They All Belong to You.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how everyone in my life knows a different version of me. For a long time, I thought that meant I was fragmented, scattered, or even fake. But I’m beginning to see it differently now—these versions of me are not contradictions, they’re chapters. They’re pieces of the same heart, learning how to beat in different seasons.

There’s Kea. She was born in the summer of 2016, when I transferred schools and decided to reinvent myself. I didn’t want to be the “overachiever” girl anymore—the one everyone knew from elementary school as student council president, JPO captain and JPO of the year, the morning protocol alakaʻi. That girl was defined by her achievements, by how well she could perform. But Kea? She was different. She pretended not to care about grades. She wanted to look effortless, untouchable, free. Kea was my mask, but also my rebellion—my attempt to find myself outside of titles.

Then there’s Sissy. If you call me that, you’ve known me forever. Sissy was the nickname of my childhood, and with it came responsibility I didn’t always ask for. Sissy was the little big sister—the one who would go to war for you, who had the “fast mouth”, who took care of you even when you didn’t want it. She was protective, loyal, sharp around the edges, but soft where it mattered. Sissy wasn’t just my name; she was everyone’s little sister.

Some people know me as Walt and Rita’s daughter. The baby. The one who “did it all.” The child who looked like her parents in ways she couldn’t deny, who left home and crossed an ocean, who seemed to have it all together. When people see me through that lens, they see the achiever again. The daughter who carried her family’s love in her bones but also carried the weight of expectations, of being the one who left and made something of herself.

And then there’s Chezlin. My truest self. The woman I’m building. The one who grinds to carve out a life on her own terms, even when it’s messy. She’s sensitive, tender, and unafraid to bare her heart. When you see her she wears her paniolo boots with pride and living her dreams of a small town country life. She lives on the go, not for the aesthetic of a picture, but because she’s living in the moment. Chezlin is healing. She’s the woman I am today, and the woman I am still becoming.

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For so long, I thought I had to choose. Was I Kea? Sissy? Someone’s daughter? Their sister? Chezlin? Which version was the real me? But the truth is, I’m all of them. Each version carried me through a different time, teaching me lessons I couldn’t have learned otherwise.

We don’t have to abandon our past selves to grow. We can love them, honor them, and let them rest while we keep moving forward. The little girl who worked hard, the teenager who reinvented herself, the sister who protected everyone else, the daughter who left, the woman who heals—all of them are me.

And maybe that’s the point. We’re not meant to be one fixed version forever. We’re meant to grow, to expand, to live through many selves. It’s not something to hide—it’s something to embrace.

So here I am. All of me.

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A Letter to You

Dear Reader,

If you’ve ever felt torn between the different versions of yourself, I want you to know this: you are allowed to love them all. The child you once were, the teenager who tried to reinvent themselves, the sibling, the friend, the son or daughter, the person you are today — they all belong to you.

You don’t have to choose one version to prove who you are. You don’t have to erase the old versions to grow into the new. Every self you’ve been has carried you to this moment, and every self you will become will carry you further.

So embrace them. Honor them. Celebrate them. Because you are not one story — you are a collection of stories, stitched together in a way that only you can be.

With ʻUhane, From Me to You, 

ʻUhane Hawaiʻi