Today, I made a journey back to Honolulu, Hawaii — and saw the place I lived in when I arrived to America as a refugee in 1980.
Driving there, I saw graffiti, run-down homes, and rusted fences — a far cry from the beautiful hotels and manicured streets of Waikiki. However, to my surprise, the apartment complex I lived in was still there!
On a whim, I knocked on the door and a nice woman peeked her head out. I explained that I used to live in her unit when I first came to America, and asked her if I could come inside. She hesitated (as any normal person would), but she had a big heart, and let me in.
I stood there frozen in the living room. I pictured my family in there, talking and hanging out. It was amazing to see this apartment, and to reflect on my journey since then.
Each one of my clients has a unique journey, and I am honored to help them on the next part of their journey.