It's Not About the Health Insurance (or even the stupid symptoms)

There's something about having health insurance in my own name that fills me with pride immeasurable. It marks adulthood and independence, for sure, but it also is somehow defiant. It is fulfilling. It is an affirmation. It is an investment.

My life as it is right in this very fucking moment is something I have worked hard for, and not just through gainful employment, which FUNDS my life. I have crafted this life, constructed it, pared away what no longer serves and filled it with what nourishes. That sentence is all past tense, but it is a continual process.

Earning my own medical insurance-- having it under MY fucking name-- is but a small part of that. I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF. I am deserving of care. I am deserving of THE FUCKING BEST care. I deserve attention. This meatsuit and everything inside of it deserves tender fucking care. 

And who provides that care? ME. I do. And all the medical representatives of (mostly) my choosing.

And while this stupid plastic card allows me to take my aging, beautiful body to a physician and say, "Help me take care of me, help me invest in me," this sense of fulfillment goes beyond getting quality medical attention.

Allow me to explain in one simple sentence: Taking the pill prescribed by my doctor is an affirmation that the symptoms it treats are real. 

Quite honestly, it's not even about the stupid symptoms, it's about trusting my body. It's about learning to trust my body. It's about learning to explore my body's discomforts to discover what's actually going on. It's about UNlearning to dismiss my fears and concerns as foolish or, worse yet, paranoid and weak. It's about learning to believe that I can handle what comes.

When I take the pill, see my therapist, visit a specialist, get the annual testing done, I am thankful that I have great medical insurance and access to great medical care. I am not thankful for a job that affords me that insurance (although, I AM, believe me) so much as I am thankful that I AM FUCKING CAPABLE.

I don't think this blog has much of a point. As I sat in the early morning hours today, sipping my deliciously indulgent-feeling coffee that I made, I just felt so grateful for what I have and what I have accomplished, and I felt so much pride for recognizing it.

My Inheritence

Months ago, a physical therapist at work and I crossed paths once (as we had many times before and many times since). I was yukking it up with some coworkers and having a good time, and as we walked past each other, the physical therapist interjected, "What a great smile." It took me a moment to realize she was talking to ME. I was stunned. She'd said it so casually, so spontaneously, so matter of factly! And it was such a pocket of joy moment for me.

Many months after that, a patient walked into the clinic and I greeted them as I always do. "Hello, <insert person's name here>!" And this person commented on the way in and stopped on the way out to tell me how nice it was to be greeted by my smile. Another pocket of joy moment.

I think about these pockets of joy from time to time-- after all, what good is joy if you can't revisit it? Feel it's glow again?  I revel in these moments. They warm me. They challenge the old ideas of myself that I just LOOOOVE to cling to even as I work to release them.

I matter.

But long before any of these folks said these kind words to me, my late aunty took my face into her hands and told me that she sees my grandma in my smile. I wrote a MySpace blog about it back when it happened because it was such a pivotal moment (no, that link won't take you to MySpace, but to a blogger blog I wrote about the MySpace blog. I really love that awkward sentence).

What's crazy about my aunty commenting about MY smile, is that SHE had the most beautifulest smile that just wrapped you in warmth and love. And THAT'S what adds deeper joy, deeper meaning to these lovely compliments by virtual strangers: it is my heritage. This smile of mine (and I like to think that I'm quick to smile) is my inheritance. This smile connects me to my ancestors. The smile that you see on my face, that has brought joy to others? I've seen it reflected back to me in the faces of my family. My cousins, my dad, my siblings. And it has also brought me joy, warmth, and a sense of belonging.

Dad and Aunty Pearl, 2011

It's madness that I don't see what even strangers see in my face. I don't see my aunty's smile in mine. I know hers was something special while mine feels unique-to-me at best. I feel like my mouth is too small and my face too big, like, how can you see this smile among all this FACE??? My smile feels lacking compared to the warmth I wish to convey.

But I think it's more than just a mouth pulled into a specific shape by the muscles in my face, right? It's more than just teeth, white or not. More than just lips and cheeks. I mean, I couldn't tell you at this exact moment what more it is, but I CAN tell you this: when you see me smiling at you, know that it's like a Care Bear stare that stretches beyond me, that comes from a well that is deeper than just me. 

Not to be dramatic, but omg, WUT?!?!

