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.

 

Are You Getting Off at the Statue?

There's a bus stop in town across the street from the state library. It's a huge transfer spot. I remember giddily waiting for a bus with my first boyfriend, Doug, during our first date. Catching the bus after a museum symposium with Charlie a couple of decades later.

My favoritest memory, though, is from high school. It could have been any afternoon on any given weekday when I was in the tenth grade. Blythe, Cedric, La'akea, and I would often catch the city bus from Terminal to downtown and grab snacks at Jack in the Box or Orange Julius ("two strawberry Julii, please!") or Blythe's mom's workplace. Others would make frequent cameos-- Shani, Wendy, Merf?

But I remember us sprawled out on the lawn of that bus stop, all of us waiting for our separate busses to take us home. The sun low in the sky, the heat still gross. If I strain hard enough, I'm sure I could remember bits of conversation, but I won't do that.

Just envisioning us sitting together on that lawn, now as an adult, makes me smile. It makes me wistful. And what did we really have in common at the time except Honors English and TheBus?

It really didn't matter, did it? For that year, my tenth grade year of high school, we were a bunch. We adventured together and ate together. WE CAUGHT THE BUS TOGETHER. 

I haven't spoken with Blythe or Cedric in many years, and La'akea-- I miss him being in the world. If we were 15 years old right now, we'd likely have choke selfies taken at bus stops and fast food restaurants. In reality, I don't think a single photo of all of us together exists.

Just know, friends, what a treasured piece of history this is for me, and that I think of you fondly, especially when I drive past that bus stop. 

Side note: these days, I avoid catching the bus at this stop-- so many people! And I sure as SHIT would not even think about sitting on the grass-- ew! Also, while I can't find any photos of us together (and I don't think I have a picture of La'akea at all), I have tons of pics of ME at bus stops. Here's one:

 

Tougher Than It Is (My Love, Just a Reminder)

You know how sometimes these big things happen and you're like, "Whoa! Didn't see that coming AT ALL?"

Well, what if you were given clues that you didn't recognize? What if the universe was trying to tell you all along, but you couldn't see or hear or understand what it was presenting to you? What if you were ignoring the signs?

I have been strugglebussing for a couple of weeks now. Managing my mental and physical health has been very effortful, and it's super frustrating. How did I reinjur my elbow by squeezing my stupid Scrub Daddy? Why is my back twinging on an easy afternoon walk? Why am I low-key freaking out about the small things? Why is everything that happens pointing to my imminent death and/or destruction?

And I don't have definitive answers, but I have ideas, and at the top of the list is that I'm not paying attention to what my body (aka the universe) has been telling me. My brain, she is clever and she loves words. She loves puzzles. She delights in being clever and she really REALLY loves me.

Her mouth, though, isn't always kind. Her mouth says, "OMG, what now? Again? What did you do and what do I gotta do now to fix it?" What she doesn't say, though, is that she's afraid that she won't know how to fix it. Won't know how to make it better. She doesn't say out loud that she fears she isn't enough. What if she fails me?

So she says drink more water, stretch, eat a healthier snack, go to bed earlier, put down your phone. She says spend more time with your family, your friends. Go outside, take a walk, meditate. Take some ibuprofen, get a massage.

What she doesn't say-- what she doesn't wanna do-- is pay attention to my pain. My brain greets discomfort as irritations, "What NOW?" instead of a friend in need, "Come here, beautiful, let me give you a hug." Because she's scared that what I need, she can't provide for.

I have been doing all the things I know I'm supposed to do for great mental and physical health. I exercise and socialize and hydrate and eat healthy. I stretch and roll and walk. I even started jogging(ish)! I meditate and read and journal. 

But I haven't been listening.

And all these injuries? That's my body telling me something. It's been telling me what it needed, and my brain was like, "What are you talking about? We've been doing the things! All of them! You're so ungrateful." Like that's supposed to sustain my relationship with myself? Giving it what I think it needs rather than what it's actually asking for. 

