Ch. 7 -Living in Maui; Beauty in the Eye of the Beholder + Lust.

Ahhh, Hawaii.

Finally a GOOD MOMENT!!!!

One of the top moments of my entire life — and not exactly for the reason you might think. Yes, Hawaii is known for its beauty. But I actually hadn’t been, even while living so close in California. And because it’s where everyone vacations, I didn’t want to do it the “tourist” way — spend a ton of money just to follow the crowd. So I always felt resistant to go there.

Quick Background: Kauai (April 2023) first time there ever…

On my 30th birthday, I was single and ready to do something big. I wanted to travel internationally in April… except my passport was about to expire, and there wasn’t enough time to renew it.

So I asked myself: where can I go that feels far enough away, different enough, but still technically inside the U.S.?

I’d always heard Kauai was unreal. So I chose it.

And I did what I always do when I’m equal parts inspired and terrified: I researched like a maniac. Weeks of it. That’s how I found a beach where you could camp for $3 a night. Yes — three dollars. Always do your research… and then proceed with courage and inspiration.

I used airline points to book the flight for free. The only thing I saved for was a rental car, because I knew if anything went wrong, I could sleep in it. A lot of my travel decisions were “risky” like that — but I was comfortable attempting discomfort.

One of the main lessons through my “dark nights of the soul” was there I wanted to lean closer to discomfort but slowly getting out of my comfort zone and taking risks.

I’d practiced small solo camping trips in California and slowly worked my way up. If you’re scared to travel alone, start small. Train your nervous system.

I landed at night with a big checked bag full of camping gear (tent, sleeping bag, supplies) and my clothes in a carry-on. What I didn’t think about was: setting up camp in the dark when I arrived.

It was pouring rain. I drove 45 minutes to the campsite and saw no one — just abandoned cars. Fear set in immediately.

What the fuck did I just do?

I slept in my car that first night and barely slept at all. I was scared. But in the morning, the sun came up and — thank God — I finally saw people: families, couples, real campers. The relief I felt was almost physical.

That week was incredible. I met a couple from the East Coast, and we ended up doing a ton together — a helicopter ride on my birthday, a huge hike, all of it. It was the first time I really noticed a pattern:

When I follow my heart, things… arrange themselves.

My campsite shut down for maintenance (I’d read that might happen), and my backup campsite unexpectedly shut down because of mud. I planned to sleep in my car the night before my birthday, and the couple looked at me like I was insane and said, “Um, absolutely not. We have an extra bedroom.”

Things just kept unfolding in such an easy manner.

So I spent my 30th birthday in a room with a view.

Luck started pouring in after that — like the universe was rewarding me for trusting it.

Maui (the real reason this blog exists)

Fast forward a year. Elisha had passed. California was brutally ripping out from under my feet.

Please read the Elisha, California, and Vipassana blogs first if you want the full context.

I’d heard about WWOOFing — working on farms in exchange for food and housing — for years. It had been a bucket list dream, along with Hawaii, India, Vipassana, Thailand… and it’s funny: I thought I had to plan it all perfectly. Strategically. Rationally.

Instead, life threw the entire bucket list at me all at once.

After Vipassana, I returned to an acceptance email: two months on a farm in Maui.

I was stoked.

I told my roommates I was moving out. I sold everything — embarrassingly everything. Even Tupperware. I needed every dollar to survive Hawaii, but I also wanted to get rid of stuff. I wanted to clear out my life enough to hear my heart again.

And honestly… this is where I lost friends. My closest San Diego friends.

I think people thought I was losing it.

Maybe I was — but it was the part of me that wasn’t working anymore that was dying.

Looking back, it was the best decision I’ve ever made. If I hadn’t left, I would’ve stayed stuck in the same cycle, convinced it was normal, convinced it was “just how life is.”

Every time I ignored the pull of my heart — every time I tried to force California to work harder — I suffered.

I wasn’t just tired. I was done.

I arrive in Maui. The farm is run by two young badass women. One picks me up in a farm truck and drives me two hours into the middle of nowhere. No resorts. No tourist Hawaii. Real Hawaii.

She drops me off at night at a shipping container. I peel back the blankets and immediately see… centipedes. Things flying around. Moist air. Unknown insects.

UGH.

The unknown again.

I lay in bed uncomfortable and familiar with this feeling, telling myself: this is what I practiced discomfort for.

The first two weeks were hard as I adjusted. This was something I later learned with traveling—my first 2 weeks somewhere new led to a tiny adjustment internally, a tiny grief, if you will. It rained every day (rainy season in April). I was the only farmer. I was lonely. My mind was still calibrated to the fast pace of San Diego, and it didn’t know how to be okay with nothing to do. The women running the farm encouraged movie nights and art. They were so kind. Strong. Plant-smart. And honestly… they knew how to relax.

I didn’t.

At the same time, I was sorting through relationship confusion — my first female/female relationship, my doubts about what I wanted long-term, missing masculine energy, wanting a family, the reality of grief, and this deeper truth that was slowly surfacing:

I needed to learn how to be alone.