My greatest fear if I survive the initial attack of the zombie apocalypse is limited or no access to reading glasses. No joke. I've watched the entirety of the Walking Dead. I've seen them scavenge. No one has ever ransacked a pharmacy looking for the right reading glasses prescription. How can I ensure my continued survival if I can't read? Or see what I'm eating? Or, I don't know, thread a stupid needle?

Right now, I'm not very ambulatory. I woke up on Monday morning with a pain in my ankle, and when I woke up on Tuesday, I could barely put weight on it. The urgent care doctor prescribed ibuprofen and NO WORKING OUT FOR AT LEAST A WEEK.

Not to be dramatic, but omg, WUT?!?!

For the record, I don't consider myself an athletic person. Or a particularly busy person. I don't know that I would even say I'm an ACTIVE person. I do things, sure. And I do them regularly. Have BEEN doing them regularly for years now. But that's just not really how I see myself.

Until I can't do them!

Just the thought of not doing any of my weekly activities-- strength training, pole, dance, WALKING even-- is crushing (there's that drama again). All of my nights this week are open. I can't even contemplate whether I'm being lazy or smart for going/not going to an activity because the decision has been taken away from me by my lack of a functioning ankle.

I realize just how much movement is a part of my life.

So, picture me, if you will, writhing on the floor. Whining. Flying fists. One leg, my right, kicking out. That's me pouting because I have to be still. I have to rest. I have to heal. But I don't want to. I'd rather do all those other things I usually do!

But at the gentle reminding of some friends, I remember that movement is not the totality of my identity. That either I can focus on the things I can't do or I can redirect my attention to other things I love, like reading, writing, and watching movies. I can focus my energy into bringing myself comfort. I can work on showing myself tenderness and provide for myself with loving attention.

*insert image of Kanani writhing on the floor*

I can do it! I AM doing it. I submit as evidence the fact that I'm home right now instead of at work. Because I could absolutely hobble around the office on my wonky foot, but that's probably super subpar to another day of healing and rest to my overall well-being. And really, is there an easier action to take than REST that yields such impactful positive consequences?

Sigh. It's still a learning process. I'm working on it. I've always waited for someone else to give me what I needed, and I've figured out recently that I can give those things to myself. I can be the provider of comfort, tenderness, attention, and love. But what's also amazing (and astonishing), is realizing that I'm not alone. My family and friends with their offers of support, and my kids, for looking out for their aging mother 😂. It's not a bad existence I have. 

In Softness

Perhaps you've seen a meme that says something like, "Don't end the year strong, end it soft."

It speaks to me. It speaks to the part of me that has longed for softness her whole life.

Softness-- what I've named Tenderness in the past-- and I have become new acquaintances, so I don't always recognize her. What does she look like? Feel like? How does she present herself, this softness? How will I know when I'm in her presence?

So, I like to pretend I'm a naturalist, a scientist, scratching notes onto paper. I see things. I think things. Brainstorm.

Softness is:

• a warm beverage
• moving slowly
• doing fewer things
• slow walks

But a person can walk slowly and it'll just take them longer to get to where they're going. A person can chug a mug of hot apple cider. A person can lay in bed all day and do "nothing." Those are just THINGS. Actions. And what are actions without thought?

I have discovered tenderness in my own tears. I have found softness in my fears and insecurities. I have found love in my quietest voice. I have found solace in my inadequacies and ineptitude.  

When I pay attention to the hard stuff, the stuff that scares me and feels threatening-- just PAY ATTENTION to them-- recognizing softness is easier. Because it's only by hearing what my body is saying can I then give it to her, and give it to her with kindness and love. Meet her with acceptance rather than judgment.

Right now, in this season of my life, softness is responsiveness to my needs. It is learning to be with those parts of me that I've been most harsh with. It is giving myself the space and time and energy to collapse into my gentle embrace and be cherished.

I have wanted all my life to be cherished, and silly me, I never realized til now that I can do that all by myself.

 

 

It's Not Really About the Socks

I discovered my deep and enduring love of socks at a pretty early age. I don't know, they must have appealed to me as statement pieces maybe in the same way jewelry or tattoos appeal to others. That statement could be as bold or as subtle as I wanted, and were much cheaper than jewelry or tattoos.

In high school, it was definitely a decision. I wore knee-high socks over patterned tights with boots or canvas shoes, and these often mismatched my outfit. The mismatch? It was deliberate. Clashing plaid tights with solid wool knee-highs was also deliberate.

