Ohana in a Broken Family

“Ohana means family. Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten.”

But what do you do when the meteor of life comes in and crashes into your family, fracturing it, sending it in more directions than the bowling pins after a strike? What does Ohana mean when nothing is enough to keep your family together? When you’re too young, or the hurt is too deep, or the world just conspires against you? When mental or physical illness, addictions, distance, and deep wounds create gulfs you no longer know how to mend? When your Ohana is the source of your soul’s deepest wounds?

Can a broken family still be Ohana? Are you allowed to have Ohana if brokenness is your past? 

I remember a time when Ohana was the unadulterated gift that all the posters, all the articles talk about. I remember the passion of family being the wave that carried me through life. But I also remember when that wave crashed into the cliff, shattering. I remember being left on the rocks wondering how I’d gotten here. I got up, I fought, I clawed, even when the world took my claws and put my hands in mittens. I fought, even when I was chained to the fence. But I was too young to be taken seriously, but too old to be oblivious. 

So, I clung to hope, I played nice when I had to. I did all the “right things.” And none of it was enough. I helped dig those I could out of the rubble. I poured myself into helping them get their feet back under them. But, despite all I did, my family fractured, and even a decade later, I feel the aftershocks of that break.  Years later, I find myself on the desolate rocks, being battered by the wave of what could have been. I still fight, every day, for the Ohana that I lost. For the Ohana that I will never forget. 

People don’t talk about the brokenness of Ohana. We don’t talk about the people who walk away, the people who are taken away, but not gone from this world. We don’t talk about those who betrayed Ohana and broke it. We talk about those who have gone before us, but never about those looking at the shattered shards of life whose hearts bleed for Ohana. 

“No one gets left behind or forgotten.” But what if you were? Or what if you had to let people go for a time? If you are sitting in a broken family and feel like to reach for a new Ohana is a betrayal of your old? How do you go forward when your heart, your mind, and even the world, tells you that you aren’t worthy. Your last one broke. What makes you think this one is going to do better? What makes you think you can do better? 

When your Ohana, that connection more intimate, more intrinsic, than any other has shattered, it breaks a person. Inside, something inside shatters. Attachment disorders, identity issues, PTSD, C-PTSD, depression, anxiety, lack of self worth, isolation…. Trauma. we call it. But when you strip away all the fancy titles, you have a child sitting curled up inside, raging against the waves, struggling to cling to the rocks so as not to be swept away again, crushed and crippled. A child begging for Ohana. And terrified by it. 

And I think this is where Ohana is needed the most. Ohana isn't just the people you share blood with, no. But it also isn't just the people who rally around you when you are down. Ohana encompasses all - the good, the bad, the ugly. It is a word of hope, of healing, a word that transcends time and wounds. Ohana exists, primarily, I believe, in the broken spaces.

Ohana isn’t the privilege of few. It isn’t for the put together, for those who never had issues. It is for the messes. For those who can barely take a breath of hope for family. For those who can’t tell you what family means. It’s for those who have had their worlds ripped away and need that bond. Ohana is messy. Ohana is bond that never breaks, even when family does. When children are separated from their parents and their siblings, when parents get sick or fall prey to addictions, when mental illness throws up unbreakable walls, and when all the love in the world can’t keep people together. It doesn’t mean unlimited chances. It doesn’t mean lack of discernment or someone giving until they have nothing left. It doesn’t mean happy feelings or even happy endings. 

It is the pulse that beats inside of us, reminding us of those who have left their mark, good and bad. It is the reminder that we are made for family, made for Ohana. It is the heartbeat of the soul, the need for connectedness. It is the embers of memories, the love that transcends time and space, the understanding of connectedness and love. And it is for everyone. 

But that is hard for someone from a broken home to believe. Even those of us who have all the supports we need, who have built a "new Ohana" of friends and family, and who have mental and spiritual guides, will fall prey to this. Our understanding of Ohana is broken, and we were broken by it. We are going to second guess everything we do. We are going to watch your mood. We will doubt ourselves even when we're entirely secure in your love. We won't feel worthy unless we are giving and pouring ourselves out. We will destroy ourselves for that connection.

We will ache for an Ohana of our own, but we will believe, deep deep down, that we aren’t worthy. We will be Ohana for everyone else because we don’t want anyone else to ever go without that. But when we look at our Ohana? We see crystal shards refracting the light every which way. These shards cut us when we try to sweep them up, and we will miss a shard and step on it unexpectedly. 

It can be as innocent as a phone call, a movie we’re watching, even good things like one of those shards being put back in place. Suddenly, we are back on those rocks, curled against the beating waves, crippled and trapped. And we know, in our heart of hearts, that Ohana is a dream. Maybe a memory. Definitely our deepest desire. But not our reality.

And it’s to you I speak, my fellow lost children. My fractured heart is speaking to yours right now, not to those who don’t understand. To the girl who doesn’t feel worthy of love because she couldn’t keep her family together: You are not to blame, and you are deserving of love. To the boy who was abandoned by his parents, torn from his siblings, and bounced around: Ohana is for you too, and it will exist for you. To the one who has lost everything, who feels like he has nothing left, like she has nothing to offer: I sit with you, in solidarity, in understanding, in Ohana. 

“This is my family.... It’s little and it’s broken. But still good. Yeah. Still good.” 

Brokenness doesn’t make your Ohana any less true, it doesn’t make your heart any less full of love or deserving of it. Brokenness leaves scars and terrible coping mechanisms, but it doesn’t diminish who you are. Ohana is the pain that cuts you when you remember those you love. Ohana is the chance to love again. Ohana means that even you are not to be left behind or forgotten. So, will you join me, fellow child on the rocks, and offer yourself Ohana in your brokenness?