During this past trip, I found myself wandering familiar shores of Ala Moana Beach and Lanikai, embracing the salty breeze, with a rush of nostalgia and a deep sense of belonging sweeping over me with every step. When I stepped off the plane, the first breath filled my lungs, warm and heavy like memories that never really left. Oahu greeted me like an old friend, like family—familiar but always holding something new, like each sunrise over the Koʻolau mountain range, each wave whispering secrets along the shore. This island, pulled me back, making it hard to imagine returning to Los Angeles, to the place that doesn't speak the language of home.
Growing up in Kalihi taught me resilience and what it meant to hustle. We made do with what we had, found strength in each other, made ohana from neighbors, turned scraps into something precious. From crowded multi-family homes, to early mornings and late nights, we carved out joy wherever we could. We knew that wealth was found in people, not paychecks, that pride was earned by standing next to one another during difficult times and times of joy, not by climbing ladders in polished offices.
After nearly 15 years away and working in a professional career, I see things differently now. Surrounded by "suits" and strategic plans, I felt a long way from where I started. In the mainland, success looked like promotions, titles, the right connections. But the climb is steep and lonely, filled with invisible barriers and unspoken rules. The higher I went, the more it felt like I was moving away from what truly mattered—the aloha that flowed freely back home, the spirit that had shaped me.
California—and the mainland in general—called for upward climbs, for relentless pursuits, for forgetting where you came from to reach where “they” thought you should go. But Oahu, Oahu said to stay grounded, to stay connected. Every visit pulled at me, a tug-of-war between two worlds—one that pushed me forward, and one that held me close, that reminded me I was part of something bigger than ambition, that I was part of āina, of land, of community.
Being back on the island, I remembered what it meant to breathe easy, to feel grounded. Driving through Kalihi, feeling the grit of the roads that had shaped me, smelling the familiar mix of fried food and ocean air, I saw the faces that raised me, the resilience that built me.
This place reminded me that upward mobility didn’t always mean climbing higher; sometimes it meant deepening roots, finding strength in the soil beneath, not the clouds above.
Everything on the island felt brighter, warmer—the sun, the laughter, the memories with people who knew me down to my roots. The gentle lull of the ocean waves reminded me of the countless afternoons I spent swimming, building sandcastles, catching waves and chasing the sun as it dipped below the horizon. Each grain of sand beneath my feet holds fragments of cherished memories, a testament to a childhood filled with boundless laughter and carefree adventures.
Spending time with my family, watching them grow into their own and just having drinks and laughs with them, felt like a balm to my soul. My cousins, with their newborns, brought a kind of joy that made everything feel new, fresh, as if I were seeing the island through their young eyes. Friends who had become family over the years gathered together, sharing stories and food like we always had, like nothing had changed, even though life had taken us all on different paths.
And being able to give back to my parents—taking them shopping, watching them pick things they’d never buy for themselves, paying them back, even if it was just a little, for their endless love and sacrifices—that filled me with a quiet gratitude. The roles shifted when you grew older, and suddenly, I found myself telling them not to worry about the cost, wanting to give them the same reassurance they had always given me.
But then, like clouds rolling over the mountains, the conversations shifted. Politics, a topic I wished we could avoid, crept in, and the warmth cooled just a bit. The political climate felt like a shifting tide, pulling some up while leaving others stuck, no matter how hard they paddled. Navigating those waters meant learning to balance who I was and what the world expected me to become—a constant negotiation, a push and pull between loyalty to my roots and the ambition that everyone told me I should chase. I wondered if those in power understood what it was like to struggle, if they had ever tasted sacrifice, if they grasped the weight of carrying the hopes of a community, not just personal dreams. The recent election had intensified our family hangouts, altering the dynamics of what “family” had meant for so long. On one hand, there was love; on the other, there was a deepening divide over values and political allegiances.
My heart ached as I listened, hearing their support for Trump, feeling a gap widen between us in ways that no ocean could match. It was a clash of worlds—of the values I grew up with and the beliefs I had developed on my own. Frustration bubbled up, making it hard to bridge that distance. It was painful, this tug-of-war between love and disagreement, between wanting to understand and feeling that understanding slipping further away. The island taught patience, though; the waves came and went, erasing footprints in the sand, as if to remind me that some things are temporary, transient. I held onto that, even as we disagree, because family was like the tide—always returning, no matter how far it drifted.
These moments were the push and pull of coming home—the laughter and the lightness, mixed with the heaviness of words left unsaid, of trying to find peace in shared space when perspectives didn’t align. But even in those moments, Oahu gave me the strength to stay grounded, to find beauty in the struggle, to hold tight to the love that bound us, even when we saw the world differently.
For now, I bridge those worlds. I carried Kalihi with me in my work, letting its values shape who I was, even far from home. I brought the lessons of resilience, of people first, of staying true to roots even in a system that often seemed to forget the human at the center of every policy, every rule. Maybe one day, the island’s pull would bring me back for good, and I could plant myself fully in the place that felt most like home. But until then, I carry Kalihi in my heart, its voice guiding my steps, reminding me to move not just forward but with purpose, with pride, with the strength of everyone who had made me who I was.
The island waits, like a memory on the edge of consciousness, a heartbeat I’d never lose. And I answered its call in every way I could—through my work, my words, my way of living in a world that sometimes forgot the power of community, the values of connection. Oahu whispered, and I was always listening.
This is why I keep coming back, keep holding space for the joy, for the frustrations, for everything that made the island and my family feel like home, even when it is complicated. Because that’s what home is—a place that loves you, challenges you, makes you laugh, and tests your patience. A place that reminds you of where you come from, even as you grow into who you are becoming.
This trip made me wonder what it would truly be like to come home for good. It forced me to question whether the transition would feel seamless or if it would bring the pressures of colliding worlds—of who I used to be and who I am now. What would it mean to shape an identity that bridged those gaps? And was I ready for it?
Just eight days at home had stirred up all these questions, reminding me of the deep pull to return to the āina, but also, in other ways, of why I sometimes felt the urge to run from it. The real question hung there, like an echo: What’s next?
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