Someone walked into my personal space uninvited today. And it did not feel good.

It reminded me, unexpectedly, of something that happened long time ago — something I hadn't thought about in a while.

My family went through a hard stretch when I was 17, then 18. We were finding our footing in a new place, figuring things out as we went. My dad was gifted with his hands, so my parents bought a house that was falling apart — and he took it upon himself to bring it back to life. And bring it back he did. The interior. The exterior. The plumbing. Even a sauna. Piece by piece by piece.

But because we did it piece by piece, we did it together. Every member of the family had a role. We showed up every day. And I hated it. I was 17. I wanted to feel free — to just be 17. Instead, there I was, or so I told myself.

Then one day — I remember it as clearly as I remember today — we walked in to work on yet another project, and there were footprints on the floors. Big ones. All over. In every room.

The house had no floors when we bought it. My dad had laid every single one. We were finishing, polishing, days away from the varnish. So the footprints stood out like a shout. To me, they felt violent. In your face. Intrusive. Someone had been tracing our steps, waiting for us to leave, then walking right through what we had built.

They took my dad's equipment. They took anything of value — which wasn't much. He rebuilt. We rebuilt. But those footprints never left my memory.

If someone in your life needs a hand right now, please reach out to them today.

And if you've experienced something like this — know that you are not alone.

I wish we lived in a world without footprints like these. But we do. And every now and then, we're reminded to look over our shoulder. Even so, I believe — I really do — that we are better off in spaces that honor one another's privacy.

If you're lacking that right now, please reach out.

With much Aloha,

Olga