I cried like crazy yesterday morning, realizing what I've been doing. Realizing that I have been unkind to myself. I have been resistant rather than responsive, and there is no relaxation in resistance, I've been told.

My goal for the next bunch of moments-- as many as I can manage-- is to meet myself with compassion and tenderness. To (re)discover what brings me comfort. To maintain curiosity instead of judgment. And then reconnect my actions to my intentions to my actual needs.

But really, for right now, it's just to meet myself with love and patience and tenderness.   

 

What Do I Need? (or This Blog Kinda Got Away From Me, But Maybe This is What I Needed)

I ran errands today at, like, regular human hours. Left Merf's at around 11am, then hit Target and Sam's. There's the usual mid-morning traffic, the usual heat, the usual crowds. AND I WAS FINE. Banging my knee when the Sam's cart got caught on the stupid fucking cart corral nearly ruined everything, but honestly, I knew how to handle it-- I have tools-- and I did. Handle it, I mean. It was handled. (And not just by pushing through, by the way. Not just by ignoring the pain and powering through to the next thing.)

And when I got home, I thought, is this what a regulated nervous system feels like??? IS THIS WHAT A REGULATED NERVOUS SYSTEM FEELS LIKE??? Holy shit!

It feels like getting stuck behind the same garbage truck TWICE on different streets in the same hour and not feeling that heaviness on my neck and shoulders, that tightness. It was obligating the Target employee to open multiple cases so I could get deodorant AND razors even while had other customers waiting and not rushing or making like nah, no need BOTH items today and instead only getting one.

I attribute this to a few seemingly unrelated events:

1. I used to be pretty big and heavy. And then I lost a bunch of weight (figuratively and literally). And then I gained weight again. And every time I gain any amount of weight, I think I look like I did at my biggest/heaviest. I am utterly convinced of it. But I saw some old photos of myself in Kama's slide show the other night and it was clear to me: I do NOT look like I did before even if I might weigh the same (and I don't know that I do lol). Not that what I look like matters, alright? It was the fact check on my brain that really made a difference. I am not seeing myself clearly, and also, I'm living a different, healthier life.

2. I did a favorite Body Project YouTube workout this week that I haven't done since before I started poling. I wondered if it would feel the same or easier. It felt the same AND easier. I was surprised that I busted a sweat and got my heart rate up. My muscles felt fatigued! And I don't know why (because I haven't spent time thinking about it), but it felt SO ME. It was kind of exhilarating! Even thinking about it now, days later, I'm filled with feelings. Good ones. So much so that I went for a short walk afterwards. I didn't need to, but I did. And even though it wasn't nearly as strenuous as pole or HTC/JBT, it nonetheless felt worthwhile and fulfilling.

3. I have been going on short walks at a deliberately moderate pace. These walks aren't for steps or the cardio, they're for self-regulation. They're for soothing a riotous nervous system. They're for blood circulation and recovery. They're for discovering weird or beautiful things in my neighborhood. They're for visiting my sister and her family down the street.

And I believe--I INTUIT-- that these are the contributing factors to not fah-reaking the fuck out in the crowds and traffic on a busy Saturday morning. It is taking the time to check in with myself: what you need, Kanani? It's knowing that I feel like fucking shit every Thursday and taking steps to invest in, you know, NOT FEELING LIKE SHIT every Thursday (or any day, for that matter).

It is not my destiny to endure feeling like shit. It is not a natural state of adulthood to suffer through life. No! I reject that! And neither do I accept that I must beat my body (and mind) into submission through a constant and rigorous approach to fitness. I'm not looking for the Optimal WOD, yo, to strictly follow.

I have discovered and am now strong enough to admit that I desire a soft love. I desire tenderness. And I don't have to wait for some fucking Knight to give it to me! I can do it. I can show myself a soft love. I can show myself tenderness. I can show myself that I'm worthy of love and softness. I can show myself that being strong and independent and physically fit doesn't preclude me from slowness. It doesn't preclude a soft-heart or kindness.

