The Hardest Goodbye Is the One You Never Chose.

I wasn’t leaving San Francisco. I was coming back.

That's the pivotal moment people often miss when I share my story. I prepared for a brief departure—a life-changing medical procedure in New Zealand, where my heritage roots run deep and the cost was nonexistent, a stark contrast to the thousands of dollars I couldn't afford in America. America had blessed me with nine incredible years and a city that had captured my heart completely. Yet, it couldn't offer me this one thing. So, I took a leap of faith in November 2025 with every intention of returning to my sanctuary, my life, and the breathtaking fog that rolled in off the bay at 4 p.m., just as it had done every day I'd lived there.

I found out about the fire on X.

San Francisco has a way of making life unique. On Sundays, Taylor and I would rise leisurely, dress without any rush, and stroll to Simple Pleasures Café for an iced coffee. After picking up a breakfast burrito from Cielito Lindo, we'd drive to Ocean Beach. We would sit in the truck, observing the lives of strangers: joggers, dog walkers, and elderly men who seemed to have frequented that beach long before we were born. In the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge stood, effortlessly stunning as always. I never grew accustomed to it. Even after nine years, I never once looked at that bridge without feeling something profound.

That's what the city gave me. Not just the view, though the view was extraordinary. It gave me the shape of a good day. It gave me a sense of belonging so complete that I stopped noticing it, the way you stop noticing the sound of the ocean once you've lived near it long enough. San Francisco was the water. I was just swimming in it.

Taylor was part of that. He was the person I built a home with over the years—the record player, the bookshelf stacked floor to ceiling, the piano I played when I needed somewhere to put what I was feeling. The framed prints on the walls. The plants on the windowsill. The particular quality of light in the afternoon that made everything look like a photograph I'd want to keep.

You don't realise you've built a life until it's gone.

The morning of November 9th, 2025, something felt wrong before I could name it.

^{Picture from SFFD twitter page of our apartment building} 

Taylor's morning texts brighten my day, a tradition that has endured even after our romantic relationship evolved into a profound and lasting friendship. We remain incredibly close, communicating daily with an unspoken understanding that silence can be a cause for concern. On this particular morning, however, there was an unsettling stillness. I patiently waited, choosing to believe it was just an anomaly. Yet, driven by an inexplicable intuition, I decided to check X; an action that deviated from my usual routine.

The San Francisco Fire Department's official account had posted at 4:48 a.m. Four photos. Fire engines, ladders against a building, firefighters in gear. 648 views. Three likes. Just another morning dispatch.

It was my building.

My heart dropped so completely I couldn't locate it. I was overcome with emotion, but it wasn't the loss of my belongings that moved me to tears—not yet. Not the record player, the books, the piano, or the nine years of accumulated treasures that made my life feel rich and meaningful. What stirred my soul was the uncertainty about Taylor's fate. My heart swelled with concern. I couldn't help but wonder if he was safe, if he had escaped the flames. The fire, though raging, was a secondary concern. My every thought was consumed by one beacon of hope: knowing that Taylor was all right.

I called him. No answer. I called again. Nothing.

For two days, I knew nothing.

He had tried to put the fire out himself.

That's the thing about Taylor that I have never been able to adequately explain to anyone who hasn't met him; he is the kind of person who runs toward the thing everyone else is running from.

He went in. He tried to save it. And the fire gave him third-degree burns on his hands and across his body in return.

He is healed now. He is okay now. He lives in Modesto with his mother, far from San Francisco. The fire scattered both of us in different directions—him inland, me across the Pacific. Neither of us ended up back.

When I reflect on what I lost in that fire, my mind turns first to the piano, a treasured keepsake that resonated deeply with me. Then I think of the books, hundreds of them, each one a testament to years of love, learning, and annotation, with dog-eared pages that held memories. The signed poster from Jamie Bower's band, a 2018 keepsake. The one from Logic in 2014, with a heart dotting the "i," a touch that spoke volumes. A cherished picture of my bird, who left a lasting legacy in 2022. Then the record player, another beloved companion.

Everything in that living room; the room that was a reflection of my soul, captured perfectly in a photograph I once took, was reduced to ashes, but its memory remains vivid. A room like that can't be rebuilt from memory alone. New furniture, books, and another record player can all be acquired, but the essence of what was lost—the signed posters and the unique arrangement of objects that told my story; took years to curate and cannot be replicated.

But perhaps it isn't about rebuilding what was lost. It's about creating something new. The memories, the love, and the passion that defined that space can ignite a brighter future. That takes resilience. What's most personal and meaningful can never truly be lost. It can only be transformed.

I call Sydney home now, and it's a truly fantastic city—I'm not just saying that to ease the transition. The harbour is absolutely stunning, with a light that, while different from San Francisco's, still illuminates the world in a way that makes every moment feel precious. I'm cultivating something remarkable here, steadily bringing my vision to life. With Velvet Oracle, the publication I pour my heart into, I write, photograph, and design every page, crafting something that fills me with pride. This journey is authentic, and this life I'm building is truly mine.

But San Francisco is still there, somewhere behind everything. Not as grief exactly—not anymore. More like a room in my chest that I know the layout of by heart, even though I can't go back to it. Even though it burned.

That's the thing nobody tells you about cities—the truly great ones leave an indelible mark, etching themselves into your very being. They become part of your inner framework. You carry the map of them in your heart long after you've departed, and sometimes you catch yourself instinctively navigating by streets that may no longer be part of your daily routine, reaching for a cup of coffee from a café that, though distant, remains forever familiar.

I wasn't leaving San Francisco. I was coming back.

I say this not to assign blame—not to the city, not to circumstance, not to the country that made it financially impossible for me to get the medical care I needed without crossing an ocean first. I say it because the truth of how I lost that place matters to me. I didn't choose to leave. I was pulled away for survival, and while I was gone, the decision got made without me.

The grief that comes from loss you didn't consent to sits differently in the body than the grief of a choice. It doesn't have the dignity of sacrifice. Instead, it just happens. You were in New Zealand. Your apartment was on X. Your person was in a hospital with third-degree burns, and you were finding out two days later, and there was nothing to do but hold the weight of it from thousands of miles away.

I still think about Ocean Beach on Sundays. The truck, the coffee, the bridge sitting there being beautiful without trying. Taylor beside me, and all that water, and the particular satisfaction of a city that fits.

I was blessed. I want to acknowledge that with utmost clarity - nine years of pure blessing. The food, the views, the museums, the fog, the friends I made there who will forever be etched in my heart. San Francisco gifted me a version of myself that I cherish deeply. It shaped the essence of what makes a truly amazing day.

It just didn't let me keep it.