is what rose as a coping mechanism for me to survive it all. Palisades 01.07.2025 "