I can earn pole kisses and fatigued muscles from pole and strength training. I can work up a good sweat and feel very CARDO! through dance. I can power walk a 3-mile route. Being soft, being gentle w/myself doesn't mean I'm not disciplined or tough. I don't know if you know this, but I am a complex being-- WE ARE ALL complex beings-- capable of multiple layers at the same time! And honestly it's in those moments where I feel joy AND sadness, pride AND shame that I am the most confused, which in turns makes me the most anxious, which I then try to avoid. But it is precisely those moments I want to turn toward with kindness and curiosity and ask, "What do you need, Kanani?"

And sometimes, even when I make the time to check in with myself, I won't know. I won't have an answer. I'll be confused or distracted. However, I have found that sometimes just asking the question results in a short cry fest, which proves to be just the thing. Sometimes I know that answer even before I finish asking the question. 

I wholeheartedly believe that the ease with which I moved in the crowded, busy Saturday morning is a direct result of asking myself this question. To be honest, the question is usually more like, "How can I regulate my nervous system today?" And it might be a slow walk or cocooning in bed and binge watching Criminal Minds. It could be engaging in the group chat or maybe even avoiding it for a day. It might be pushing myself at pole or training. And every time I do the thing that brings me comfort, that soothes my dysregulation, I bring myself closer to peace. Closer to myself.

Now, I'm not an expert on any of this. I can't tell you the mechanism behind it all that makes this work. I can't draw the line between slow walks and NOT feeling anxious doing my shopping on a busy weekend morning. I can't tell you why doing a low intensity YouTube workout meant I didn't lose my shit behind the same garbage truck TWICE in an hour. Honestly, I don't care about the why at the moment. All I know is that it worked and I hope it continues to work. I hope to have more days of regulation because I actually enjoyed myself. Feeling calm instead of panicked made my day more enjoyable, if you can fucking believe it. And YES PLEASE I'll take more of that!

PUB CHOIR!

Last week Saturday, I remembered what it felt like to be me. I remembered what it felt like to be funny, to be slightly nervous but mostly excited, to feel giddy about what was about to happen. It was like driving to Kualoa Ranch before the very first Big Mele. It was like seeing my first concert, Jane's Addiction, with all of my besties.

It was the kind of moment where I felt like I was being me. Authentically, freely me, without judgement or concern for being judged.

And Meredith and me? We were SO FUNNY! We were HILARIOUS! We were a party of two and I was happy for it. I was content with it. I didn't wish to be a part of a larger group, I didn't wish for a drink in my hand, I didn't wish for anything to be any different than what it was. I was SO PLEASED to be exactly where I was, doing what I was doing.

UNINHIBITED!

That's what I'm going for here. I felt so uninhibited that night. Not take-off-my-shirt-and-swing-it-around uninhibited. More like free-to-be-me uninhibited. Free-to-be-dorky-me uninhibited. Not-afraid-to-be-excited-about-choral-singing-with-strangers uninhibited. Laughing-at-and-making-lame-jokes uninhibited. Sing-off-key-at-the-top-of-my-lungs-like-I'm-good-at-this uninhibited.

And what could be better than that?

I mean, other than fucking world peace, right? What could possibly be better than that?

 

Footnote:
The host and creator of Pub Choir, Astrid Jorgensen is, herself, HILARIOUS. She wrangled all of us wild chickens into learning to sing Cher's "Believe" in three-part harmony in just about two hours. It felt like SUCH a me thing that I didn't even know existed and am so thrilled to have been invited to. It is a powerful thing to be so authentically uninhibited doing something so in line with who you are, and with someone with whom you feel so free and accepted.

Be Like This

"You mean you've been Lesley all day?" he asked.

And I couldn't stop thinking about that.

I've been in the middle lately, emotionally and mentally. Not furiously angry nor lugubriously sad nor exuberantly happy. More like mildly displeased, out of sorts, and maybe on the verge of being those extreme ends of the spectrum, but never quite teetering over.

