At the end of 2017, my life seemed absolutely perfect. My then-partner and I had just purchased our first home. The business we'd started together—a brunch restaurant in Portland, Oregon—was thriving and even securing national media attention. We had a new puppy, a tiny fluff ball named Dudley Angel Puff. My writing career was chugging along nicely, too, with a steady stream of clients and a 3-book deal with a new
publisher. I felt comfortable (dare I say, even a bit complacent) in my relationship. I was convinced that we would be together forever.
Then, one afternoon, everything cracked apart.
He made an announcement that shocked me to the core. I realized that we did not want the same kind of future, but rather, extremely different scenarios. Over the next several months, we went to therapy, talked, fought, sobbed, and tried to figure out how to remain together despite our enormous differences. “How can we make this work?” It was like trying to put together an impossible jigsaw puzzle while sitting inside a house that is burning down.
In the end, we agreed that we respected each other but we didn’t belong together romantically. Neither one of us could give the other what they wanted. With agonizing sadness, we decided to split up.
By this point in my career, I’d been traveling to the Big Island of Hawaii 3 times a year to lead writing retreats. Each visit, I fell deeper in love with the island and felt reluctant to leave. After everything with my ex shattered apart, I asked myself, “If I could live anywhere on the planet, where would I want to go?” The answer was immediate: “Hawaii.”
I considered the situation. I didn’t have any children tethering me to Portland. I could work remotely from anywhere. I had just received an unexpected tax refund which would cover the cost of moving and housing for a couple months while I settled in. If there was ever a moment to make a big, dramatic change—this was it. My “hut” (heart + gut) said to me, “Go.”
I sold all of my possessions, packed two suitcases, and bought a one-way plane ticket to Hawaii. I envisioned a peaceful landing, sunshine, and soothing island breezes. A calm place to recuperate after an exhausting break-up.
This did not happen.
The day after I arrived, the island got hit with a tropical cyclone of historic proportions. I barricaded the windows and then (impulsively and idiotically) went outside to stand in the torrential rain. I remember choking with
sobs and laughing hysterically, drenched to the bone. The pounding rain seemed to remind me, “You think—if you exert enough willpower—that you can control every detail of your life. You can’t.” Silently, I responded to the sky, I understand. And I surrender.
What has happened since moving to Hawaii, four years ago?
I survived a year of profound grief that seemed like it would never end but then somehow miraculously it did. I leapt off the top of a waterfall. I howled with joy riding a crashing wave on my board. I smeared lilikoi butter on toast and drank coconut water right out of the shell. I sailed on a catamaran with dolphins chasing on both
sides. I walked barefoot on white sand, black sand, and green sand beaches. I watched sharks circling their prey. I wrote books, essays, articles, hired my first employee, and expanded my business significantly. I raised my standards. I met a beautiful person and invited him to attend the county fair and ride the ferris wheel—he said yes. I adopted a rescue dog named Zuki who tripled the size of my heart. I learned more about the history, community values, culture, animals, and land of Hawaii
(and I still have so much to learn) so that I could be a respectful resident. The pandemic arrived and my mom, dad, and sister moved to the island so that we could hunker down and live close together, not separated by an ocean. I got married on my patio with no guests present, just Zach, the officiant, Zuki wearing festive flowers, and simple wooden rings that we got for $5 from a gift shop. I let my funky blue hair (my signature look for many years) fade out and shift back to natural brown. I
donated heavy jackets and acquired a drawer full of bikinis. I bought and remodeled a house. I decided that I was ready to become a parent. I heard the whales singing. I got a lot of therapy—the kind that comes from a licensed practitioner, and the kind that comes from music, friendship, or a long drive with the convertible top down.
Shortly after moving to Hawaii, I went to the ocean with a friend named Kanani. She explained that when the volcano erupts and the lava flows, it can be massively destructive—devouring homes, businesses, anything in its path. However, when the lava cools, there is new land—literally, new earth that wasn’t there before. After the latest eruption, the island gained a brand-new black sand beach and four new swimming ponds. Kanani told me, “Now there is more than before.”
It was devastation that brought me to Hawaii—loss, upheaval, and complicated grief. Now that the lava has settled, as I look at the new chapter of life that has emerged, there is more than before. More trust in myself. More confidence. More conviction about my professional life and the work I want to do. More strength in
the boundaries that I set and enforce. More resilience. More empathy. More love.
There are moments in life when you feel a strange call to GO. Go sell your car. Go buy that ticket. Go get on that plane. Go speak to that person. Go send that email. Go knock on that door. Go apply for that grant. Go try again. It may not
seem rational but if the call is clear, follow. Whatever your personal “Hawaii” may be, when you feel the call, I hope you will go.
And, if you are going through immense grief right now, I know there is nothing I can say to erase the pain. But, perhaps you will hold onto these words which comforted me four years ago.
Even if you can’t see it now, from all of this devastation, new land is being created. One day, there will be more than before. It won’t be the same land you used to walk on. There will be parts of the terrain that you recognize and parts you've never seen before. The land will be new and different. You will be new and different, too. You may have a new purpose, new perspective on relationships, new kind of strength, new skills that you can use to help others, or new determination to not
repeat the mistakes of the past. Keep breathing as the new earth forms.
Your story is not over yet.
I promise you, there will be more.
-Alex