One of many magical sunsets on Maui from little cove.

“There is no force in the universe like her.
She will have her way with you until she is done.
She is like water and will move through you if you let her.”

Maui feels like that to me. So does grief. So does truth.

I am having one of those moments where my life’s struggles flash before me in a way that makes sense. The kind of moment that feels crystalline and whole. I know it’s fleeting. I wish I could bottle it in a jar. I can see the beautiful, concentric, wise, and necessary patterns of heartache and self-doubt in my ongoing journey of self-discovery. I feel in my body the rightness of it all — even the hard parts.

Especially the hard parts.

Over these past weeks on Maui, immersed in the Yoga Teacher Training, surrounded by an extraordinary group of open-hearted humans, something subtle but profound has shifted. Yes, there were adventures. Yes, there was laughter, tears, depth, movement, long days of study, practice, and reflection. But beneath all of it was something quieter and more powerful.

I am not reaching.

That is new.

For so much of my life, I have been reaching — for understanding, for healing, for the next insight, for the next place that might finally feel like home. Each time I have left Maui in the past, there has been a hum of longing. A subtle ache. As if I were leaving behind something essential, something I needed in order to feel whole.

This time is different.

I keep scanning my body for the familiar buzz of anxiety, the undertone of grasping, the feeling that something is missing. But I can’t find it. I leave today with gratitude for the beauty, the community, the immensity of the ocean, and the magic that almost hurts to take in — but I am not trying to hold onto it.

I am not trying to take Maui with me because I know now that I don’t have to.

The aloha is not something outside of me. The teachings are not something I need to cling to. They are integrated. The art of BEING — this is it.

The ocean has been my greatest teacher here. The blue-green peaks of the waves. The light sparking across the surface. When I am in the water, I stop striving. I stop wanting or needing anything other than what is right in front of me. In the sea, there is no past or future — only presence. You cannot hold on. You cannot control it. Look away and you are taken down. Try to fight and you are swept away.

So you surrender.

And wow, is that hard.

Grief has taught me this too.

To be present.
To release shame or guilt for loving my life.
To know joy even though Noah died.

Both can exist. They do exist.

In the vastness of the ocean, my past, present, and future feel like they float together as one continuous unfolding. The hidden parts I’ve worked so hard to bring into the light — the shadow, the doubt, the ache — they belong. There is so much beauty and humanity in tending to all of it.

It is big, brave work to confront ourselves. To heal. To integrate. To stop reaching.

But what I am tasting right now is contentment.

Not because everything is perfect.
Not because grief is gone.
But because I am no longer trying to be anywhere other than where I am.

Maui did not give me something new.

She moved through me until I remembered what was already here.

And this time, I leave whole.

With love and reverence,