An Exhale Called Kauai

This holiday felt different for me.

I noticed it in the middle of Christmas break—not after, not once it was over, but right there while it was still happening. A heaviness I couldn’t muscle through. A tired that wasn’t solved by sleep.

And this time, I didn’t hold it together.

I cracked a little.

Maybe more than a little.

For the first time, my kids saw it. Saw me pause. Saw me tear up. Saw me need a moment. They realized I’m not Wonder Woman. I don’t have endless reserves. I don’t carry magic without cost.

It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t unsafe.

But it was real.

I stayed present. I finished the season. The magic still happened—but it happened alongside honesty. Alongside a mother who needed a breath and let that be seen.

And once that truth surfaced, I couldn’t tuck it back away.

I knew I needed space.
I knew I needed movement.
I knew I needed to go somewhere green and blue and alive enough to remind me that I don’t have to be invincible to be enough.

This year, I needed an exhale.

So I went back to Kauai.

It was my second time on the island, which somehow made it quieter. Less proving. More listening. Kauai isn’t a place you conquer or complete. It’s a place that meets you where you are and lets you sort the rest out on your own.

I went with six friends. Climbing friends. The easy kind. The kind who don’t need an itinerary or a backup plan. Without ever naming it, we slipped into the same rhythm.

Early mornings.
Full days.
No rush to be anywhere else.

I woke up first every morning. I made coffee slowly, the way you do when there’s no rush. It’s a small thing, but it’s how I care for the people I love—quietly, before the day asks anything of us.

Then we were gone.

Out the door, still half asleep. No plan beyond the next yes.

North one day.
South the next.

If you go, drive it all. Let the road tell you when to turn around.

Up north, we stood at Tunnels Beach and let the waves do what waves do—crash without apology. Loud. Powerful. Unconcerned with us. I felt small in the best way. The kind of small that steadies you.

Down south, Poipu softened everything again. Sea turtles resting on the sand like time wasn’t a factor. Watching them move so slowly made something in me slow down too.

And the whales.

So many whales.

Breaching.
Surfacing.
Spouting in the distance.

There were long stretches where no one spoke. Watching felt like enough.

One morning we sailed. Dolphins raced the boat like joy was something they practiced daily. Later, we floated in the water with turtles and fish, and for once I wasn’t anticipating the next thing.

I wasn’t managing.
I wasn’t leading.

I was just there.

Another day we kayaked up the Wailua River. After pulling the kayaks ashore, you hike in—about a mile. Mud underfoot. Jungle all around. No sound of the waterfall yet. Just breath and movement and the quiet path of getting there.

I’d been there before.
The waterfall hadn’t been waiting.

When it finally came into view, it didn’t pause. It didn’t recognize me. The water was already doing what it does—falling, moving on, unconcerned.

Standing there, soaked and quiet, I didn’t need to name anything.

The water kept moving.
I let it.

From the sky, the island showed me something else. I’ve hiked those mountains. I’ve sailed past them. Seeing them from above—doors off, wind loud enough to empty my head—created space I didn’t realize I was craving.

Same place.
Different view.

Perspective has a way of doing that.

The days filled themselves in after that. Fresh mango. Passion fruit. Pineapple smoothies made right there. Coffee that tasted better because no one rushed it. An Indian food truck in Kapaʻa that became part of the story.

Sunrise without conversation.
Sunset the same way.

And all the moments in between—the kind you don’t photograph because you’re too busy being in them.

And the birds. Everywhere.

The red-crested cardinals were my favorite. Flashing red against green. Bold. Unbothered. Landing wherever they pleased like they trusted exactly where they were.

Back home, life stayed steady.

Malee was there. Caring for our home. Our dogs. The quiet rhythms of our life while I wandered. There’s a deep safety in knowing you can step away and nothing collapses.

She pilots with me.
Steers when I’m tired.
Holds things steady without gripping.

Somehow, I managed to find a girl so far out of my league it still surprises me.

Love like this doesn’t limit adventure. It makes it safer. It lets you leave without fear and come home without guilt.

That matters.

Because moms don’t just create the magic of December—we carry it. And carrying magic requires fuel. Space. Movement. Standing at the edge of the ocean where the waves break and remembering how alive you are.

Kauai didn’t give me answers.
It gave me space.

Green and blue and salt and birds and coffee and quiet.
Adventure that reaches you all the way to your core.

Kauai feels like a place you don’t just visit once.
It stays with you.

I already know I’ll be back.

Feed the birds.
Then feed yourself.