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.
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.
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.