J eventually came to Maui. We both knew something was ending, but we tried anyway one last time— like an avoidance of the inevitable. After one heavy week together, we sat down and admitted it:

We weren’t meant to stay together.

I felt relief — not because it wasn’t sad, but because it was honest.

She stayed on the farm until June, and that was… hard. I needed space to grieve, and needing space triggered her. The push and pull played out in real time. I cut off intimacy completely because I didn’t want to confuse anyone or cross lines, and that hurt her. I was accused of being cold.

But deep down, I was proud of myself.

I had said “yes” against my heart too many times in my life. This was one of the first times I chose the harder, cleaner truth — even if it made me the villain in someone else’s story.

Then more people arrived on the farm. It became an all-women’s farm community. A girl from Spain and I laughed nonstop. We made art. Cooked duck eggs. Harvested papaya in this little go-cart truck. I learned how to change the oil on the farm vehicle. I weed-whacked. Power washed. Worked with papaya, pineapple, herbs, tropical plants.

I was the healthiest I’d ever been.

I felt strong — and I looked strong.

We did 5 a.m. Ashtanga before work. The day ended at noon, and the afternoon was ours: picnics, poetry, beach meetings, naps, ocean. I wrote so much poetry.

I spent plenty of time reading in hammocks, cooking new dishes from farm food, and learning how to farm in the tropics. I loved feeding the farm animals everyday, I would listen to my favorite meditation lectures while cutting down dead plants with a machete. I learned how to process moringa (a superfood tree), use banana stalks as borders for the herb garden, I took down massive vines, and certainly got eaten by the mosquitos.

But we all were happy - we loved getting up each morning and doing our work on the farm. It was so beautiful. We had inside jokes, we did craft nights, ugh I miss it.

And in the middle of it all, I processed Elisha. I’d watch clouds and just cry. Not dramatic crying — deep crying. Like the body finally letting the grief breathe.

I felt one with life. With bees and butterflies. With soil and fruit. Like I was helping the planet that made me, and making meaningful connections while doing it.

I was happy. Truly happy there. In my true nature.

Somewhere in the middle of Maui, I knew I had to choose what came next.

Colorado had been on my mind even before San Diego. I remember screaming drunk in college with my friend Jamie: “WE’RE GOING TO DENVER!” But I “checked out” San Diego first… and got stuck there trying to make ends meet for three years.

After Elisha passed, I kept remembering us talking about Colorado. She loved it. She never got on a plane, but she’d go from Connecticut to Colorado. I always asked her to visit me in San Diego, but I could tell she didn’t want that — she wanted mountains. And honestly, so did I. We were granola girls at heart: hiking, jam bands, trail mix.

So I started applying to WWOOF farms in Colorado.

And then something weird happened: a small town in Southwest Colorado kept coming up. Different people mentioned it. Randomly. Repeatedly. Like a breadcrumb trail.

So I looked there.

While I was gardening in Hawaii, a farm in that same town called me for an interview. I got the job. A free place to live. Another season of growing food. Another chapter.

I remember crying into the Spanish girl’s lap. It felt like a full circle completing another full circle.

I was moving to Colorado. This was all Elisha’s doing on the other side.

LUST (because I have to be honest)

The end of Maui was significant for another reason. Mental lust. The obsession with a “perfect” person. The fantasy. The high. And then the crash.

I’ve spent years longing for an image in my mind I created, when my parents were abusive. I always dreamt of a dreamy partner and I, living in a Barbie house in a Barbie car, with a lot of animals & I would frequent this dream as I would lay in bed at night to put myself to sleep while my dad was being physically violent toward my mother.

Of course my relationships, never came out the way my mind imagined it — because that’s not reality. I’d get excited about someone, then the newness would fade, and I’d feel sad again. They could never replace my father.

I felt it rising when a very attractive Colombian man (living in Spain) arrived at the farm. He ended up becoming part of our orbit — rides, beaches, hangs.

My mind started spinning.

He was cute. But I also felt that dark, familiar pull in my belly — the “no this isn’t it”

I ignored it. But maybe! my mind said. I had gotten out of the longest grief ever and I was finally happy, ready to be in the world.

His English was broken, which somehow made him even more charming. The awkward part? My ex still lived on the farm with me. She could sense something before I even consciously admitted it.

Near the end of Maui, I planned a return trip to Kauai to camp again. I wanted everyone to experience it.

Windows down. Music blasting. Green mountains. Beaches. Hikes. I felt alive again.

That night, under the stars at the campsite, the cute boy, told me how he felt about me.

We sat by the fire. He taught me Spanish. I taught him English. I showed him my favorite band. We talked about love, disappointment, longing, the human obsession with finding “the one” to fill something inside us.

It was one of the most beautiful nights of my life — the kind of night you remember when you’re old.

And it was also painfully clear: we shared a similar shadow. The same emptiness we’d both been trying to fill with people, places, and intensity.

We were soul-searching. Trying to figure out life. I didn’t realize our wounds were attracting each other.

Then I went back to San Diego. He returned to Maui to finish his break before heading back to the army in Spain.