Ohana Means Family

There are moments in life that don’t make sense on paper. They aren’t logical. They aren’t efficient. They aren’t planned.

They simply are.

Three years ago, I found myself in Hawaii at a faith‑based mother–daughter retreat called Ohana. I was going for my daughter—or so I thought. A group of twelve women and their daughters, all at similar stages of life, arrived from all over the country. Strangers, really. Different homes. Different stories. Different lives.

And yet, something happened.

In just four days and three nights, we bonded in a way that felt ancient. Familiar. As if our spirits recognized one another before our minds could catch up.

Then it ended.

We went home.

Life continued.

And somehow, against all odds, we stayed.

A group chat that never fully fizzled. Occasional messages. Check‑ins and prayers that were real. Three years of continuing—quietly, imperfectly—to walk through midlife together. Never fully letting go.

This past weekend, eight of us gathered again. Four days. Three nights. Orlando, Florida.

No perfect backdrop. No perfectly planned itinerary this time.

Instead, a living room. A couch. Messy hair. Pajamas that never quite got changed.

Food appeared throughout the day, lovingly placed in our hands. Time slowed. Conversations deepened. We talked for hours—about everything and nothing. We laughed until it hurt. We cried without apologizing. We prayed. We sang. We even danced a little while saying goodbye. We held space for the parts of each other that don’t always get air.

Each woman brought who she is—not just what she does.

Wisdom. Care. Faith. Prayer. Music. The courage to name hard things. The gentleness to sit with them.

What are the chances of meeting best friends this late in life? What are the chances that a handful of days—once, maybe twice—could knit hearts together like this?

And yet, here we are.

Cheerleaders. Mirrors. Safe places.

Not because we planned it perfectly—but because we showed up honestly.

One night, a simple gift appeared: soft pink socks with a familiar little reminder “Stitched” into them. A sweet character that landed in my heart softly and powerfully all at once.

Ohana means family.

Not the kind you’re born into—but the kind you choose. The kind that supports you into who you are becoming.

This is what your Second Wind is about.

Not reinvention as a performance. Not hustle. Not doing more.

But belonging.

Belonging to God and yourself—and to the people who love you for all you have been through, all you are, and everything you are still created to be.

Women walking with one another into the next chapter—steady, faithful, laughing a little, breathing a little deeper.

If you’re wondering whether it’s “too late” to find your people, let this be your answer.

Sometimes belonging shows up in pajamas.

Sometimes it looks like a couch you never leave.

Sometimes all you have to do is simply show up.

And sometimes—if you’re really lucky—

It becomes Ohana.