I lost my apartment in a fire. I learned that community is what makes a home.

I bought my apartment in my late 20s

I moved to Sunset Park, a middle- and working-class neighborhood in South Brooklyn, in 2002 while I was in college. It encapsulated much of what I’d left Maine for New York to find: cultural diversity, grassroots activism, vibrant urbanism, and a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. There was nowhere else I’d rather live.

In 2009, in my late 20s, I was able to purchase an apartment in my beloved neighborhood, a privilege I recognize was out of reach for many. When I moved into the junior two-bedroom with original parquet floors and golden western light, I felt I’d stepped into a secure future.

I held dinner parties around the blonde wood kitchen table. I filled the living room with legal education sessions for immigrant neighbors and fundraisers for local organizers. Daily, I sat on the fire escape to admire the sunset. For a decade, the apartment was my refuge, and in a flash, it was gone.

I cremated my cat and temporarily moved blocks away

In the aftermath, I launched into action. I paid $200 to cremate my cat and have her remains delivered to my office in a plain cardboard box. I explained to the gas company why a final meter reading was impossible. I moved into a temporary rental nine blocks away. I spent hours on the phone with my insurance agent, learning the technical meaning of “total loss.” I filled out a spreadsheet calculating the value of my destroyed items, soothed by the order of neat lines, columns, and numbers.

I was grateful for my personal property coverage, but I soon found that many of my neighbors had no insurance at all, and the condo board woefully underinsured the building as a whole. A payment for the full value of our homes was unlikely.

Once I’d checked all the bureaucratic boxes, I was forced to confront my loss.

My friends and family supported me

While I was sinking into grief, my community threw me a lifeline. Fellow building members shared support and commiseration via group text as we scattered across the city. My parents hastily arranged a visit. Neighbors organized a collective fundraiser and benefit concert. A colleague insisted I couldn’t have a new home without books, and mobilized other writers to help me replace my favorites. My old classmate’s father sent me a pressure cooker. An ex replaced my gym shoes. Coworkers brought food to my door. The library forgave fines for destroyed books and hosted a communal dinner. At the gathering, Father Kevin, a local Irish Catholic priest who said Spanish mass, gave a blessing for our departed pets. A committed agnostic, I was grateful for this ritual, knowing my Catholic grandmother would have been proud.

My friends helped me salvage my life so I could look towards what was next. In disposable coveralls, hard hats, and N95 masks to protect from any asbestos from the burnt roof, they carried my father’s mid-century desk, crates of records, and a still living fiddle leaf fig tree down five flights of sooty stairs. I swore I wouldn’t get another cat, but another found a rescue that resembled the pet I’d lost. A few days later, Biscuit and I stared at each other, wondering what we were both doing in this new living arrangement.

After the fire, I realized that support comes to us when we need it through the relationships we’ve built and invested in. Now in my 40s, I’ve moved to rural Southern California because it’s no longer financially feasible for me to live in New York. However, when I think of my Brooklyn home, I don’t only see a charred husk or a future I lost, but the web of people that held me and helped me heal.