October 2025: Hawaii, Friends, and Making Home

learning what’s enough in Hawaii, friendships, and a one-bedroom apartment

I’m starting to write this on November 2nd. We’ve just “fallen back” and this morning I reset the oven and microwave back an hour.

Even though it’s a ritual dictated by the government, it’s still a ritual nonetheless. I’m excited because my mornings will include less puttering inside, waiting for the sun to come out before I walk around the park behind our place. But I’m also kinda sad because it’s going to start getting dark at 5pm.

Combined with the changing colors of the leaves and a recent big transition in my life, I’m finding myself prematurely looking back on this year, and already anticipating the potential changes for next year.

Fall has become a cherished shoulder season for me. As playgrounds of mountains and forests shorten their hours of operations, it’s a good time to recover from the long summer days. For some people, winter is the designated season of rest and reflection, but as I’m anticipating intense bouts of weekend warrior syndrome on ski slopes, now is a good time to slow down and do less.

I greatly underestimated the amount of energy it would take to feel at home here in Palo Alto. It’s one thing to move from one apartment to another in the same city. It’s another thing to move across the country to a new place, move in with your partner, buy furniture for the first time in five years, make new friends, and figure out your career all at once.

We moved here 4.5 months ago, and even though we’re still iterating on the apartment furnishings and layout, I’d say we’re pretty settled in. The way I’m measuring this highly subjective quality is based on how much mindspace I’m able to outsource to routine. The more I’m able to definitely say “Mondays are for jiu jitsu and solo dinner”, “Saturdays are for basketball and chilling”, and “Sundays are for Costco runs”, the more settled I feel.

In the past, knowing what I’m going to do tomorrow would terrify me. It’d feel like succumbing to the grip of monotony. A younger version of me, would be excited about waking up in a new sublet, eager to walk around a new neighborhood, and “play by ear” every moment. Now, it’s the complete opposite — I find it weirdly satisfying that my grocery list is pretty much the same every week.

For this month, I’ll recap my trip to Hawaii, what I learned about friends from the British anthropologist who has a number named after him, and what it’s been like living in Palo Alto.

Hawaii

Since I stopped living in Hawaii, I’ve maintained my annual pilgrimage. This time around was a balanced blend of familiarity and novelty. We stayed at my friend’s place where I first stayed at in August 2021. Our first meal of the trip was at the Thai temple, a weekly Sunday ritual back when I was living on island. I surfed at the same spots (Canoes in Waikiki and Lani’s on the North Shore).

Compared to last year’s trip, this time was less planned, slower paced, and captured more of Hawaii’s relaxing, communal energy. I even told myself “It’s okay, we don’t have to do everything.”

We’re happily rooted to Palo Alto for the next several years, so while the daydreams of living in Hawaii are on pause, I could at least reflect on what I wanted to bring back with me.

Two things that stood out: simplicity and community.

In Hawaii, good times don’t have to be fancy. Before we went out for dinner on our final night, we went for a sunset stroll around Magic Island beach park. There were so many different groups of people jogging, walking, or sitting on the grass. What stood out was just how many different picnic blankets I saw, some with full-on barbecues and coolers, others taking it easy with take-out, and some with no food or drink at all, just the presence of company. I love a nice meal out with friends, but I also don’t want to be overly reliant on the veneer of fanciness to have a good time. I hope to maintain the reassurance that as long as I’ve got my people and a picnic blanket, I’ll be good.

Being on an island, you end up seeing the same people over and over. I experienced it during my morning walks, surf sessions, and yoga classes. This shared consistency is a positive feedback loop — you’re more likely to say hi to your neighbor or spark a conversation if you know you’ll see them again. One of my friends has come to know his neighborhood so well that he often adds 20 minutes to his errands in case he bumps into a neighbor on the sidewalk.

On the mainland, “small talk” refers to the trivial chatter before you get to the real stuff, the meat of the conversation. In Hawaii, “talking story” might refer to the exact same topics and words, but it takes on a more significant role. It’s a way to stay connected to community and be available for each other, where our attention and time is somehow just as valuable as the meeting agenda — something that we don’t always remember in modern corporate culture.

When I was a product manager working in a fully remote role with teammates all over the world, we just immediately jumped into the “real stuff”. In hindsight, the lack of knowing people beyond their Slack profile and tiny face with blurred background on Zoom certainly contributed to the job feeling meaningless. It wasn’t just the product that we were building and mission we were pursuing, but the internal process of how we worked with each other that sapped my soul.

