Guests in the Home I Built: Childhood Home to Chosen One

Song Of The Week

This week, we're diving into the catchy, whimsical world of Grace Aimi's "OKI DOKI." Imagine if candy had a soundtrack—this would be it!

The track has traditional Okinawan-instruments with a blend of pop beats with cheeky lyrics that make you want to dance like nobody’s watching (but let’s be honest, they probably are). With an infectious chorus that demands participation, it's practically an anthem for the playful and the spirited.

Lyrically, "OKI DOKI" swings between motivational mantras and lighthearted musings, reminding us that life is too short to take seriously. Who knew a song could feel like a warm hug on a chilly day? Aimi's voice glides effortlessly over the bouncy basslines, creating an auditory experience that feels like baking cookies while riding a unicorn through a rainbow.

Family Matters

This past week, my family came to visit me in Sacramento. It was the first time in a while we’d all been together in my space—my city, my apartment, my life. And something hit me that I didn’t expect: how much things have shifted and just how different my lifestyle became. 

We went on walks, ate tacos, tried to fit five people in my small living room (bless it), and shared updates about life. It felt familiar, but different. Like trying to fit back into a jacket you wore every day in high school—it’s still yours, but it doesn’t quite sit the same.

The people I grew up with, the ones who raised me, who know every version of me—they felt like guests in a life I’ve quietly built for myself. A good life. A sweet one. But still, it’s wild to realize you’ve crossed some invisible line where your “immediate family” starts to become your extended one. They start asking things like “When did you stop eating chips?” or “When did you start being a morning person?”. And the truth is, I didn’t even notice the shifts as they were happening. They weren’t drastic—they were quiet, gradual, natural. I just started doing what worked for me—waking up earlier because it made my days feel calmer, eating differently because my body asked me to. But to them, it’s like meeting a new version of me. One they don’t live with anymore. One they have to get to know again, piece by piece, through small questions and curious glances.

It’s a strange thing to witness—someone realizing you’re not seventeen anymore. You’re an adult now. A full, layered person with quirks and rituals they’ve never seen. And sometimes, they don’t quite know what to do with that. Families tend to hold onto core memories of you, snapshots frozen in time. So when you show up with new energy, new habits, new boundaries—they have to adjust. Not out of judgment, but because it’s hard to let go of the version of you they’ve held onto the longest.

It’s not distant in a sad way. It’s just the natural space that grows when you start becoming your own person—outside of the home you were raised in. And now, here they are, noticing the little things that changed while they weren’t looking. I caught myself noticing everything too. The way she started her day or buy scratchers at the corner store. The way my brother scrolls their phone and grunts instead of answering. The outfits he wore and how he was with his girlfriend. They too go through small changes when I am not around. 

Our Turn

Meanwhile, my partner and I made sure the apartment was clean. We coordinated dinner plans. Our cats weaved between everyone’s legs, a little suspicious of the new humans in their territory. And when my family left? It was just us again. My little household. My real day-to-day life. It sounds small, but it feels full. Like—oh, this is my family now.

It’s not about replacing anyone. It’s about realizing where your center is. And sometimes that center shifts from the people you grew up with to the people you’re growing with.

When you're around your family again, it’s easy to slip back into old dynamics. The baby. The one who needs help. The mediator. The joker. But now? I’m the one hosting and coordinating activities. I have things I don’t explain anymore because they’re just mine. And with that comes this weird grief and freedom. You’re not a kid anymore. You’re the adult version of yourself. And even if you’re still figuring things out (which I fully am), it’s kind of beautiful to notice you’ve become the caretaker of your own peace.

I think what surprised me most wasn’t how much my family had changed, but how much I still need to do. Seeing them was a reminder of how far I’ve come, how much I’ve grown into my life here. I love them deeply. But love doesn’t cancel out discomfort—it often delivers it in the most tender, unavoidable ways.

On one hand, I was proud. Proud of the routines I’ve created, the peace I’ve found, the way I move through my day with more ease than I used to. But on the other hand, seeing them meant being reminded of the parts of me I’ve set aside or left messy. The unfinished business. The things I’ve avoided. It’s only family that can hold up that kind of mirror—not in a mean way, but in a way that says, we know you and we see you, even the parts you try to hide.

I don’t live with them anymore—so that mirror doesn’t show up often. But when it does, it’s disorienting. It makes you pause. And it makes you wonder: am I really as grown as I think I am? Or just grown enough to look like it from the outside? 

But after they left, and the quiet settled back in, I looked around and realized—I’m okay with where I am. Not done, not perfect, but rooted. I’m learning to hold both truths: that I’ve grown so much, and that there’s still so much to grow into. My family reminded me of that. And at the same time, coming back to my own rhythm—my home, my partner, our cats—reminded me that I’ve built something real here. Something that feels like mine. That strange blend of gratitude and growing pains? I think that’s just what adulthood feels like.

沖縄

This week’s song of the week is “OKI DOKI” by Grace Aimi. It felt like the perfect tribute to my mom and to the cultural threads that run through me—quietly, but powerfully. Like the song, this moment in my life is soft but certain. This song perfectly capture the Okianwan culture and just being a island girl. A little reminder that even as we grow up and grow away, we’re never really apart and our identity is tied to one another.

Enjoy This Journey With Me

° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 °

Enjoy This Journey With Me ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 °

This isn’t the end—just a bookmark in the conversation. Stories don’t really close; they unfold, shift, and find new voices. If this one stirred something in you, let it breathe. Leave a thought, challenge an idea, or carry it forward in your own way. And if you ever feel like wandering through more unfinished thoughts, you know where to find me. Let’s keep the conversation alive. ~XOXO