It was midnight. Moonbeams shining through the window. I was cutting up a pineapple into tiny, meticulous chunks, very quietly, cautious not to chop too loudly so that I wouldn’t wake anybody up. 

My stomach lurched when I stepped on a creaky floorboard, and I froze. Silence. Phew. No stirring from the bedrooms.

I was exhausted and running on pure adrenaline and coffee fumes. All I wanted was to curl into my bed. But I couldn’t. Not until this damn pineapple was sliced and diced and prepped for tomorrow morning.

And how did I get here, exactly? 

It was my first time hosting a Writing Retreat in Hawaii, and I had grossly underestimated how much effort goes into a successful retreat. 

I had seven clients at the retreat venue, currently slumbering in their beds. I promised them a week of beaches, waterfalls, rainbows, and exquisite meals. I was determined to come through and deliver on that promise.

I booked a spectacular home with a view of the Wailuku River. People audibly gasped when they entered the space. One woman actually squealed like a small animal when she checked into her bedroom with its pale lilac walls and enormous bath tub with spa jets. My clients were enchanted. Everyone was having a marvelous time.

Well, everyone except me. 

Because I had zero experience producing an event, I hadn’t considered the hundreds of details that go into creating a smooth hospitality experience. 

Somebody has to unload the dishwasher after every meal. Somebody has to run to the store because a guest needs Tylenol, tampons, or gluten-free bread. Somebody has to call the property manager when one guest’s shower mysteriously has no hot water. Somebody has to cut up the pineapple. And at this retreat, that somebody was me. 

It hadn’t occurred to me that, oh, maybe I ought to get some help.

I was handling all of these tasks while simultaneously trying to be a calm and gracious Hawaii mermaid hostess and a phenomenal writing coach, too. 

And so, I woke up at 5 am to prep for the day ahead. I snuck out to the 24/7 grocery store at 10 pm to stock up on supplies and cut fruit at midnight. By day three of the seven-day retreat, I was sleep-deprived, frazzled, and one pineapple slice away from a nervous breakdown. 

After that retreat, I vowed to myself, “Never again.” 

I knew that for future retreats, I couldn’t do it alone and didn’t want to. 

I promised myself I would hire professionals to help out. A yoga teacher. A retreat assistant. A housekeeper. A chef. 

And that’s what I did for the next one. And the next. And the next. 

Bringing others into the project not only made my life easier, it elevated the experience from 3-stars to 5-stars. My guests were even more delighted. 

The first time I hired a chef, we hadn’t met before, but I’d heard wonderful things about him.

“He uses local ingredients,” my friend Kate assured me, “And he’s a really great guy."

That really great guy arrived at the retreat with a platter of homemade hummus dotted with ruby-red pomegranate seeds on top, like sparkling jewels. He brought shrimp, caught fresh that day. Roasted vegetables. Musubi he’d made by hand. 

He smiled warmly, and I noticed how sturdy and solid he seemed. Capable, grounded, and kind.

He’s now my husband and the father of my daughter.

And isn’t that just something? 

Look what happens when we recognize that we need help, seek it out, and welcome it with open arms. 

Look what happens when we acknowledge, I need a team to bring my vision to life. 

Look what happens when we refuse to cut pineapples alone at midnight ever again and invite others to be part of the story.

I said, “help,” and the Universe said, “I love you.” 

-Alex