It has been a while since I have written here, and life looks completely different now. We traded the warm water, palm trees, and familiar rhythm of Hawaii for foggy mornings, towering redwoods, and a 70-year-old house in the woods of Marin County. Somewhere between moving a family of five, enrolling three children in a new school, returning to work, and renovating nearly every corner of our home, I realized how much I missed having a place to tell the whole story.
For a long time, I kept waiting for life to settle down before I started writing again. I wanted the boxes unpacked, the construction dust gone, the schedules organized, and the house to look a little more finished. That moment never really arrived. Life kept moving, and I finally understood that the unfinished part is the story.
So I am coming back to this space as I am. I am still a mother of three, a creative, a dreamer, and someone who believes that our homes and our choices tell a story. I am also a woman beginning again in a place that feels both familiar and completely new.
Leaving Hawaii
Hawaii was more than a beautiful place where we lived. It held years of our family’s memories, routines, friendships, and growth. Our children knew the warmth, the ocean, and the ease of slipping outside without checking the weather. I built work, community, and a life there. Leaving meant saying goodbye to people and places that had become part of us.
The decision to move back to California was exciting, but it was not simple. A move can be the right choice and still feel painful. I could be grateful for a new opportunity while missing Hawaii deeply. Both feelings traveled with me across the Pacific.
We arrived in the Bay Area in the summer of 2025 with three children, a lot of luggage, and more questions than answers. California was not entirely new to us, but this part of California was. Marin had its own pace, landscape, and personality. Instead of waking up to island sunshine, I began watching fog move through the hills and learning how quickly a warm afternoon could turn into a sweater evening.
Finding Our House in the Woods
Then we found the house.
It is about 70 years old and surrounded by trees near Muir Woods. There is an old apple tree outside, and the house has the kind of character that makes you imagine what it could become. It also came with the kind of age that reminds you, very quickly, that character and maintenance often arrive together.
I started calling it the Old Cabin House. The name felt right because the home has a quiet, tucked-away feeling, even though San Francisco is close enough for work, dinners, bookstores, and the city energy I missed. It gives us access to two different worlds: the creative pulse of San Francisco and the calm of Marin’s trees and trails.
When we bought it, I could see past the dated finishes and awkward spaces. I pictured warm white oak, soft neutral colors, natural materials, and rooms that would feel calm without feeling empty. My design direction became California organic modern with a little European restraint. I wanted the finished home to feel warm, quiet, sculptural, natural, and tailored. More than anything, I wanted it to feel like it had evolved slowly, even if the actual renovation sometimes felt like a hundred decisions happening at once.
Renovating During Real Life
Renovation photographs usually show the satisfying parts: the clean before image, the beautiful after image, and maybe one carefully chosen picture of construction in between. Real life happens almost entirely in that in-between stage.
There have been measurements written everywhere, samples moving from room to room, and long conversations about details I never expected to think about so deeply. We have worked through the kitchen, fireplace wall, primary bathroom, stairs, windows, lighting, and the flow of the living spaces. I have compared tile sizes, sink materials, grout colors, faucet heights, pendant spacing, and more shades of warm white than any person should have to name.
Some decisions were easy because I knew exactly how I wanted the space to feel. Others changed several times once the materials entered the room or the measurements showed us what was realistic. Renovating an older house requires imagination, but it also requires flexibility. The house has its own limits and surprises, and I am learning when to hold onto the vision and when to let the plan change.
All of this has happened while we continued being a family. The children still needed rides, homework help, dinner, clean clothes, and a sense that home was home, even when parts of it were covered or unfinished. I still had work, appointments, and the everyday responsibilities that do not pause because a contractor needs an answer. There were weeks when we stayed away from the house, and there were days when I felt as if all I did was make decisions and look for something packed in the wrong box.
It has not been effortless or perfectly curated. It has, however, taught me a lot about patience, priorities, and how our family actually uses a home.
Starting Over as a Family of Five
The house was only one part of the transition. We were also learning new streets, new school routines, new commutes, and a different way of organizing family life. Oliver, Izzy, and Logan each had their own schedules and needs. I wanted to give them stability while I was still trying to find my own footing.
Moving with children makes a new beginning feel very concrete. You cannot stay lost in your own emotions for too long because somebody needs a snack, cannot find a shoe, or has to be somewhere in ten minutes. That daily responsibility can be exhausting, but it can also keep you moving. Little by little, the unfamiliar becomes ordinary. A new school route becomes automatic. You find the grocery store you like, the library that feels welcoming, and the coffee shop where the order starts to feel familiar.
I am still discovering what home means here. Some days I feel completely settled. On other days, I miss Hawaii so much that a song, a photograph, or a certain kind of light catches me off guard. I am learning that belonging does not happen all at once. It grows through repetition, relationships, and the small rituals that make a place yours.
Why I Am Writing Again
I am returning to this blog because I want to document this chapter honestly, before the memories become a collection of polished after photos.
I want to share the renovation decisions that worked, the ones I would reconsider, and the practical details that might help someone else renovating an older California home. I want to write about motherhood now that my children are no longer babies, and about rebuilding a career and a sense of self after years of putting so much energy into everyone around me.
I also want to share the places that are helping me fall in love with this part of California: the bookstores, coffee shops, libraries, trails, neighborhoods, and quiet corners of San Francisco and Marin. There are dreams taking shape here too, including ideas around books, coffee, creativity, and building community for women. I do not know exactly where every idea will lead, but I want to make room for them.
This space will still be personal. It will still include wellness, travel, family life, and the things I am learning along the way. The difference is that I am no longer waiting to have everything figured out before I share it.
The Beginning of Our California Chapter
Our house is still becoming. So am I.
The kitchen will eventually be finished. The dust will settle. The boxes will find their places, and the rooms I have been carrying in my head will become spaces our family actually lives in. But I do not want to rush past this season simply because it is messy. There is something meaningful about watching a home and a life take shape at the same time.
If you have ever moved somewhere new, renovated an old house, rebuilt your career, or tried to find yourself again in the middle of caring for everyone else, I hope you will find something familiar here.
Welcome back. I am so glad you are here for this next chapter.
With love,
Kenia