Friends

Assuming you’re intentional about choosing what you read, you can think of your current book as a reflection of what you’re looking to learn. Over the past few years, I’ve been mostly interested in self-help and personal growth books that err on the side of deep, spiritual, and individualistic. But recently, while at the Palo Alto city library, the book Friends by Robin Dunbar caught my eye.

It was probably a combination of having recently moved here, and being in search of new friends, and having heard of Dunbar’s Number before. It’s the cognitive limit to the number of stable relationships a person can maintain.

Reading an entire book by Dunbar not only cemented the legitimacy of 150, but also revealed the importance of friendships.

The first couple chapters are dry, but that’s so Dunbar can spend this time going through comprehensive research that all triangulates to 150, and the concentric circle model:

First, Dunbar presents research across human communities over the span of civilization, showing that whether it was early nomadic tribes, medieval kingdoms, or cities post-industrialization, we all organize to roughly the same size groups. Then he takes a biological lens to it, evaluating brain size across primates, showing that the number of relationships we can maintain is tightly correlated with brain size. Finally, he points to contemporary examples across the military, corporate org charts, and Christmas card lists, demonstrating that even in modernity, this ~150-person limit emerges naturally across different domains.

At this point in the book, I was pretty convinced of a natural limit to the number of relationships we can maintain. But so what?

Understanding that there exists a limit made me feel reassured about focusing on existing friendships while being open to new ones.

I didn’t count or sort people into categories like “inner circle” vs. “close friends”. But I already felt the overwhelm of being in contact with than 150 people. This is less me claiming that I’m popular and more a matter-of-fact observation that if you have some combination of Instagram, Twitter, LinkedIn, Substack, and other platforms, you’re likely interacting with far more people than your brain can manage.

The nourishment and connection from the typical online interaction can’t compare to the in-person analog. The physical touch, synchronized movements, and shared emotions result in bonding at the neurochemical level that can’t be created in the virtual world.

The reality is that nurturing relationships is time-consuming and requires effort. The amount of time that apes spend grooming each other is directly correlated to the closeness of the relationship. There are constraints with how much you can groom as your group size increases, especially when the time spent grooming could be time spent foraging for food. Dunbar proposes that humans evolved from physically grooming each other to “vocal grooming” through shared conversation and laughter, which releases the same endorphins.

With all this in mind, I’ve gradually and intentionally reduced my online time so I have more time for in-person activities and relationships. I check Substack Notes and Instagram less than once a week. I stopped using Twitter entirely and deleted the Signal app.

It’s been surprising how little I’ve gone up to San Francisco. We moved here four months ago and I’ve only been to the city four times. Having a strong sense of community here in Palo Alto — the kind where I know my neighbors and local businesses — requires more time in Palo Alto, not SF 45 minutes away.

Dunbar also explains how men and women bond differently: women bond through conversation and emotional disclosure, men bond through shared activities. “Women bond face-to-face while men bond shoulder-to-shoulder” resonated after backpacking in the High Sierra this summer with ten other dudes. In Palo Alto, I’ve been meeting people through jiu jitsu, basketball and hosting barbecues. It seems straightforward — doing activities that I enjoy and making new friends along the way.

The final takeaway is how essential relationships are for general health and wellbeing. Strong friendships are more predictive of longevity than obesity, smoking, or lack of exercise. They also protect us from chronic pain, depression, and anxiety. I first got into coaching because I saw it as a way to learn how to live a good life while also helping others do the same.

This book reinforced something important: friendships deserve the same attention I give to individual practices. As much as I value deep practices like 1:1 coaching, therapy, meditation, and breathwork, I used to view friendships as something we all just have as a natural part of life. Now I view having abundant healthy relationships as truly foundational and irreplaceable by individualistic practices, even though those practices are often perceived as more meaningful or higher status. In some circles it’s somehow cooler to talk about expensive wellness retreats than going fishing with your homie. It might seem ironic for a coach to have these thoughts, but I see a place for both: the primal, essential nature of friendships and the intentional work of healing and transformation. It’s not that you have to choose between a meditation retreat and having friends. But if you feel lonely, you might find more relief by spending time around people, calling a friend or family member, trying a new hobby, asking for help, or helping others, rather than immediately seeking out coaching, therapy, or an ayahuasca retreat. It’s important not to conflate one for the other.

Palo Alto

Throughout five years of living without a lease, I watched a lot of tiny house and vanlife videos, appreciating the thoughtfulness and creative use of small spaces. I’m learning to have fun with the constraints of 750 square feet.

