Nicole Anderson lost everything after the CZU Lightning Complex Fire in 2020: her home, a couple of beloved animals, and nearly all her possessions. It was the third time she had evacuated her property since moving to the mountains in 2007, but the first time she wouldn’t return.
“We’ve been evacuated twice before. They put out the fires, and we came home,” said Anderson. “This time, it just took out the mountain.”
Nicole, a dance teacher temporarily out of work due to the COVID-19 pandemic, suddenly found herself with a new, unwanted job: part-time insurance claimant. For the next year, she would spend about 20 hours a week managing her State Farm claim, and then five hours each week for a year and a half turning in receipts, submitting documentation, and pushing for reimbursement.
State Farm, she said, did many things right, particularly in the “loss of use” category, which covered her rental housing for the two years it took to get back on her feet. But she had to fight hard to get the rest of what she was owed.
“I had to work really hard to get them to pay that,” said Anderson.
Nicole’s home was insured for $650,000. The cheapest bid to rebuild it came in at $1.2 million — and that didn’t even include the garage, septic, or landscaping. She and her partner ended up piecing together a different kind of life: parking a tiny home on their Santa Cruz property, insuring it as a vehicle, and using the remaining money to buy a modest condo in Chicago, where they now spend half the year.
She was underinsured by more than $500,000 — a painful realization that didn’t become clear until long after the fire, when she paid $20,000 for an architect, survey, and builder bid just to unlock the remainder of her claim. State Farm had withheld her dwelling payout until she could prove rebuilding costs.
They won’t tell you that upfront, but the reality is you have to spend money to get money.
While “loss of use” was smooth (her hotel and rentals were covered immediately), her personal property claim was an emotional marathon.
California law required State Farm to pay 30 percent of her contents coverage up front, but to get the rest, Nicole had to submit a detailed inventory of every single item she owned—thousands of things, room by room. Unlike other insurers, State Farm refused to negotiate a flat payout.
It was retraumatizing, imagining what was in every drawer and under every sink, said Anderson.
Even then, she had to submit receipts for every replacement. If she bought a $110 pair of shoes, and State Farm had valued them at $10, she could get the $100 difference reimbursed, but only if she submitted proof. She did this for three years.
“Every month, I would have to look at what I bought and say, ‘Was this a replacement or not?’”
“Everything but gas and groceries was considered a replacement,” she said. “
State Farm eventually paid out about 70 percent of her personal property coverage. Friends who pushed further, Anderson said, were sometimes rewarded with 80 percent or more when adjusters got tired of processing receipts.
Anderson considers herself one of the lucky ones. She had no mortgage when the fire struck, and she had the time to fight for what she was owed.
Friends who rebuilt and stayed with State Farm have been dropped from coverage, even after the insurer paid millions to rebuild their homes, according to Anderson.
She now lives part-time in a 325-square-foot tiny home in the Santa Cruz Mountains and part-time in her Chicago condo. The move, she said, brought peace of mind, and simplicity. She never wants to inventory her life again.
Anderson now spends her time counseling fire survivors. Her advice? Know your coverage, get bids early, don’t trust verbal promises, and expect to work for every dollar.
“You have to play their game,” said Anderson.
