This is part of Travel Firsts, a series featuring trips that required a leap of faith or marked a major life milestone.
Trudging through knee-deep, murky water with an ax in hand was not what I initially envisioned when I decided to volunteer in Hawai'i. I'm not sure what I thought replanting a taro field would involve. But intrinsically, I knew I wanted to give back to the islands.
My cousin Lynnette (who had always been more of a sister) and I initially fell in love with the Aloha State when we visited 15 years ago for her wedding on O'ahu. But since that first trip, the destination played an even greater role in her life, and my own. When she eventually battled breast cancer, Lynnette felt the place had healing powers, and it became the go-to location for joint family vacations over the 10 years she endured long stints of chemotherapy.
It has now been 1,374 days since I—we—lost her. Instead of facing my grief, I've tried to outrun it. Stillness and silence are foes. I’ve kept myself relentlessly busy, a deliberate effort to avoid the pain of my loss. There was always another story to write, another destination to explore, another task to check off the list. On the surface, life has seemed productive and fulfilling, yet just below the weight of unaddressed grief has muddied the waters of my existence. Ultimately, I've learned there's no cheat code: grief eventually catches up.
I finally decided to meet my pain head-on. I said yes when I was invited to join a group of Alaska Airlines employees as they volunteered for the state's mālama' āina (care for the land) program. For the job, I'd fly to O'ahu to work alongside local elders and residents to help replant a taro field. Taro, or "kalo," is a Hawaiian food staple deeply ingrained in the island's culture. Although I was returning for a great cause, it was my first time setting foot on Hawaiian soil since she passed—and my first time visiting without her by my side. I was petrified that all the sorrow I’d spent years running from would overwhelm and devastate me at once.
After a long flight, I touched down in Honolulu. As I stepped out of the terminal, I held my breath, bracing for a tsunami of emotions to overwhelm me. The waves didn’t crash down at first. But reminders of Lynnette slowly appeared everywhere: in the small snack shop at the airport; along the traffic-dense roadways; and even while walking among throngs of tourists traipsing down a main street in search of food.
When I sat down for dinner on my first night, sleepy-eyed and jet-lagged, I could barely taste my meal. Why was I here? I focused on repeating what would become my mantra: "I'm doing this for Lynnette."
Bright and early the following morning, armed with a double espresso, I began the one-hour drive to Ka Papa Loʻi ʻO Punaluʻu, a three-acre wetland taro farm. Organizers recited an ancient Hawaiian prayer before we were each provided a tool, and told to doff our shoes and step into the frigid waters surrounding the fields. The objective was to walk along the canals pulling our tools behind us. Replanting taro isn't just about nurturing the plants; first, you must dredge the sediment accumulating in the waterways surrounding the field, which allows sunlight to penetrate and nourish the plants. The effort required to simply let the light in was a metaphor not lost on me.
The atmosphere of the lo’i (taro field) was tranquil, even as muffled conversations floated through the air. Our group of volunteers, which also included dozens of University of Hawai'i students, worked separately but in tandem, allowing me to get lost in the soothing repetition of the work. In an area that housed very young taro plants, we used our fingertips to pluck away weeds. As I touched the soil, meditating in the repetitive actions, a fond or funny memory with Lynnette would find the space to bubble up. I thought of what Lynnette might have thought or said if she could see me right now. I felt my eyes fill with tears as my lips twitched into a private smile.
Since Lynnette's passing, I've buried my sorrow beneath layers of constant activity. Yet here, where I felt a profound connection to the land and memories of my cousin, the process felt active. Intentional. In her honor.
Spending a day in these fields, working shoulder-to-shoulder with other volunteers, was a reminder that avoiding grief doesn't foster healing—but there is often catharsis in movement that brings us closer to ourselves, and those we've lost. Walking arm in arm with strangers, shuffling our feed to promote water flow, felt like clearing up pathways to the next phase of my grief. Whatever I was, I was no longer stuck.
