Maui, Mama, Magic
As I climbed in my bed tonight, I was hit with such a flood of gratitude, I could barely hold it all. In just about a week, I get to go to Bali with my Aunt Squiggs for her eighty-fifth birthday. Eighty-five years old and still adventurous enough to fly across the world, eat delicious food, soak up massages, and say yes to sound baths every single day we’re there. I’ve already saved all the money for it, booked the facials and fire dances, the birthday decorations and the pampering. It’s happening. And I’m so grateful.
Grateful for the chance to share this trip with her. Grateful that she has been in my life since literally the second I was born.
When I came into this world, it was at home in Houston, Texas, on the spring equinox, March 21, 1981—zero degrees Aries, under a full moon. My mom had a midwife, and put my aunt in charge of taking pictures. I came out with my eyes wide open. And the first person I ever saw was my Aunt Squiggs. She had just arrived, camera in hand, and she snapped a picture of me as I came through, and I looked right at her. I was the first person she ever saw be born, and she was the first person I ever saw when I opened my eyes. That bond has never left us.
I think about that now, heading into Bali with her at eighty-five, and I realize what a circle this has all been. My mom, my aunt, and me—we were always a little threesome. We miss my mom so much. She was lighthearted and funny and wild, such a spirited soul. She loved me to death and I loved her to death, and even now I feel her keeping me safe, sending me signs, sending me abundance. Squiggs has been the one to take away the sting of my mom’s passing. She’s like a second mother to me, and I love that I’ve always had two. I still do. One in heaven, one right here by my side.
Maybe that’s why I started remembering Maui tonight, why I felt my mom’s presence so strong. I was laying in bed on my grounding sheets, dog curled up next to me, house in order, bills paid, safe and loved. And suddenly I was right back in Maui with her, before my daughter was born.
We were staying at the Maui Marriott Ocean Club, thanks to my friend Al, who gave us the lock-off unit for free. We had space to spread out—balconies, kitchens, our own bathrooms. It was easy, generous, a little pocket of grace. We went to the swap meet in Kihei, wandered the shops downstairs, ate incredible food. And one afternoon, we were in an art gallery store chatting.
That day, my unborn baby’s birth mother was in Las Vegas, heading into her ultrasound appointment with the birth father. We were hours away from knowing if the baby was a boy or a girl. My mom and I couldn’t stop talking about it, wishing, guessing, checking the time. I wanted a baby so badly. After all the losses, all the IVF nightmares, all the longing—I wanted the kind of relationship I had with my mom, and I was hoping it was a girl.
The store owner overheard us, and when we told her our story, she lit up. She was Hawaiian, and she explained that in their culture, adoption isn’t even called adoption. It’s ohana - family. If a family had several children and another had none, they would give them a child, and that child would belong to everyone. They still do ohana ceremonies, she said, to honor a child who joins a new family. Each person gives a gift from God, a makana, to each adopted child, who is a makana themselves.
She was so touched by our story that she gave me a koa wood baby rattle as a makana. It was beautiful, smooth, hand-carved, and she told me to come back and tell her if it was a boy or a girl. I already knew if it was a girl I would name her Gracie after my grandma, my mom’s mom, who my mom adored and who my aunt and mom both swore I was the reincarnation of. But in that store, holding that rattle, I knew her middle name too. Gracie Makana.
I can still see my mom’s face, smiling and laughing with me as we walked out of that shop. Later that day, we went to Macy’s near the airport to kill time before the call. My mom said, “Jen, let’s make this fun. Let’s each go buy a going-home outfit for the baby—whatever sex you think it is. Then we’ll meet back here and show each other.”
So we did. And when we pulled the outfits out to show each other, they were both pink. Both frilly. Both perfect for a little girl. We laughed, hugged, knew. And when the call came, we were right.
She was a girl. My Gracie Makana.
Even though Gracie is Joey now, my trans son living his best life, he will always also be that baby girl I prayed for and named in Maui, with my mom’s hand in mine and my grandma’s name carried forward. Those were the best days of my life—raising Gracie with my mom living across the hall, both of us taking turns rocking, feeding, and delighting in her.
I miss my mom. I miss those days. But I know she’s free now, her best self again, taking care of my twins in heaven, and sometimes close enough that I can feel her right here. Tonight was one of those times. And with Bali ahead—with my Aunt Squiggs still here, still alive, still by my side at eighty-five—I can only say thank you. Thank you for ohana. Thank you for makana. Thank you for my mom, my aunt, my children, my life.
I love them all. And I love this story, because it reminds me that everything I ever prayed for and more somehow found its way to me.