I am sometimes feel sad. I sometimes feel lonely. I have frequently been pleased. I sometimes feel disappointed and frustrated and tired and giddy. Sometimes I have been witty, maybe even thoughtless with my words.

I don't always want to smile or laugh. I don't always want to make the joke.

Sometimes, I just want to be.

Be.

BE.

I just want to BE LIKE THIS, as I am right now in this eternal/ephemeral moment. My stomach hanging out, protein shake on my lips, smudges on my glasses. I want to sit in silence, let it stretch out, let someone else fill in the empty spaces. I WANT TO BE grumpy and tired and hungry and let that not change the temperature of the room.

But I've been Lesley all day. I've been Lesley for nearly 40 hours this week, and I was Lesley for nearly 40 hours of every week for the last 3 months. Lesley is professional. She is pleasant and helpful and patient. She has lost count of how many times she's said "thank you" today. Lesley speaks standard English and laughs politely. She smiles with her mouth and holds back angry retorts and frequently resists hurling her pen with great force across the room. She could win Miss Congeniality.

Would you get a glimpse of Kanani through the day? Of course! You'll hear her laugh or talk just a little too loud. You might even hear her curse. But she is not the dominant character on any given weekday. Lesley is.

Am I Lesley? Is she me? Absolutely! She is definitely part of me. I behave in a professional way not because it's fake-- I CARE. I care about the people I help, it matters to me that I am in a position to ease other people's suffering. Lesley is not FAKE.

But what does it mean to be her all day?

I can't really say at the moment. All I know is that there's a cost and I've been paying it. The current model is unsustainable. And as I write this, I feel sad, but not miserable. I'm trying not to assign a story to this feeling-- I'm just sad. It happens, right? People feel sad from time to time. People aren't happy all the time.

This sadness is trying to tell me something. My body is trying to tell me something. I know my nervous system is dysregulated and it's completely within my power to do something about it.

But for now, I just need to feel it. Listen to it. Which sounds hopeful (naive?) to me, but I don't think it is. My goal at the moment isn't to fix anything. Rather, it's to learn to give myself permission to BE LIKE THIS, whatever it is, whenever it happens to be.

 

Grief

This thing, grief. Sitting on my chest, suffocating me. This thing, obscuring my vision so I can't see. This thing. This heavy, heartbreaking thing. 

I miss my puppy so much right now, it's like my heart can't fit inside my chest. It's like my body can't contain the immense sadness I feel for the loss of him. His sweet face. Those scared eyes. Those ears.

All my puppy ever wanted to be happy was to be touched. I see him all around my house, snoozing against the armrest of the couch, standing in the kitchen waiting for morsels. I hear his feet clicking on the floor. And I miss him so fucking much.

We hadn't seen him since November of 2024 because I was so scared to see him. And I know it sounds ridiculous, but I feel like the divorce was so hard on him. We tore his family apart and he was the only one who didn't know why, who didn't and couldn't understand. I hated that. Maybe I projected that melancholy onto him, but I couldn't stand it. I loved him so damn much.

Rascal was the sweetest. He wasn't the bravest or biggest, but he was the sweetest. You knew he loved you. You just knew it. 

This grief, there's no running and no hiding. It comes and it visits and it says what it has to say. Memories of my puppy haunt this home and I wish so hard for the days when he lived here full-time with all of us if only because it meant he was still with us and still happy. I want him alive and here so badly it hurts.

I can get sucked down. It's not hard. I can easily get sucked down into pure despair, wishing wishing wishing. It feels like remembering and it feels like mourning, but it also feels like something worse. Something sinister. It feels neverending and forever. It feels like swallowing a barbed metal ball that only gets bigger as it goes down, taking up all the space if I allow it. It feels like I'll never be happy again.

What makes it worse is that I also weep for the hole left in my kids' lives, and oddly, in Charlie's life. He had Rascal full-time for the last few years. He had more time with him. I never ever worried not one tiny second about Rascal's well being with Charlie because I knew like I know anything that Charlie would never let anything bad befall our puppy. I knew it. And I gotta suspect that whatever torment I am in right now, Charlie is feeling it, too, and likely far more keenly.

