I thought this print was going to take me out.
And I know that sounds dramatic, but if you were in my house, in my head, or anywhere within a 10-foot radius of me during this process, you would know I am actually being very serious.
People think designing is easy.
Pick a flower. Pick a color. Slap it on a dress, a shirt, a bag.
Pau.
But when it is tied to something important, when it carries the weight of an actual human being, when every little piece of it is supposed to somehow hold what you are feeling, it is not that easy.
It becomes personal.
Too personal sometimes.
The truth is, I cried over this print. I walked away from it. I came back to it. I quit more than once, even though nobody officially accepted my resignation. I wanted to throw my hands up and lose my shit more times than I care to admit.
And then I would look at it again.
Redo one flower. Hate it. Make it smaller. Hate that too. Change the spacing. Question the color. Zoom in. Zoom out. Stare at it.
At one point, I am pretty sure the print and I were in a toxic relationship.
And the worst part was the noise.
Not real noise. Not my usual kids fighting, dogs barking, cows mooing, life-is-lifing kind of noise. That, I can handle.
Most days.
I mean the other kind.
The opinions. The what ifs. The imaginary comments from people who had not even seen it yet. The little voices that ask, is it enough? Is it too much? Is it too simple? Too different? Will people understand? Or will they just look at it and think, meh, another lehua design?
And somewhere in the middle of all that spiraling, I realized I was doing the exact opposite of what I have been telling my daughter to do.
Trust yourself.
Know who you are.
Stand in it.
But there I was, giving imaginary people, strangers on Instagram, and every possible opinion in the universe a place at my table.
Funny how life does that.
Makes you live the lesson before you can honestly give it away.
These months also forced me to accept something about myself.
I care what people think.
I care more than I would like to admit. And I know, I know. I am supposed to be all “let them” and “haters gonna hate” and “I do not care what anyone thinks.”
But that is not me.
I was not raised that way.
I was raised to give a shit, even when nobody is watching. To care about people. To respect people. To listen. To value what others have to say, even when it comes from a stranger. Even when it would be easier not to.
And honestly, I do not think that is a bad thing.
Maybe the world would look a little different if more people cared about people they did not know.
But there is a difference between caring and letting the noise carry you away from yourself.
This process taught me that.
And thank God I was not trying to finish it alone.
My hubby does this kind of thing in his sleep, which is both a blessing and, honestly, very irritating when you are the one spiraling over the way a leaf looks for three days.
He is so good at it that it makes me insecure sometimes.
He sees what I cannot see yet. He knows when something is off before I can explain why. He can move one tiny thing and suddenly the whole design breathes.
Meanwhile, here I am, having a full emotional breakdown because one flower is giving “wrong energy.”
He never let me give up.
He fought with me. Cried with me. Laughed at me. And yes, I said that correctly.
At me.
Not with me.
At me.
Because I am sure there were moments when he thought, this woman has officially lost it.
And he was probably right.
But he also understood, maybe better than I could explain at the time, that this mattered to me in a way that was bigger than fabric. Bigger than clothing. Bigger than making something pretty.
This was for our daughter.
This was me trying to put love, worry, fear, strength, and probably a little bit of insanity into what it feels like to be her mama.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, takes time.
When something comes from your heart, it cannot be rushed, despite my very best efforts to rush it, force it, overthink it, and emotionally negotiate with it at ungodly hours of the night.
You can try, but it will fight you.
It will make you start over. It will make you question yourself. It will make you sit with your own insecurity until you either let it win or learn how to stand up inside yourself again.
And that is what happened.
I stood.
Or maybe I crouched.
Either way, I was no longer lying flat on the floor dramatically declaring that I was done.
Progress is progress.
Not without crying. Definitely not without being dramatic. Absolutely not without making everyone around me wonder if we should all take a little walk outside.
But enough.
Enough to say, this is it.
Enough to stop asking everyone else to make me feel sure.
Enough to trust that the thing made from love will find the people it is meant for.
This was not easy.
But maybe it was not supposed to be.
The ʻŌhiʻa Lehua does not wait for perfect weather to bloom. It does not need easy ground. It grows through rock, through mist, through storm, through silence.
And maybe I had to learn the same thing.
To quiet the noise.
To care deeply without disappearing.
To listen but still keep my own voice.
To trust the bloom.
Because maybe, sometimes, the thing that almost takes you out is the thing that finally brings you back to yourself.