I first understood the weight of living with natural hazards during my early summers on Colorado’s Front Range, back in 2013. In Manitou Springs, along Ute Pass, flash floods rushed through like fast-moving rivers, sweeping away cars and sometimes people that year. A few years later, the hazards shifted. Rain grew scarce, the land turned dry, and the threat of wildfire was most prevalent. Fire bans marked our summers. When my husband and I bought our first mountain home in 2015, we built a fire pit but we were never able to use it. Each summer, the risk felt too high. At community meetings, neighbors recalled the Waldo Canyon Fire of 2012 and prepared for the next one. We cleared brush, joined chipping programs, and watched smoke drift in from fires near and far—Arizona, New Mexico, even California. Summers remained beautiful, but the air quality worsened. When we decided to grow our family, the question became urgent: what would wildfire smoke mean for a newborn? In the winter of 2022, we made the heartbreaking decision to leave. We moved to New Bern, North Carolina, a historic coastal town framed by rivers and lush forests. On the East Coast, we anticipated clearer skies, far from the smoke-filled summers of the West. But two months after we arrived, wildfire smoke from the Croatan National Forest settled over our new home. On a call with Coalitions & Collaboratives (COCO), I shared our story. Jonathan Bruno, COCO’s CEO, said it plainly: “We can’t escape wildfires.”

The landscape and cultural contrast between the West and the East has been striking. Here in North Carolina, we’re learning to navigate a climate where rich soils and constant humidity allow invasive species to thrive unchecked. Unlike in Colorado and other states west of the Mississippi River, rain is more abundant in North Carolina — but, to our surprise, we still face a risk of wildfire. Droughts, dense vegetation, rapid development along the wildland-urban interface, and centuries of suppressing Indigenous wildfire management practices have created landscapes increasingly susceptible to catastrophic fires. Nationwide, nearly 8.9 million acres burned across the United States in 2024, a staggering 231% increase from 2023. In November alone, FDNY (New York City Fire Department) responded to 271 fires in just two weeks across the Northeast. This increase in fire activity was driven by severe drought conditions.

I quickly realized I wasn’t alone in underestimating the wildfire risk that exists along the East Coast. Here, it is not uncommon to see community members burning leaves and trash, even during high-risk periods. In the West, red flag warnings and wildfire forecasts are part of everyday life; out East, fire awareness lags behind. Yet despite differences in ecosystems and public understanding, one truth holds: resilience begins by listening to those who have long stewarded these lands, Indigenous peoples. Across the country, Indigenous leaders are working not only to restore fire to the landscape, but to educate communities on the importance of wildfire mitigation, preparedness, and respect for fire’s role in maintaining healthy ecosystems.