Sanctuary: A Safe Space to Heal and Be Held

Most mornings, I wake up at 5 a.m., let our dog Daisy out, and have a cup of Numi Emperor’s Pu-erh tea with honey. My wife and I sit in our rocking chairs by the fire before heading our separate ways—me to boxing at JFM Boxing Club and her to shefayoga. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday 6 a.m. boxing is more than a workout; it’s a community. The bonds we share with each other extend beyond fitness, creating a network of connection and support. The other day, I received a compliment in passing that light up my heart and led me to reflect on the tragedy that recently struck Los Angeles.

For eight rounds, I sat in the ring as the designated sparring dummy while people worked on their offensive combinations and maneuvers. I spent the time offering feedback and refining my defensive skills. No matter how hard anyone hit, I met them with grace, support, and encouragement. At the end of the class, two of my dear friends talking to each other said to me, “John’s a safe space.” My heart smiled.

This sentiment reminded me of our clinic, aptly named The Sanctuary. What is a sanctuary? It is a safe space to heal and be held, to be seen, heard, and valued—a place to break down and break through, to feel loved and be loving. The compliment wasn’t about a physical space I’ve created but about a presence I’ve cultivated in my heart, a presence others can feel.

For many, a home embodies this sanctuary—a container for life’s memories and experiences. When a home is lost, it can feel as though the safe space it represented is lost too.

Shortly after welcoming in the New Year and all its possibility, cleansing us of the remnants of 2024, for better or worse, we in Los Angeles were immediately confronted with circumstances all too familiar. As the saying goes, where there is smoke, there is fire. In the morning of January 7, 2025, the coastal community of Pacific Palisades was struck by a brush fire. Much like humans, the conditions surrounding the traumatic burn influenced whether this would be a light burn or the second deadliest wildfire in California history. Hurricane strength winds, unseasonably low rain fall, near single digit humidity, and coastal sage scrub that hadn’t burned in years all created the perfect conditions for destruction and devastation. As the fire progressed into the evening, the world watched powerless and defenseless as the Eaton fire ignited its wrath and tore through the city of Altadena.

“What is a sanctuary? It is a safe space to heal and be held, to be seen, heard, and valued—a place to break down and break through, to feel loved and be loving.”

Twenty-four days later, the fires were fully contained, leaving an emotional toll that defies measurement. The Palisades fire destroyed over 6,800 structures; the Eaton fire, more than 9,400. Twenty-nine lives were lost, including a father who refused to leave his child’s side as they waited for help. In total, over 37,000 acres burned—an area larger than San Francisco.

These numbers, while staggering, can’t capture the true magnitude of loss: generational family homes, pencil marks on door frames memorializing the growth of children, yards where laughter once rang out, and spaces that held years of connection and community. Sometimes, such losses are honored and remembered; other times, they go unnoticed until tragedy lays them bare.

As the dust settles, people are taking inventory of the unfathomable. Insurance adjusters will quantify the value of possessions, but the meaning and memories embedded within them remain immeasurable.

Loss is part of life, but some are confronted with it earlier and more intensely than expected. Whether it’s the loss of a loved one, a home, or an identity, life’s cycles of chaos and order, death and renewal, shape us. They shape the topography and texture of our complex lives. The grief that follows, inevitable and personal, reflects the depth of our love and attachment to the object of loss.

Navigating grief requires gentleness with ourselves. It is an unmarked path, with no timeline or clear direction—only the faith that putting one foot in front of the other will eventually lead us to a new orientation and understanding.

In moments of crisis, our humanity is laid bare. We hold the heroic efforts of first responders and communities coming together, juxtaposed against the opportunism of a few—looters, price gougers, and those exploiting tragedy for profit, i.e. disaster capitalism. Even parts of the wellness industry have attempted to capitalize, promoting detox products under the guise of helpful advice.

Tragedy exposes pain, often displaced outward as outrage or blame, giving the illusion of action while masking our raw vulnerability. Yet crisis can also be a catalyst. Whether it leads to victimhood or resilience depends on our perspective and choices.

"A sanctuary is more than a physical space; it’s a reminder to cultivate something safe and sacred within us. When we build these sanctuaries in our hearts, they remain with us, unshaken by external loss."

So, what can we do now? Cry. Grieve. Connect. Help. Pause. Breathe. Rebuild. Love. Choose love. Choose each other. It's up to us to rebuild the safe spaces we dwell in, informed by the sanctuaries within our hearts.

A sanctuary is more than a physical space; it’s a reminder to cultivate something safe and sacred within us. When we build these sanctuaries in our hearts, they remain with us, unshaken by external loss.

I’ve been inspired by my wife, Tami Pardee, and her company, Pardee Properties. In the aftermath of the fires, Tami leveraged her company and contacts to mobilize a response. Through tireless effort, they matched those able to help with those in need of help - free of charge. An service and opportunity for people and families to recreate their sanctuaries so they could start to heal.

Neither smoke nor fire can obscure our ability to see one another or destroy the bonds that connect us as a community, respectively. We must not let the wildfires of rage and anger consume hearts filled with goodness.

If you or anyone you know needs a safe space to stabilize, process, and make meaning of the grief, we are here to help.

Los Angeles, we see you, and we love you!