What if we built something better? When disaster sparks reinvention
- In the wake of disaster, the same dilemma — restore the old or build the new — has played out over and over again.
- The story of the Great Fire of London is a reminder that moments of destruction contain within them the seeds of transformation.
- A similar narrative took shape in post-war Tokyo and post-quake San Francisco.
The fires came fast. First, a flicker on the horizon — distant, almost unreal. Then, within hours, a wall of flame, devouring everything in its path. By the time the January 2025 wildfires finally burned out, Los Angeles was a city in mourning. Entire neighborhoods had been erased, their streets lined with nothing but blackened foundations and the twisted remains of melted cars. The hills, once a patchwork of eucalyptus groves and canyon homes, were stripped to their bones. Charred earth. Skeletal trees. The lingering haze of smoke.
Rebuilding has barely begun. The air still smells of ash. Many families are still camped in hotels or with relatives, waiting on insurance claims and city permits. For now, LA feels like a city in limbo, caught between what was — and what would come next.
My wife’s family in Santa Barbara — about 90 miles north of LA — had seen this pattern before. Dozens of fires over the years, each one a reminder that disaster wasn’t a matter of if — but when. So when they decided to remodel their home last year, they made a choice: a steel roof. It was significantly more expensive than traditional materials, but fireproof. Resilient. They weren’t just thinking about aesthetics or short-term costs — they were adapting, accepting the new reality.
This question — do we restore what was, or do we rethink what could be? — stayed with me as I recently traveled to London, a city that has burned and been rebuilt more than once. I was there to explore its deep history, particularly the endurance of its oldest businesses. But the story that kept coming up — the one I couldn’t shake — was the Great Fire of 1666.
One recent afternoon, I sat down with Dr. Simon Thurley, one of the world’s foremost historians and the former head of English Heritage. I asked him about the fire, expecting a measured response. Instead, he was blunt: it was a catastrophe — untold destruction, lives upended, history reduced to ash. But then, his tone shifted. “And yet,” he said, leaning forward, “London was liberated overnight.”
Rather than simply rebuilding what had been lost, London’s leaders saw a rare chance to step back and take the long view — to imagine a city built not just for the present, but for generations to come. “They saw an opportunity for a longer-term vision,” he told me. “One that could truly transform London.”
I realized there was a lesson in this — not just for city planners or policymakers, but for anyone who wants to build something that lasts. Catastrophe, as painful as it is, forces a choice: rebuild exactly as before or embrace the chance to create something stronger, more resilient, and prepared for the future.
The day London caught fire
London in the 17th century was not the financial powerhouse we know today. “It was an upstart city,” Thurley explained. Antwerp had been the mercantile capital of Europe, and Paris was still dominant. London was climbing — but hadn’t quite arrived. The fire changed that.
“It was a complete catastrophe,” Thurley said. “Nobody was insured. The Crown relied heavily on import-export duties, and suddenly, the economic basis of the state was destroyed within a week.”
For context, imagine New York or Hong Kong losing their financial districts overnight. The panic was immediate. People wanted their property back. The government needed revenue. Trade had to restart as quickly as possible. The first major building to go up after the fire wasn’t a palace or a church. It was the Customs House. “They had to get trade moving again,” Thurley explained. “Without it, the Crown had no money.”
It was pure crisis response. But then, something interesting happened. Amid the scramble, some people started thinking longer-term.
A city forced to rethink itself
As Thurley explained to me, Sir Christopher Wren and other architects saw an opportunity. The fire had wiped the city clean. They could build a better London — broader streets, grand boulevards, stone buildings like in Rome. The monarchy, fresh from exile in Paris, envisioned a city to match the great European capitals. But there was a problem.
“Private property rights were sacrosanct,” Thurley told me. “People wanted their land back, exactly where it had been before. You couldn’t just redraw the map.”
It was a battle between vision and inertia. The big ideas clashed with individual interests. In the end, grand redesigns were watered down. Some streets were widened, a few regulations were passed to prevent another fire, but the city largely kept its medieval layout. “The impact was marginal at best,” Thurley said. “Minimal at worst.”
Yet, even half-measures can have unexpected consequences.
The chimney that changed everything
Before the fire, London homes burned wood. Afterward, when they were rebuilt, they were designed to burn coal. It was a practical decision — coal was abundant, and the new chimneys suited it better — and one that also changed the world. “They had to dig deeper coal mines,” Thurley explained. “And to do that, they needed pumps to get the water out. That led to the invention of the steam engine.”
The fire, in other words, inadvertently helped kickstart the Industrial Revolution. A small architectural change — a chimney — set off a chain reaction of technological progress that reshaped economies. London hadn’t just rebuilt. It had become something new.
History repeats: Rebuilding in the face of crisis
The same dilemma — restore the old or build the new — has played out over and over again throughout history.
Take San Francisco in 1906. The earthquake and subsequent fires destroyed 80% of the city. At first, city leaders vowed to rebuild San Francisco as it had been, with narrow streets and wooden structures. But then a faction of visionaries, including real estate mogul James Phelan, pushed for something radical. They wanted to rebuild San Francisco as a grand European-style city, with wide boulevards and modern infrastructure.
They lost. The immediate demand for housing and business space won out. But much like London, the disaster led to major improvements: stronger building codes, a more structured water supply, and the birth of reinforced concrete as the standard for West Coast architecture. The city might not have transformed overnight, but the seeds of a new era were planted.
Or take Japan after World War II. Cities like Tokyo and Osaka were flattened by air raids. The easy choice would have been to rebuild the old way. Instead, Japan used the destruction as a chance to leap forward. The country embraced modern construction techniques. They built earthquake-resistant buildings — and redesigned urban centers for efficiency. Within a generation, Japan had not just rebuilt — it had become an economic superpower.
The thin line between rebuilding and reinventing
There’s a temptation, after disaster, to restore things exactly as they were. It’s human nature to want to reclaim what was lost. But history suggests that real transformation happens when people resist that urge. London could have simply rebuilt what burned. Instead, it became a financial giant. San Francisco could have reconstructed its old city. Instead, it laid the foundation for a new kind of urban planning. Japan could have clung to its past. Instead, it became the most technologically advanced society of the 20th century.
The same question faces every city and every leader after catastrophe: Do we rebuild what was? Or do we rethink what could be?
A fire, a steel roof, and a choice
As I walked through London’s streets, I kept thinking about my in-laws and their steel roof. They could have rebuilt the old way — wood shingles, the standard California style. But they made a different choice. They adapted, investing in a structure that anticipated the next fire, not just the last one. It was a small change. But history has a funny way of making small changes matter.
London didn’t know that switching from wood to coal would ignite an industrial revolution. My in-laws aren’t thinking about transforming California’s housing industry. But these are the kinds of moments that add up. One decision, multiplied across a city, a country, a generation, can change everything.
The story of the Great Fire isn’t just a historical curiosity. It’s a reminder that moments of destruction contain within them the seeds of transformation. But only if we choose to see them that way.
In the end, the leaders who shape history aren’t the ones who restore what was lost. They’re the ones who see an empty skyline, a burned-out city, and ask: What if we built something better?