There is a hole inside of me right now. It feels like a black hole folding in upon itself and at some point I worry that it will swallow me whole. And I can't escape it. As much as I want to escape it, run from it, push it away, I know that I can't. My sweet puppy is gone from this world and my heart rages with sadness. 

But I have felt this tearing apart before. I have felt this fear and confusion and despair. I miss my puppy so much, and I am beside myself with grief. It hurts so much to miss him. It hurts so much knowing I won't see his sweet face again.

I am in the thick of it. I will be okay, but for now, I'm in the middle of mourning the loss of my love love.

Rascal

Rascal was the best puppy I could have asked for.

Once, he ate two whole avocados in one day. We came home and he'd eaten one, so I closed up the bag but left them on the floor. When we came back home a second time, he'd managed to open the bag and eat a whole other avocado.

He was a chihuahua mix so he was pretty anxious, which I think is pretty fitting for our family. He hated when you stood in a doorway (I always joked he hated liminal characters) or opened an umbrella. He hated skateboards and big trucks. He hated when we waved our hands in the air or whacked each other's butts. And by hate, I mean of course that he barked.

 

 

He loved squeezing between you and anything else even if he didn't fit. All you'd have to say is "mum mum" and he went running toward the kibble. Grab your keys and he's already waiting by the door. He'd be so fucking excited to get into the car--he'd race to it! pull on the leash!-- and then spend the whole time whining to get out or trying to climb into the driver's lap. 

His walks would take forever because he just had to sniff every goddamn thing. And he'd growl at all the dogs we passed and then randomly like a few, and you'd never know when it was going to happen. He hated having his paws wiped clean after a walk.

I bought him a CD player/radio for when he stayed home alone. I don't actually know if it helped, but it made me feel better because he was so anxious. We tried playing YouTube, but he didn't like seeing animals on TV either, so that was out. And he'd mostly pee and poop on the puppy pads, but he always had that guilty face. That sweet puppy guilty face with the big eyes.

Most nights for years, he slept with Lucy. I didn't allow him on my bed because I didn't want the fur in my face. When we bought a chair to go next to my bed, Rascal would alternate between Lucy's bed and my room. He was kolohe sometimes and try 

to step onto my bed. I think I loved him more because he was such a rascal.

 Rascal loved cheese and blueberries and poi. And chicken. And french fries. He loved sitting in the sun. He fell asleep in awkward positions and frequently looked like he was about to fall off the couch.

When we first got him, he didn't play. He wouldn't play. We wondered at that. And then he loved playing with the tennis ball, but we had to stop that because it wasn't long before he'd start coughing/gagging on the tennis ball fuzz. So we got him a fuzz-less ball that he loved. It was red. He didn't at all care for the larger green ball so who knows where that went. That ball was the only thing he'd play with, and we tried lots of toys.

Lucy made for him a couple of what I like to call diaper shirts. Diaper shirts because that's what they looked like-- the kine made for babies with the two snaps in the front. 

 

I called him love love. I called him Dog. "I just took you outside, Dog!" or "Oh my god, Dog, let's go!"

We adopted him from the Humane Society on June 20, 2019. He was 4 years old, his birthday November 6, 2014, and weighed a whopping 15 pounds. Lucy and I were checking out this other dog, and Charlie already liked Rascal. Unsure, we went home without a pet and then decided overnight that we had to have Rascal. Lucy and I rushed over to the Humane Society long before they opened so we could be sure to nab our puppy before anyone else could even look at him. We succeeded. He became ours and we became his.

Rascal was such a well behaved and well trained puppy, and any bad habits he learned from us. 

 When Charlie and I split, Rascal went to live with him. The kids and I wanted so badly to keep him with us, but with the kids now adults and working, the house was empty for long hours. Plus, we knew Charlie needed him more than we did, and Rascal loved Charlie. We used to see Rascal regularly, but then it would break my heart to see him so confused, so I stopped asking for him.