Our one-bedroom apartment is good enough for the two of us. Being okay with what I have is a practice in knowing what is enough. I’ve undertaken this small side quest to not only be okay, but actually fully appreciate having a one-bedroom apartment. I want to hold onto this feeling of satisfaction. I know having kids will change things eventually, but that’s not happening anytime soon. In most places around the world, from rural village to big city, this would still be considered large.

There are details I’ve come to love: separate sinks and separate closets to avoid butting heads with each other. Top floor with higher ceilings and a sunny patio for only $50 more a month. An outdoor closet for all my outdoor gear. The stairs that open directly outside have meant that bringing up furniture has been a pain, but we also immediately breathe in fresh air, rather than having to traverse a hotel-like hallway and elevator.

Since neither of us had any furniture to move in with, we’ve continuously iterated on furnishing our home, which has been a low-stakes way to practice noticing how we feel in relation to our space - then seeing what changes would make it feel even more homey.

When we first moved in, the property manager kept pointing out where our movers could park. We didn’t hire movers or even rent a U-Haul. All we had were suitcases and a vacuum-sealed mattress in our SUV.

On our first night, we slept on just the mattress on the floor. We also had two white plastic foldable tables, one as a makeshift desk and the other as a dining table.

Each week brought a new addition. A couch meant we could finally have people over. A rug meant sitting on the floor became a thing. Plants given away from various curbsides brought our patio to life. (two large succulents and a dragon fruit sapling).

We didn’t let a semi-furnished place get in the way of hosting gatherings. For a brunch, we all ate on the foldable table with only two foldable chairs and an orange plastic chair I picked up from a nearby house with a giant FREE sign. I asked a friend to bring two extra chairs. We were short one chair, but luckily my other friend always keeps a camping chair in his car.

We wrestled with getting a TV. Pretty much every home, apartment, or Airbnb I’ve ever lived in has had a TV, so why wouldn’t we get one ourselves? By not rushing to buy one, I could see how often we would actually watch shows on our laptop. It wasn’t that often. Amidst my girlfriend’s intense hours at the hospital, when we did have time, we usually had a meal together, talking, or went out for dessert. After a couple months, I felt confident that even if we did have a TV, we wouldn’t use it much. I can barely keep up with blogs, podcasts, and books, despite staying off social media and ignoring the news. Deciding to not buy a TV felt right. We repurposed the space for two lounge chairs around the coffee table facing the main couch, reflecting my preference for friends over screens.

What makes a place feel like home is having rituals - recurring intentional activities that feel meaningful - combined with feeling connected to your surroundings.

Twice a week at 6pm, I go to jiu jitsu. It’s a nice forced end to the workday. I notice by 5:30pm I feel pretty tired, which comes with the brief resistance to going, but I always walk back home in the dark feeling energized and awake.

On the weekends, I walk down the street to Covour Coffee and have started to see the same people. On Halloween, my friend and I were waiting outside for Thai food next door to be ready for take-out when we started chatting with the baristas who were giving out hot chocolate and candy while projecting a Halloween movie outside the cafe.

I walk around the park right next to us and see the same dogs in the dog park, the same dude hitting a tennis ball against the wall, and the same elderly Chinese couple practicing qigong. I notice the colorful trees, particularly the ones with leaves in a green-red gradient. It’s a nice way of marking the passing of time.

I’ve been consistently swimming once a week, usually on Sundays at the Stanford pool. It’s rejuvenating to soak up the sun while in the water. I don’t even do it for the exercise. I’m not a fast swimmer and I only swim for 20-30 minutes after lifting.

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Making new friends and finding a new flow have helped me get settled in to my new home, but I don’t have it all figured out and am still looking for ways to feel an even greater sense of belonging here.

It’s still odd that as soon as I walk off of the apartment complex, all the homes are insanely expensive, ranging from $3M for a two-bedroom dinky house to $5M recently renovated four-bedroom. After reading Friends, I’m trying to meet more people in the area, understanding that strong relationships are more likely to come from in-person friends as opposed to online buddies.

So far, the newness of jiu jitsu and reuniting with my childhood passion basketball have kept my thirst for stoke quenched, but I suspect that at some point this quiet town with temperate weather and flat roads will start to feel almost too comfortable. Then I’ll start looking for ways to incorporate more adventure in, whether it’s surfing, running, or cycling. Or I’ll go completely the opposite way and get a dog.

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For this next month, I’m focused on:

• Getting settled into my new rhythm (more to share in my next blog).

• Starting to train for ski season (more stretching and starting to add in leg blasters).

• More solo time to read and write.

• Easing off the resistance to the big sleeps. I’ve been getting 9 hours of sleep a night and I feel like I need it.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading! Let me know what resonated in the comments.