Before I divorced my ex, we had planned to move to Hawaii to raise our daughter. We did it anyway.

• I moved from Michigan to Hawaii to raise my daughter near her dad’s family.
• It was the plan before we divorced, and I decided to still go ahead with it.
• It wasn’t easy at first, but I also realized I needed the extra support from extended family.

Eighteen months ago, I decided to pack up my life in Michigan and move to Hawaii to raise my daughter with the help of my ex-husband’s family.

The decision was 80% about what was best for my daughter, 10% about being done with Michigan winters and wanting to reconnect with my island girl ways, and 10% because that was the plan before I divorced her dad.

I needed extra support

When things had started to get rocky between my ex and me, one of my biggest fears was what would happen to my relationship with his family.

His mom is the only mom I have left. Our amicability made the family dynamics one of the easier things to navigate, while one of the hardest and most unexpected challenges was figuring out what to do with the rest of the future we had planned.

One thing was already in motion that even the divorce couldn’t stop: his yearlong deployment overseas. I knew that to get through this, I would need extra support, and to get that, I would have to move.

I’d been away from my family for a decade and wanted to see what it’d be like to be a solo parent within a family village. Moving back to Idaho to be near my family felt like a huge fail, especially because I knew that’s not where I was meant to be. I had left because I didn’t feel like I belonged there. Boise’s cost of living had also skyrocketed.

So, that left Hawaii as my only option, and the appeal of raising my Polynesian daughter being surrounded by her culture and her Hawaiian family, plus my own nostalgia for a beachy, tan year-round version of myself, won.

I told myself everything would be fine

After six months of intense planning and tying up loose ends, it was time to go. People kept asking if I was excited — I wasn’t, partly because it didn’t feel real and also because the gravity of what I was leaving behind had sunk in.

My daughter had already been shuffled through three different houses in 18 months. She’d just had a rockstar kindergarten year and had made so many friends. Unlike our previous move, she would remember this one. She would miss people. The ball was already in motion, so I just kept completing tasks and telling myself everything was going to be fine.

I wasn’t there for her arrival in Hawaii; we travelled separately. Her dad sent pictures, but I hated not being there. And yet, she rooted instantly. Within a day, she was snorkeling, playing with cousins, and being embraced by a new family, most of whose names she couldn’t pronounce. I was so happy for her.

My ex’s family included me, but I was lonelier than ever

I had a harder time than she did. The identity I’d been building post-divorce was suddenly shattered. His family had always known me as his wife, and after this move, they continued to introduce me that way.

Every time we ran into someone from his past, I was defined by him. Half of the family I hadn’t seen in years. They graciously included me in everything, but I didn’t know the backstory, the inside jokes. I was there, but not part of it. Living in a house that wasn’t mine, tiptoeing around some family members, making myself small to stay included, I had left the people who loved me most, and I was living the future as planned, but I was lonelier than ever.

Still, slowly, things shifted. My landlord started showing up in quiet, steady ways, letting my daughter play with her dog in the mornings, bringing us food, and inviting us to go to the beach. It was such a relief that with her, I wasn’t just someone’s ex-wife anymore. I was just me.

Meanwhile, my daughter was thriving. She was soaking up her culture, learning the language, dancing hula, and wanting to be the state fish for Halloween. The family celebrated her, spoiled her, and, most importantly, made her feel seen. When she danced hula for the first time, bare feet on the earth, a confident smile on her face, I knew she was going to be OK.

Every few weeks, there’s a moment that reminds me why I did this. I know I’ll never regret the move. It was the best thing for her, but I don’t know if it would have been the best thing for me.

My daughter is thriving

I’ve had more moments than I care to admit in this last year when I wondered if I made a huge mistake. But even in the mess, I’ve found slivers of stability. I’ve found outlets in the community with my mother-in-law, celebrations with his aunt and cousins, who treat us like we’ve always been here, a couple of good mom friends who lend me a shoulder or an ear whichever I need more, and my landlord, who has become family.

My life in Hawaii isn’t polished or always pretty. Most days, it’s duct-taped together. I work hard to keep a roof over our heads. I carry emotional weight that no one sees. But I’ve learned that rebuilding often means letting go of what you had planned or what “perfect family dynamics” should look like. I’ve had to drop my pride, ask for help, and sit through discomfort that I used to run from. I don’t always feel at home here, but I am slowly building a version of myself here.

I moved to Hawaii to raise my daughter with my ex-husband’s family. It’s messy, complicated, and a work in progress. But my daughter is rooted in a way she would never be anywhere else, and at the end of the day, really does make it worth it.

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