I'm writing this now because I am so utterly heartbroken. I had hoped that keeping apart from him would make this day hurt less, but it doesn't, and I wish I could have felt his sweet puppy body under my hand one more time. He brought so much joy into our lives and so much comfort. We didn't have him when I had my hysterectomy, but he kept me company after my gallbladder surgery, and he was there after Charlie's bout with cancer, too.

I have so many stories about our puppy, and so many memories, none of which are bad. He was the best. I'm so sad he's gone, my fatty mcfatty. My love love. 

Hapalua 2022

Back on April 10, 2022, I completed the Hapalua half marathon, and just to be clear, I walked the entire thing. My finish time was 3:43, which roughly translates to a 17-minute mile.

I’d been walking at least 3 miles nearly every day since the beginning of 2021. We were tentatively coming out of Covid and I’d made the decision to allow Lucy back at paddling, and I walked while she was at practice.

During that same period, I began experiencing depression symptoms. I came home from work to inexplicably sob myself to sleep in the middle of the afternoon. Nothing felt fun or exciting, and if it did, that feeling went away pretty immediately to be replaced with dread and confusion and tears. It still amazes me that I (eventually) had the presence of mind to call my doctor and get started on finding a good antidepressant. We found one. It helped.

My most awesome therapist helped me see that the meds were great for treating symptoms so I could do the actual work. They were a tool, and they weren’t going to solve my problems. They weren’t going to deal with the root of my emotions. Only I could do that. So while the I took the meds, I worked.

Part of that work was walking. Every day. Or night. Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends, sometimes with Lucy. At the park, at the beach, around my neighborhood. Miles and miles and miles of walking.

I never thought I’d ever do a half-marathon. Never. Noah had done it as well as the Honolulu Marathon, and I’d seen what he went through. Why would I ever choose that for myself?? Nuh-uh. No ways.

And as I prepared for the 13.1 mile walk, I talked to Noah. I talked to Ana. I had a dietician at the time (because, oh yeah, I’d just had my gallbladder removed at the end of 2020 and my guts weren’t happy), and she helped me develop a plan for fueling and hydrating from beginning to end. Noe and Jenn and Merf walked the Diamond Head leg of the race with me as part of my training.

My husband and I were going through couples counseling at the time. Our relationship was struggling just as we were struggling individually. There was little to no support from him, and I don’t mention this not to throw him under the bus. I’m trying to provide context. My nearly 20-year relationship was coming to its end, and my daily walks didn’t help. My walks caused a lot of tension, and that I was training for this momentous race made no difference. He wanted me to stop walking. Or stop walking so much.

So when I see the memory pop up on my social media every year for the last 3 years, I am filled with emotion.

• All the walking. I say pole saved my life, but before pole, there were those walks. Walking saved my life. I processed so much self-loathing and grief and confusion during those walks. I connected with friends and family during those walks. For nearly a year, my whole family had a standing Wednesday date for outdoor fun at Magic Island that included bicycles, skateboards, and roller skates. And food, let's be honest.

• The lack of support from my partner. The active antipathy he showed for what was turning into my personal healing. This was bad. So bad that it frequently came up even in our counseling sessions. Why can’t you stop going for walks, Kanani? Why can’t you choose me, Kanani? And I was learning, perhaps for the first time in my entire life, Why can’t I choose ME? His ultimate contribution to this endeavor was dropping me off at the park the morning of the race, and I’m grateful. But overwhelmingly I walked in defiance even though my point of reference was me and not him. I was simply choosing me.

• The support I received from my kids, my family, and my friends while I was doing my 17-minute mile trudge. This was in stark difference to my relationship. These people showered me with their love and encouragement, and expressed their amazement of my accomplishment, before, during and after the race.They shared my joy and lent me theirs when mine felt absent.

