ALTADENA, Calif. (AP) — Missi Dowd-Figueroa is reviving the land where her home once stood, using sunflowers to breathe new life into the fire-scorched earth.

As a registered nurse and a mother of three, Dowd-Figueroa faced the heartbreaking loss of her 1898 farmhouse during the Eaton Fire. This blaze, one of two catastrophic wildfires that swept through Los Angeles last January, destroyed entire communities and forced tens of thousands from their homes.

One year on, many survivors continue to wrestle with profound grief, and only a few have managed to start rebuilding. Numerous hurdles still stand in their way.

“The Altadena I grew up in is gone,” Dowd-Figueroa shared, reflecting on the town ravaged by the flames. “Everything was lost—my dentist, my pharmacy—all of it. But despite the absence of homes, there remains an essence of Altadena that still feels familiar.”

Choosing to remain, Dowd-Figueroa began her journey of recovery by planting seeds, which gradually transformed her desolate property into a vibrant garden, symbolizing hope and renewal.

Dowd-Figueroa and her family had lived in the four-bedroom, three-bath house for 10 years. It was the longest she’d ever lived in one place, and the sense of loss left her stricken by waves of sadness.

For months, she would drive to the empty lot and cry. Her grief and shock deepened when she realized that, in addition to her late grandmother’s artwork that was in her home, her father’s ashes were gone forever.

“I spent several days digging through the ashes just looking for his little urn, and I never found it,” said Dowd-Figueroa, 44.

Gone, too, were every family photo except those saved on her iPad.

“That was like a second grief, too. I was like, ‘Well, great.’ Now, if my dad knew, he’d be so disappointed because he was such a family lineage type of person,” she said. “I have nothing from my father. You know, I’ll never touch anything that he touched ever again.”

Then one day, after cleanup crews had removed the last of the debris from the 2,000-square-foot lot, she brought along some flower seeds. They were mostly sunflowers, but also included zinnias and cosmos, among others, and planted them in the soil.

“I was already going there every day crying, so I was like, ‘Why am I just sitting here?’ I might as well do something that keeps me busy, and I enjoy, because the house I’m in now, I can’t have a garden,” she said.

Sunflowers can take up cadmium and other heavy metals that can be left behind in the soil, though experts debate their effectiveness after a wildfire. Dowd-Figueroa hoped they would help remove toxins on her property once she ripped them out by the roots and tossed them after they died, being careful not to leave behind seeds.

For several months, while Dowd-Figueroa and her husband took steps toward eventually building a new home, the garden flourished, blanketing a large swath of the lot with a colorful display of approximately 500 flowers — bright orange and red ones, as well as yellow ones with giant heads.

“It was really healing just to come back and tend the space where I lived for the longest time in my life,” she said.

Butterflies began to appear, along with a variety of insects and small animals.

“I felt like I was helping nature come back a little bit,” she said.

Construction began on Dowd-Figueroa’s new home in late September, thanks in part to around $100,000 in donations via a fundraising site. By then, the sunflowers, most of which bloom once and then die, were nearly all gone.

That’s OK. With construction proceeding and estimated to be completed as soon as mid-June, the slowly emerging shape of her new home is now lifting Dowd-Figueroa’s spirits.

“Prior to this, I was just so depressed, like literally sobbed every day,” she said. “It just feels like now there’s a place that exists. It will happen. We can do this.”

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