There’s a version of me that only exists on the North Shore.

She wakes up without an alarm, lets the light filter through the curtains at its own pace. She doesn’t check her phone first thing. She walks barefoot to the lanai and just… breathes. The salt air. The sound of waves that never stop, never rush. She has nowhere to be, and somehow, that makes her more present than any calendar alert ever could.

This version of me is carefree in a way that feels almost foreign. Childlike. She notices everything—the way the light hits the water at different times of day, the patterns in the foam, the exact shade of green in a wave just before it breaks. She’s in constant awe, like seeing the ocean for the first time, every single time.

Back home, there’s a different version. The one with the to-do lists and the calendar notifications. The one who plans three steps ahead while barely being present for step one. Busy. Stressed. Efficient, maybe. Alive? I’m not always sure.

The Problem With Two Selves

Here’s what I’m learning: it’s not that the North Shore transforms me into someone else. It’s that it strips away everything that’s been piled on top of who I actually am. The noise. The urgency. The performance of productivity.

That carefree woman on the beach? She’s not a vacation version. She’s the blueprint. And the stressed-out planner back home? She’s the adaptation. The armor I built to fit into a world that rewards busyness over being.

But here’s the thing that keeps me awake at night: I love her. The North Shore version. I love how I feel when I’m her. It’s like that Keane song—“somewhere only we know”—that place where both versions of me somehow meet. Where the woman who plans and the woman who wanders exist in the same moment, and for a fleeting second, I’m whole.

The problem is, the moment is always fleeting.

She Doesn’t Fit

I’ve tried bringing her home. I really have.

I’ll land at the airport with every intention of keeping that lightness. I’ll tell myself: wake up slowly. Notice things. Be present. Don’t immediately drown in the inbox.

But by the time I’m unpacking, she’s already fading. By Monday morning, she’s a memory.

It’s almost like she doesn’t fit in my everyday world. And maybe that’s the most honest thing I can say: the life I’ve built at home doesn’t have room for the person I am on the North Shore. Not because she’s incompatible, but because I’ve constructed something that requires the other version. The busy one. The productive one. The one who’s always three steps ahead.

The Integration Question

So what do I do with this?

I used to think the answer was to go back to Hawaii more often. And sure, I’ll take any excuse to return to the North Shore. But I’m starting to realize that’s just treating the symptom. It’s saying, “I’ll be my real self on vacation, and perform the rest of the time.”

That’s not sustainable. And honestly? It’s heartbreaking.

The real question isn’t “How do I bring the North Shore home?” It’s “Why did I build a home that requires me to abandon myself?”

I don’t have the full answer yet. But I’m starting to see the edges of it.

Maybe it’s not about bringing her home fully formed. Maybe it’s about making space for her. Dismantling the structures that require me to be someone else. Questioning the urgency that feels so real until I’m standing in the ocean and realize none of it actually matters as much as I thought.

What I’m Learning

The North Shore doesn’t give me peace because it’s Hawaii. It gives me peace because it’s the only place I’ve given myself permission to stop performing.

To wake up without immediately producing something.
To exist without a purpose beyond existing.
To be in awe without needing to capture it or share it or turn it into content.

That permission? I can give myself that anywhere. It’s just exponentially harder when I’m surrounded by all the evidence of who I’ve been trying to be.

Both Versions, Both Places

I don’t want to choose anymore.

I don’t want the carefree woman to only exist in Hawaii, and I don’t want the capable woman to disappear when I’m there. I want to find the place where both versions aren’t versions at all—they’re just… me. Integrated. Whole.

The woman who plans and wanders.
Who’s efficient and present.
Who can hold a to-do list in one hand and childlike awe in the other.

I’m not there yet. But I think the first step is admitting that the split isn’t sustainable. That somewhere only we know isn’t supposed to be a place I escape to—it’s supposed to be the place I live from.

Maybe the North Shore isn’t where I find myself.

Maybe it’s where I remember myself.

And maybe the real work is building a life where I don’t need to travel thousands of miles to remember.

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The waves never stop. They don’t rush. They just keep coming, one after another, exactly as they’re meant to. Maybe that’s the lesson I keep returning for.

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What version of yourself have you met while traveling that you wish you could bring home?
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