I bought these socks and tights wherever the opportunity presented itself, often at equally seemingly clashing stores: Wet Seal, The Gap, Contempo Casuals, Liberty House. We didn't yet have Street of Madness (remember them?) or Hot Topic, and I couldn't afford (or let's face it, FIT) stuff from Delia's.

But it was deliberate. I used my hosiery and shoes to express myself. I'm unconcerned with fashion mores. I'm not dressing for the male gaze. I'm fun and funky and I'll stomp you or jump in rain puddles. My clothes may be dress code compliant, but I'm gonna inject my personality every chance I get.

 

And what I've learned recently is that socks are now out of my control.

Okay, FOOTWEAR is out of my control.

Like, I love my socks and my shoes, and I still revel when they're mismatched. Also, I never...rather, I ALWAYS wear Vans or Docs no matter if I'm wearing a dress, dress pants, or a skirt.

However, the goal isn’t always mismatch. In fact, that’s not the goal at all. I’m interested in and guided by self-expression.

 
The thing is, even if I want to tastefully mismatch, it goes awry! I take a look in the mirror and I think, "This is gonna be SO cute. This is gonna be Kanani Cute." And then reality hits and it's more like…I'm like, "oh. OH. Oh, that's pretty dorky." It is, in fact, a whole lottabit cringe and yet I DO NOTHING TO CHANGE IT. I just roll with it. Out the door go I without another thought.

And I think THIS is the part of me that I'm expressing. The odd socks/shoe/outfit combination isn't it. The mismatching isn't it. Those are just the consequences. Those are just the output. What I can't control, what I can't reign in? It's me. It's fucking ME. THAT'S the thing. The fact that the mismatch emerges from the decisions I make even when I'm trying to tone down the weird, THAT'S the thing.

That people frequently comment about my shoes, highlights for me how little I actually think about my shoes. I love Vans. I love Doc Martens. I love square toe boxes. I love bulky Mary Janes. I love a chunky heel. I just love canvas shoes and boots.

So there's no thought to pairing my "boyish" footwear with a "girlish" dress because it just happens. It requires no thought because I don't own "girlish" shoes (I mean, other than my pole heels lol). I have cultivated a whole micro world that supports my preferences, my dorky fashion sense, that champions comfort and confidence even when things go slightly and unintentionally sideways

 

It is beautiful. It is a beautiful consequence that began intentionally in my youth, and grew organically wild in my adulthood. It is beautiful that I carried this with me through unhealthy relationships with others and with myself.

It’s always so exiting and also soothing when I realize that I’m not putting on airs, that I’m not pretending. That this thing is actually an extension and expression of self. Reading has recently reasserted itself. And walking. And now this.

Even the Weirdos Have a Place

Jane's Addiction at Aloha Tower in 1991 was my first concert. It was so exhilarating-- the crowds, the sweat, my friends, and the ANTICIPATION! Holy shit, I was so excited! It was to be the band's last show together. It was a farewell. And I had nothing to compare it to at the time, but the band seemed to embrace the goodbye sentiment. They were beautiful. They were stellar. Perry got naked. And this show would be the standard against which I would measure all other shows.

I cannot believe how lucky I have been that my first live concert was my favorite band, and I got to see them with all my besties of the time. I remember standing there, basking, letting the music wash over my fucking body and being fully aware that my friends were right there beside me. Like being on the receiving end of a Care Bear stare.

 
I've seen many bands in concert since then, and only a few have really hit that high mark. Weezer, Pearl Jam, No Doubt. Jack Johnson. 

And now fucking Pixies.

Bucket list band, them.

I have been waiting to see the Pixies since, I don't know, I was 16? Over 3 decades, yo. I played and replayed Doolittle a gazillion times on bus rides and late nights, lying in the dark. I danced to "Here Comes Your Man" at so many RFH events. I realized that I could play "Wave of Mutilation" on my ukulele. I fell in love with Kim Deal's haunting vocals.

And when I think of the Pixies, I am reminded of my youth. I see myself in denim shorts, leggings, and my fake Converse. That feeling of having my life in my backpack, and as long as I had a book, batteries in my Walkman, and a bus pass in my pocket, I could do anything. I could go anywhere. Anything and everything was possible.