• Mom and Billy were there to celebrate with me at the end. They were waiting for me at the finish line, and even typing this out right now, I’m in tears. Because they had to park! Far! And then walk to the finish line and then wait. And they had signs! (Oh gawd, I’m sobbing now.) I don’t think you know how impactful that support was when I was getting so much anger from my partner, and reflecting on it now, I’m not just thankful for my parents, I’m so fucking proud of myself.

 

Because I kept choosing myself. Despite so much pushback and so much emotional anguish, I kept choosing to heal myself. And no matter what it might have looked like on the outside, that choice was FUCKING TOUGH. It was so tough, I constantly felt like I was tearing myself apart, no exaggeration. Read my blogs. They’ll tell you.

So when I’m reminded that I finished the Hapalua in 2022— I still have my bib pinned up next to my desk— I am filled with emotion. I am in awe of the faith I had that the work I was doing would result in something better when I had no real tangible reason to believe it would. And at that time, the simple act of walking was enough of a catalyst.

I am a firm believer that the work you do becomes your path. I never set out to do a race, let alone a half fucking marathon. I never set out to divorce for the second time. (Oh, and I’ve been off the meds for years now, but I’m so grateful to have made use of the tools available to me.) But here’s the thing: I made one simple fucking decision, I WALKED, and it fucking changed my life. 

Muddy Water

There's a quote by the philosopher Alan Watts that goes "Muddy water is best cleared by leaving it alone," and it beautifully captures what my last month has been like since being laid off. The quote is often interpreted as an endorsement of meditation-- meditating isn't a waste of time, it is an opportunity to see reality as it is so one can act with intention.

It's been a wonky 30-ish days. Scary, hopeful, confusing, stressed, extremely uncomfortable, serenely relaxed. If I felt like investing in more words right here, I would. I been all over the place. But what's gotten me through this has been something akin to mental discipline. BLECH. I hate that term, I hate that idea. BARF. Gross. Strike that from the record.

If you Google "mental discipline," you'll see that it's like consistently engaging in practices or activities to achieve your goals. It's not totally clinical, I just have a huge problem with the label. If I struggle to consistently engage in these practices, does that make me UNdisciplined?

Rather, what has helped me navigate these past few weeks doesn't feel like discipline even though it is a skill I've had to learn to develop.  It feels like acceptance of and softening into what is. It's not a rigid practice of forcing my mind to reject discomfort or confusion. It's not the strict adherence to positivity or problem solving. It is allowing the muddy water to clear. Releasing the discomfort isn't in the doing, but in the BEING. It's in the presence.

When pain flares up as it inevitably will, how I navigate it determines the amount of suffering I'll endure. This is my belief. And the surest way to lessening that suffering, I've discovered, is through somatic attention: what is my body telling me? Where do I feel these sensations? Get really good at describing them, my therapist advised. Is there an emotion attached to this? A thought or idea?

This practice of paying attention, sitting with the pain? Is clearing the muddy water. And it's not exclusively meditation. In fact, I wouldn't even characterize what I do as meditative. It is resisting resistance. It is anti-self-gaslighting. It is listening to what little Kanani is afraid of. It is holding my own hand through the roughest bits of the darkness and fear. It is NOT running away or covering up or pretending or distracting or plotting, problem solving, diagnosing, explaining, or justifying.

None of that is easy. It is terrifying. When I first began this practice, it felt like my body was being torn apart. Good news is that I haven't felt that way in a really long time. The GREAT news is that the skills I've been developing over the past 7 years means that I've navigated this scary time with joy and confidence and a strong sense of purpose and alignment. It's craziness, I tell you. Fucking CRAZINESS.

 

Let Your Friends Love You

Iʻve written so many blogs about anxiety and depression, especially since beginning this healing and growing journey back in 2018. Back then, I just wanted everything to go back to the way they it was prior to my hysterectomy. In my opinion, EVERYTHING was better prior to that (except for, you know, all the bleeding).

But it really wasnʻt. Nothing was better. The only thing that WAS better was ME at deceiving myself.

