By Michel Shane
In the quiet moments between waves, when the sun dips golden into the Pacific, and shadows stretch long across our shores, I reflect on what truly makes Malibu home. It isn’t the breathtaking vistas or pristine beaches that keep us anchored here — though they certainly don’t hurt. It’s something far more profound, revealing itself most clearly when darkness threatens to engulf us. Let’s face it: it is a challenging time right now.
We are a tapestry of souls from every walk of life, woven together by circumstance and choice. These bonds have never been tested more severely than now. Two major fires have ravaged our community while recovering from one seven years ago that we are not close to recovering from. This time, 700 homes were reduced to ashes — not just structures but repositories of memories and lifetimes. PCH lies in shambles, and our primary lifeline is reduced to a dangerous patchwork. Our community stands fractured physically but not in spirit, as rain that should bring relief instead threatens mudslides down our denuded hillsides.
This is not the postcard Malibu that outsiders envision. This is Malibu amidst devastation, where checking weather forecasts becomes an act of survival, where neighbors text each other concerned for well-being, and where helicopters overhead signal rescue operations, not celebrity sightings.
When Emily was taken from us too soon, I witnessed something extraordinary emerge from our collective heartbreak — an overwhelming surge of love and support that transcended differences. That same spirit sustains us now. In these moments, we aren’t neighbors; we are family.
By the time this reaches you, we’ll know the verdict on Emily’s killer’s parole — the fourth attempt in just three years. We have asked our community to speak out each time, and the response has been overwhelming. Even in crisis, we found the strength to rally for one of our own. The flood of letters tells a powerful story — a 13-year-old girl touched countless lives, creating ripples that continue almost 15 years later. If you aren’t from here, you might not understand how one young life could have such an impact. But in Malibu, we do. Emily was one of us.
This truth became even more evident recently at the Lifesavers Conference in Long Beach. Standing before over 1,800 traffic safety heroes — and they genuinely are heroes — I abandoned my prepared speech. The Secretary of Transportation had just finished discussing the staggering number of deaths over time on our roads, concluding with the powerful image that “we are raindrops, but together we are an ocean.” Those words resonated deeply as I gazed at the audience.
I asked how many had lost someone to road violence. More than half raised their hands. How many had lost children? Half of those. In that moment, I realized how numbers numb us to the human costs. Each statistic represents one life and dozens forever altered by that loss. There wasn’t a dry eye when Emily’s laughter echoed through the hall in a brief video clip. Here’s what we understand — one loss is too many.
This is our truth: When tragedy strikes, we rally. When mudslides devastate homes and fires consume our hillsides, we stand united. PCH may be broken, but our capacity for compassion knows no limits. We step up and hold each other through the unimaginable.
I never envisioned this path for myself, never imagined I would find such a profound connection in shared grief and shared rebuilding. Life reminds us daily of how little control we have — plans exist only in our minds until reality intervenes. But in losing control, I found community. In facing darkness, I discovered our collective light.
Losing a child is impossible, and reopening that wound repeatedly is its own torment. When you lose someone young to senseless circumstances, you stand at a crossroads. You can descend into darkness or move toward light. There is no correct answer. Yet somehow, we chose light. That same choice faces us now as we look at our scarred landscape — and again, we choose light. That’s who we are in Malibu.
We’ve weathered fires that consumed more than homes — they devoured ways of life. We’ve endured rains that brought mountainsides crashing down. We rebuild after nature itself shook us to our core. Through it all, what remains isn’t defeat but quiet determination, a knowing glance between neighbors that says: We will rise again together.
We must rally once more. Our city is in disarray, and we must make a difference. We are struggling. Complaining is easy, but doing it is hard. We must support one another and recreate our dream, but smarter and safer.
This is the Malibu I know — not a playground for the privileged, but a sanctuary for the human spirit, tested by fire and water yet standing resolute.
Thank you, Malibu, for teaching me that authentic beauty lives in the spaces between people — in outstretched hands and open hearts. Thank you for showing me what community means when it matters most. Thank you for being a home where beauty remains unseen yet felt in every fiber of our being, even as we stand amidst ashes.
As long as I draw breath, I will stand by Malibu. I will speak the truth without sugarcoating because that’s what family does. I will forever be grateful that your light guided me home when my path darkened.
In this place of sun and shadow, triumph and tragedy, we are more than neighbors; we are Malibu. In our resilience, beauty endures more than any view or pristine shore. Even amidst devastation, we are a community that refuses to be defined by its losses.
You can reach me at 21milesinmalibu.com