Unlearning What I Was Told

I grew up thinking the Kanaka Maoli flag was ours.

I mean, that’s what I was told.

Taught.

Raised on.

It was more than a flag—

it was a heartbeat,

a piece of us waving in the wind,

a symbol of what we survived

and what we still carry.

But then I found out…

it’s not the real flag.

Not the original.

Not the truth.

Just like that, something I thought was solid

became another piece of history

twisted, retold, rebranded.

And you wanna know what hit me hardest?

It wasn’t just about a flag.

It was about everything I believed.

Because if that wasn’t what I thought it was,

then what else have I been holding

that wasn’t really mine?

That question?

It cracked open my faith too.

Not my faith in God.

God is real—I’ve seen Him show up when no one else did.

But my faith in people?

In religion?

In the ones who say they follow Jesus

but use His name to throw stones?

Yeah… that part?

That’s been hanging on by threads.

I’ve had people—church folks—

look at me,

look at my children,

and say their daddy is in hell.

Because he died by suicide.

No compassion.

No pause.

Just “he’s gone”

and “he made his choice”

and “that’s what happens.”

Like grief wasn’t heavy enough,

they threw eternal damnation on top of it.

And they expected me to just keep praising God

in the middle of all that pain?

You think I haven’t questioned?

You think I haven’t screamed at the ceiling,

asking how this makes sense?

Asking why people who say “God is love”

speak with so much hate?

They told me my husband

doesn’t deserve heaven.

That he’s too far gone.

That suicide is the ultimate sin.

And maybe they forgot—

maybe they never knew—

he was a human being.

A man with a heart that broke

in ways most people will never understand.

He was tired.

He was hurting.

And he didn’t see another way out.

But he loved deeply.

He loved us.

And he deserved better

than their damnation.

So yeah, I struggle with my faith.

Not because I don’t believe in Jesus,

but because I’m still learning how to

unlearn the lies that came

with the way people preach Him.

Because I’ve been that girl—

the one who tells others

“don’t listen to what they say,”

“find God for yourself.”

But when I’m alone at night,

and the world’s too quiet,

those same words they said

start replaying in my head.

And I feel like a hypocrite.

Like I should be stronger than this.

Like I should know better.

But the truth?

Faith doesn’t mean having all the answers.

It doesn’t mean you never doubt.

It just means you keep showing up anyway.

So here I am.

Still showing up.

Still fighting to believe in grace

that doesn’t come with conditions.

Because if I can relearn a flag,

if I can accept that something I thought was true

was just a version passed down—

then I can relearn faith too.

On my terms.

In my time.

I’m not who I was.

I’m not the woman who stays quiet.

I’m not the girl who just accepts what people tell her

because it’s wrapped in scripture.

I’m not perfect.

But I’m not lost either.

I’m healing.

I’m growing.

I’m remembering who I am

while unlearning what I’m not.

And maybe that’s what faith really is—

not a rulebook.

Not a stage performance.

But rediscovery.

Real, messy, beautiful rediscovery.