I also wrote quite a bit about community. Community as mode of healing. And I was really just projecting. I was hoping. Iʻd watched so many zombie shows, read so many post-apocalyptic books that I KNEW salvation is found when folks come together. I knew, but I didnʻt actually believe. Yet.

Side note: It still astounds me, the steadfast faith I had in the first few years that I was on this path that ultimately HEALING WOULD COME.

And here I am again. Things change FAST, yo. Here I am in the middle of another unforeseen, unplanned difficult time. There are times I feel so unmoored, so scared... no, TERRIFIED. Iʻm sad and confused and sometimes I even feel shame! Shame! At being laid off. As if I had anything to do with that. As if I hadnʻt done exemplary work and demonstrated a dedication to moral and ethical integrity.

Inhale, outhale. Breathe. This isnʻt about that.

This is about how the work you do becomes your fucking path. If Kanani of seven years ago hadnʻt laid the foundation for today Kanani, would I even be here? Because I believed that healing would come, I have this community of people. And if you donʻt know, that belief? That work of foundation-laying? Itʻs AWFUL. Itʻs the seed ripping itself wide, it is destroying what was so that what can be, you know, CAN BE. And I did it. I continue to do it (although the good news is that it isnʻt always such body-wrenching work). I believed and put in the work and here I am. Not only am I a part of this community, I actively created it for myself! I fashioned it! 

And now, at last, we find ourselves at the end of this long and winding path to the point of this blog: I have such amazing people in my life. I have such amazing LOVE in my life. I donʻt even know how to talk about it. Iʻve been trying for days to write this, to release this into the world, but words often fall short. And they fall short BIG TIME.

Without going into specifics, my community has come through big time. I have been on the receiving end of their love in unexpected ways, in ways I hadnʻt even hoped for. I have been offered and given so much! Including the only thing I really asked for, which was to observe my initial boundary: let me grieve for a week before we talk about business. Let me vent, let me cry and rant, let me FEEL before we talk CVs and job opportunities and bills.

I asked for a thing, and they were like, yes! And all the things I didnʻt have to ask for or think to ask for, they were there for that, too. Their outrage on my behalf, their sorrow, their friendly texts, their impulse to help and support.

When my ex-husband moved out a few years ago, I was left with this literal and figurative mess. I was on anti-depressants at the time and it took all the strength I had just to take a shower or put food in my face, nevermind scrub my shower or wash the dishes. And it was at this moment that Ami imparted the truly wise words: let your friends love you.

Itʻs crazy to think that what my community has done in the past few days are acts of love. It wasnʻt that long ago that just the IDEA of hanging out with friends made me feel like I was DYING. I didnʻt know how to be a friend, I didnʻt know how to have friends. I couldnʻt even ask Meredith to go walking with me. No, I couldnʻt even ask her what time she wanted to go walking when SHE invited ME!

Let your friends love you was way harder than it seems. It seems like such a passive thing, to allow something to happen. To just not stop it, right? DO NOTHING. Hahahaha! Iʻm literally laughing right now. Oh, friends. Not easy.

Because to allow myself to be loved is to believe Iʻm worthy of love in the first fucking place.

TO ALLOW MYSELF TO BE LOVED IS TO BELIEVE IʻM WORTHY OF LOVE.

I die. And yet I havenʻt. 

Not only am I worthy of love, I actually have begun to believe it.

Without all the work that Iʻve put in, I likely would not have been ready to receive all that my family and friends have already given. I definitely wouldnʻt have been able to communicate what I needed. And while you overwhelm me with your generosity and love, Iʻm also astounded by my own ability to receive, even if awkwardly.

Postscript: I donʻt usually do all the links thing to other, older blogs, but it felt appropriate. Think of them as backstories to illustrate the journey Iʻve been on and how I got to here. It mostly wasnʻt fun. It hurt A LOT. And thatʻs why Iʻm so amazed I actually continued to choose that more difficult path. Thatʻs how I learned to love myself, and thatʻs how I learned to be a part of community.