When My ʻUhane Gets Quiet — A Beginning

There are parts of myself I’ve buried so quietly, for so long, I almost forgot they were mine.

Not because they weren’t true, but because saying them out loud felt like I’d unravel completely, like naming the ache would give it more power. I kept asking myself, “Would this version of me even belong in ʻUhane Hawaiʻi?” The one that’s tired. Disconnected. The one that doesn’t sing anymore. That hasn’t made art in months. The one that disappears.

But I’m starting to understand something: silence doesn’t protect me. It only delays the healing.

So this is where I begin — not with clarity or confidence, but with honesty. Not the full story, just the first layer I’m ready to let you see.

I live with both depression and PMDD: Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. PMDD came with a name only a few years ago, but its grip has been with me for much longer. Before I knew what it was, I thought I was just too much. Too emotional. Too dramatic. Too broken. I would dread certain weeks of every month, the ones where my soul felt like it was dissolving, where my body turned against me, where I could barely make it through the day without crying on the floor and then pretending everything was fine.

PMDD is a disorder connected directly to the menstrual cycle. For me, the emotional shift begins a week or two before my period starts. My mood crashes. My anxiety heightens. Everything feels overwhelming, and then, just as suddenly as it came, it eases… until the next month. It’s like clockwork, but cruel. The timing is predictable, but the pain still hits like a surprise.

Some people think it's just PMS, but it’s not. PMDD can completely take over. I feel like a different person — one I didn’t choose to become.

At the same time, I’ve lived with depression for as long as I can remember. It’s a quieter weight. It doesn’t always stop me from functioning — I still show up, go to work, do what I need to. But it dulls everything. It pulls me away from the things that once made me feel alive — creating, singing, laughing with friends. Depression doesn’t scream. It lingers. It whispers that I’ve lost myself, even on the days when everything looks fine on the outside.

The thing about living with depression every day is that it becomes part of your rhythm. You learn to carry it. You learn to survive in the gray. But when PMDD overlaps with it, it doesn’t just sit beside the sadness, it sharpens it. It accelerates it. It hijacks what little peace I’ve managed to find and sends it spiraling. Suddenly, the depression I’ve learned to live with becomes unbearable. The emotional exhaustion triples. The fog thickens. And for those days, sometimes weeks, I’m no longer just living with depression. I’m completely drowning in it.

This week, I feel it all coming again — the dull ache, the tightening chest, the thoughts that loop without mercy. Another episode. Another fog. But this time, instead of hiding from it, I’m writing through it. Letting the heaviness sit on the page. Not to romanticize it. Not to be brave. But because it’s the truth. And I’m tired of editing myself for the sake of appearing “strong.”

This post isn’t meant to wrap up with answers. I don’t have them. What I do have is the beginning of something that finally feels real.

ʻUhane Hawaiʻi was never meant to be just polished or pretty. It was always meant to be true. And the truth is: my ʻuhane, my spirit, gets quiet sometimes. It dims. It disappears. But it never stops reaching.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be opening up more, not all at once, but piece by piece. I’ll share stories that shaped me, letters I never sent, apologies I’ve carried for too long, and moments that still live in my bones. Some will live here on the blog. Others will take form in the ʻUhane Hawaiʻi podcast, something I’ve been quietly building, and am finally finding the strength to speak into.

But before any of that, I needed this moment, this opening. To say: I’m still figuring it out. I’m still hurting. I’m still healing. And maybe that’s enough for today.

If you’re still here... thank you.

 For listening. For holding space. For seeing me.

With 'Uhane From Me to You.

'Uhane Hawai'i