Owning land and being immersed in nature was always our dream, which we’d talked about since our early dating days.
I met my husband when I was 30. We moved into a small studio one month after meeting, and married six years later.
Our pattern has been a series of slow and fast. We were engaged for two years, but we spontaneously planned our wedding in two and a half weeks.
So it wasn’t too surprising when, after living in our small plantation-style home in Honolulu for 11 years, we decided on a whim to sell it and use the profits to fund our long-sought dream.
We traded our house for land
We bought 4.67 acres of raw land on a rural, dusty, and very hot part of the island, in Waianae.
Our new home, which we moved to in August 2023, came with a massive warehouse that the previous owner had used for salvaged boats.
There was a water line, but no plumbing, no power, and definitely no house. The land was covered in invasive trees and weeds, but we could see the potential.
We told ourselves the move was an adventure, and it is—one that I’m not sure I’d do over, given the chance.
It’s been one of the hardest things we’ve ever done
We live off-grid with our two young boys, ages 5 and 8, who attend a public Hawaiian charter school that runs from preK to high school.
Our kitchen sits under a giant tent between two shipping containers. We sleep in what’s essentially a metal box with windows.
We shower and use the bathroom in a makeshift space inside the warehouse. A friend once joked, “You guys have really long outdoor hallways.”
At night, it’s just us, crickets, and the stars. It’s romantic, until it’s not.
The dream was sparkly. The reality is gritty.
This new life is a rough dance between ambition, uncertainty, and a serious lack of skills.
While the idea of self-sufficiency felt liberating, the trade-offs are a hard reality check. Our electricity comes from old solar panels that often need repairs.
The chickens I once romanticized poop on everything.
The weeds? They’re relentless. I’ll clear a section one weekend, only to find it overrun again the next.
We haul out our own trash. We haul in propane. Dust storms coat everything in a layer of coral-colored silt.
The heat, which averages 86 degrees Fahrenheit and 30% humidity year-round, is merciless. We have shade and occasional breezes to keep us cool, but no air conditioning.
At first, finding solutions through the chaos felt like growth. However, the charm wears off fast when you’re making dinner in the rain and your dirt-floor kitchen turns to mud.
We got swept up in the potential of it all without stopping to think practically
All the money from our house sale went into buying the land, which means there’s little left for development.
My husband is clever and capable, but the skills needed to turn our dream of healing the soil and building a house into reality are more than we planned for.
Before, in our previous home, necessary fixes were small, like building a fence and repairing the garbage disposal whenever it was on the fritz. Now, my husband is learning how to drive and repair a backhoe and replace solar panels.
As for me, I feel useless many days. I still can’t start the generator or wood chipper without his help. And that’s assuming it’s a day we’re not both working our regular jobs just to get by and save for future projects.
Despite the hardship, there have been many good moments
I cherish the moments when the boys are running wild with the chickens or picking fruit from trees we planted.
I get excited when the garden overflows and we can share the abundance with friends and neighbors.
Even two years into this life, I still get giddy collecting eggs every morning.
We live under an open sky and are surrounded by raw beauty (if you can look past the to-do list and piles of weeds).
These moments remind me of what we came for.
However, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss city water, trash pickup, or being close to friends. There are days I wonder: What the hell did we do?
So is it worth it? Ask me in 5 years
The truth is, I don’t know if it has been worth it.
We’re still in the messy middle. There’s no tidy ending to our story. We’re tired, yet proud that we’ve made it this far.
We traded ease for challenge, predictability for possibility. I miss our old house, but I’m committed to our new dream.
Even if we eventually call it a phase—our “Remember when we tried to homestead in our 40s?” moment—it’s a life we reached for, not one that just happened to us.
For now, that feels like enough to keep going.
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