Not the Plan, But the Path ☾

3 min read

I never intended to be a mahiʻai. But life has a funny way of bringing us home.

My grandparents had been farmers all their lives and I used to stay on their Hilo farm with them over the summers during my childhood. I loved spending the rainy days and muggy nights cuddled up with my cousins on the giant futon that took up my grandparents entire living room. You would have to step in between legs and arms to get to the other side of the room. We would just lay there at bedtime, listening to coqui frogs chirp. In the morning we would wake up and my grandma would go outside, grab a papaya from her tree, and slice it open so that my sister and I could each have a half. 

I took that for granted, growing up with direct access to food. Food that was cared for and then prepared for me by loving hands. I turned my city girl nose up at those stinky slices of papaya because I wanted my Lucky Charms and HoHos for breakfast instead. 

 

Now I know better. 

 

Before the fire, I was already slowly moving toward a different way of life. I was teaching and raising my son (only Māna at the time!), hustling with my husband running side businesses and helping him with his commercial videography gigs. 

I started to feel the cracks even back then, quiet whispers telling me to move in another direction, that something was going to have to give and the way we were trying to grind and push and survive was not sustainable for our ʻohana. This pace that we were being forced to live in wasn’t ours. 

When Lāhainā burned, it wasn’t just homes that were lost, but stories and memories, too. I was pulled to start the farm to heal myself, and in doing so, I am now able to help heal others. We were forced to slow down and reevaluate our time, where our energy was going, our purpose in this life. 

I began to notice how much care it takes to raise something, whether it’s a keiki, māmaki plant, or a chick. I also noticed how little care people in our community were receiving in terms of health and assistance and so my husband and I brought māmaki to a community forum for Lahaina, and we continued to do more events and kept giving away what we could because it felt like something small we could offer that still mattered.

I started sewing around that time. It was something I could do during nap time, after bedtime, between weeding and feeding. Making palaka pieces felt natural—like reaching back and pulling forward the working hands that built this place. My kūpuna. I am from a plantation family and my grandfather worked fixing the heavy machinery. These were people who labored, not just to survive, but to care for their ‘ohana and community.

Now, I make handmade clothes to fund giving away māmaki. Not because I’m trying to be cute or clever with my business model, but because I believe healing should be shared. And because creating something with intention, whether it’s a tea blend or a pair of shorts, is a way of showing care in a world that often forgets to.

This farm isn’t big. But it’s ours. And through the growing, the making, the giving, I feel like I’m slowly building the kind of future where my children can thrive. 

hana i ke ola aloha ♡

Lexi Kōnane