I went to see the Pixies at the Republik last night, the last day of November 2025, with my friends, Meredith and Melissa. I donned my denim shorts, leggings, and Vans (in lieu of fake Cons), and in true old lady fashion, I even took a nap before we went.

 
But you know what I remembered? Sweaty bras. Oh my god, sweaty bras. And I worried that not knowing the band's newer songs, I'd be bored. Or at least LOST. I wasn't! Instead, listening to the stuff I didn't know, it reminded me why I've loved them for so long. They're so weird and loud. They are a dramatic mix of seemingly opposing forces-- loud/soft, melodic/discordant-- and Francis Black's singing and then screeching. And none of it feels out of place. I got lost in it last night. I felt it. It felt like a big fucking hug.

I didn't know anyone else in that crowd except for my two friends. I didn't feel any particular affection from the band, even. But that big hug? It felt like acceptance. "Even the weirdos have a place. Even the weirdos belong."

 
I'm not trying to wax poetic. I felt this after the Jane's Addiction concert, and I wrote about it then, too. I wrote a paper in my 10th grade English class and it was posted up on the wall with everyone else's work. I'm not making this up. This stuff MOVES.

In the crank of the guitar, in the crack of Francis Black's howl, the resonance of the bass and drums, I felt weird and seen and embraced. And, unbelievably, seen BY ME. Embraced BY ME. Like, a knowing. An acknowledgement. I needed the music that loud, that abrasive (and also, conversely, so sweet and gentle), I needed to see a grown man howl and screech on stage in order to see myself. (Not so unlike when Harry Potter had to open the egg underwater). These unique conditions happened and I could see part of myself usually quite well hidden. 

Anyway, I loved it. I loved the company. I loved hearing my favorites blowing out my eardrums. I really really wanted Kim Deal there, but I wasn't mad. And the band sounded amazing.  

 

Making Space

I have been drinking coffee on my back porch, my broken washing machine as my table and a castoff stool for my chair. I don't have a particularly interesting view from where I sit, but I can hear the birds (and weed whackers and cars). I can watch people walk their dogs while gazing into their phones. I can see the city bus hump the island in the middle of the roundabout as it passes through. There's also a man in one of the condos behind us who sunbathes on his back porch.

And when I talk about creating the life that I now have, creating the life I want, this is part of it.

When we moved into this apartment, I was attracted to two features: the bamboo flooring and the outdoor space. This apartment features a decent-sized back porch and several laundry lines already installed, and not only do I crave outdoor spaces, I love hanging my laundry after a wash. There's something so satisfying about watching clothes dry in the sun and breeze.

But there was always shit. The back porch, where we infrequently spent time, was a collection zone for random crap. Or not random crap-- it once held four bicycles and all our other outdoor adventure gear. During the shelter in place of 2020, I had my beautiful container garden where I grew okra, eggplant, flowers, and tomatoes (which eventually gave way to an unreasonably enormous collection of lumber and woodworking tools, largely inappropriate for the space available). 

Ugh. Anyway, all you need to know is that the porch was always overrun with stuff.

A few weeks ago, however, we cleared it off. The kids made a trip to the dump, I bought a new broom and dustbin, wiped down the existing furniture (including the broken washer and stool), and now I occupy the literal and figurative space I've been dreaming of for years. In fact, I'm writing in that very space.

This process is a great microcosm, a handy little metaphor? Paragon? Archetype? Symbol? I know I know a word...  

Because occupying this space for creative endeavors, for sipping coffee, hanging laundry-- carving out a space for the things that matter to me-- that just represents all this work I've been doing in life in general and what it's all for. This process is messy and takes a lot of work and I don't do it alone, all so I can live the life I've been dreaming for myself. So I can enjoy my outdoor space, go to a spontaneous dinner with friends, buy the expensive jam I actually prefer.

And I've also learned along the way that giving myself what I need isn't selfish because guess what? This space is useful for others, too. By getting rid of what no longer serves us, we've now made space for what does. And the beautiful thing is we did it together. We're doing it together.

Oh wait! This story not pau yet! Still need to get the washer down to the curb for bulk pick up one day, and we have a box filled with balls that I'd love to gift to a family, person, or organization that would actually make use of it. And my bike still lives back there, too. But that's also part of the metaphor/paragon/archetype/symbol-- the work is never done and spaces always shift. So, if you'd like to volunteer to help move that stupid machine downstairs or donate an actual table or know someone who would love a box of random balls-- you know how to find me.