Prologue: Big Island, HI

Kailua-Kona, Mar. 1st, 2026.

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March 24th, 2026

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When I came up with the idea to start this blog about my adventures on the Big Island, it was in an effort to boost my credibility as a writer. Desperate, outcasted, and branded as an insufferable alcoholic, I looked anywhere for a chance to bolster my writing portfolio so I could one day get a chance to write for a big news agency. 

As a young girl, I would have never thought that journalism was an avenue that would make me happy. Still, to this day, I am not quite sure about who I am or why I am such a sucker for the English language. There's never been an extraordinary skill that sets me apart from any other person who dabbles in journaling and poetry. Writing is just something that happens, and in my case, it seems to be the the one place I can show that I have value. 

Once, it was to gain value from the outside world by seeing those likes and comments to build my self esteem and gain some sort of purpose from telling a story that people in the community felt seen by. But after a while, I saw those likes and comments start to rise and fall with certain stories, and I began to wonder if it was my voice, the story, or if I was becoming bias due to being so close to the people or organizations I'd write stories about. 

The moment the wheels tucked themselves into the plane carrying Angel and I back to Nevada, I realized that value has shifted tremendously. The external world no longer seems so important, nor does the career I once begged for. Like an interrupted chapter in my life, being a journalist seems to be something of a loose end. Loose ends are meant for those metaphoric scissors to snip them away and fade into the past, though my heart is steady at the thought of having it remain with that ever-intriguing cliffhanger: "What if it happens one day?"

What if? 

Well, something else began to stir. What if I lose my ability to sound like myself? What if my voice isn't as great as I once believed it did? What if my opinion of myself is a misjudgment - a series of lies I have told myself to climb some imaginary ladder to a successful life that I truly do not deserve? 

Believe it or not, I used to be a teacher. A middle school teacher, who wrangled 25 kids or more while still trying to teach them ordinary reading and writing skills. But twice, I became that dark, drunken individual who landed herself in jail due to my inability to cope with the stress of it all. Nothing quelled that anger inside when I was demeaned and degraded - a skill that is vital for a teacher, as teachers withstand disrespect on a daily basis. 

Not only are you constantly seeing abuse slip through the cracks between students, but you also see dismissal when students need help the most from administrators who simply don't have the time, resources, skills, and most of the time, energy, to deal with it all. No matter how young or naive the kids were, I could not keep it together. I was angry, confused, in debt, and miserable due to the lack of connection I truly believed existed in the classroom. 

Of course there were great days - days I have kept the lesson plans and finished assignments from my students, such as the days we studied "The Outsiders" and lyrics from The Offspring. During my internship, I was thrilled to see the students make so many connections with "Fahrenheit 451" to our modern world, reading their essays like they were novels by some of the greatest philosophers.

I still lay in bed some days, thinking about sitting at my desk during lunch with a few students who needed a safe space to get away from the all the bullying, noise and frustration that they had dealt with at home. Days where my co-teacher and I bonded, building a friendship so deep and meaningful, we continue to talk consistently to make sure we are always on the same page. 

But at the end of the day, it took a great toll on my identity. If I wasn't a teacher, who am I? What was the point of enduring those long hours at the university, studying and planning lesson plans that would never come to fruition? 

And so started the journalism venture, to use my other degree in English for my original plan: to write. Writing in any capacity, whether it be news, blogs, short stories, poems, or really weird novels that I knew no one would read. I just wanted to write, because my mother, along with a few other people close to me, kept telling me that I had a "gift." 

When you're told you have a gift at a young age, you carry that like a brand etched so deeply, that it becomes a standard you wish to meet due to your ego feeling a twinge and boost when proven "correct." 

Satisfaction and validation comes in many forms with writing, such as a high grade in class or a small comment written on your essay, or passing a college exam at a young age. Simple things that many students achieve become confirmation, and for those with a mental illness like bipolar disorder, it can sometimes grant permission to live in a delusion where you think that you were born to be a world-renowned writer. It's crazy, I know.

Being on medication and going through years of therapy gave me a path to actually see the delusion for what it was - pure lunacy built on many obsessions colliding and building a narrative that never existed in the real world.

At this point in my life, now that my mother has passed on, I had a rude awakening that many things I thought about myself were not true.

Like being a good daughter, even though I had spent the majority of the time she was critically ill drunk in my room ignoring her when she needed help.

Like being a good teacher, when I spent most of my day frustrated and trying hard not to take it out on my students only to come home and drown myself in booze.

Like being a good friend, when I left nearly everyone on read unless I needed emotional support - creating crises out of drunken delirium.

And the worst part, for me, being a good partner, when in reality I was abusive and overbearing with my emotional instability - so much so, that I blamed him for my irrational outbursts and crazed paranoia because he was a "bad boyfriend." 

On Mother's Day in 2025, I realized that I had no gifts. I just had a really great mother who believed in me, great teachers who encouraged me, and an unbelievable partner who loves me to this day, and I took that all for granted. I ran with the inflated self image I had and believed I could do anything in this world for so long, only to burn every bridge that could possibly get me anywhere without extensive support.

Now, reflecting on my time in Hawaii, I wanted to start my blog with this. I am not spectacular, my voice is not the best there ever was, and I am not going to post any life changing revelations - at least not any that pertain to every person in the world.

This will be a collection of my honest perception of the wonders I saw, the clarity I gained while being away from the mainland of the United States, and the peace I believe I've acquired from really seeing who I am when I am sober, medicated, grieving, and learning to enjoy life without the backbone of my reality being in place - my mother, who until 2025, had given me everything I ever needed.

A constant support, a guiding light, and the perfect words for every crisis that would come to be. A person who cared about me without conditions, which is actually something I've come to learn over the last few months to be extremely rare. Someone who understands me inside and out, and wanted to make me feel loved no matter what. 

This is my experience through that lens.