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One night last year, just weeks before one of the deadliest wildfires in American history decimated Maui, Adri Haia’s great-grandmothers visited her in a dream—one from her Native Hawaiian background, and the other from her Filipina side. “Go do the work,” they both told her. Haia awoke with a start. She didn’t know what it meant. But after the fires leveled her hometown of Lahaina, she would find out.
Haia was working as a postpartum doula, offering emotional support to local mothers navigating stress and loneliness. She also hosted informal discussions about womanhood from a shed in her backyard that she nicknamed the “She-Shed.” Nestled into a futon decorated with a pillow reading “Let’s Talk Story,” a Hawaiian phrase for sharing wisdom and experiences, Haia would listen to struggles of infertility, miscarriage, and motherhood.
But on Aug. 8, 2023, the 35-year-old found herself fleeing the safety of the She-Shed and steering her Honda Odyssey through smoke-filled streets with five of her kids and two pet bunnies in tow.
As the flames inched closer, and she maneuvered through violent wind and flying debris, Haia’s heart began to race. She turned to the same techniques she often taught other women in the She-Shed. “It’s okay to be scared,” she reminded her children, narrating the moment aloud. “We’re in the car. We’re listening to the radio.” Focus on the ocean, she urged, as a telephone pole crashed to the ground ahead of them. “Worst case scenario,” Haia told her kids calmly, “mom is just going to leave her car.” Grab the backpacks. Keep moving. “We will walk.”
An area of a Lahaina neighborhood that burned.
Like many Lahaina residents, Haia did not receive any official warning to evacuate. Luckily, she and her husband had devised an escape plan after a wildfire in 2018 also forced them to flee their home: In case of an emergency, they would meet at a luxury resort eight miles away, where Haia had worked as a maid part-time and he cleaned the pools.
When she arrived, guests were milling about the lobby, completely unaware of the horrors her family had just narrowly escaped. Her husband arrived later, after steering his electric bike through the smoke to find two of their daughters, as well as his parents. They managed to make it out before fire swallowed the streets.
Their family home and the She-Shed didn’t burn down, but many neighbors and extended family were not as fortunate. The blaze damaged or destroyed around 3,000 Lahaina properties and killed 102 people. Other survivors ended up in the hotel, including a local woman with two toddlers, one of whom darted into a burning building to save his grandma—but was too late. There were countless stories of pets being left behind and missing friends. Haia’s 13-year-old daughter, Kensy, was initially separated from the rest of the family when the inferno spread. Kensy had called Haia, screaming that the fire was close, before they got disconnected. “It’s really hard for my daughter to voice what she’s been through,” Haia said. “I just give space, I don’t force her [to talk].”
The Red Cross and FEMA helped survivors in need of shelter check into the hotel where Haia and her family were staying. The lobby had been converted into an emergency donation hub for clothes and food. Over the next few weeks, 1,400 survivors took up temporary residence at the resort, a portion of the 8,000 displaced people who ended up sheltering in hotels and rentals across the island.
Months passed by in the hotel. The bunnies did not survive the move. Some days, volunteers dropped off coloring books for kids and stress balls for adults. Haia felt grateful, but stuck. She was frightened to bring her family back home. In December, the Hawaii Department of Health released data showing elevated levels of arsenic, lead, cobalt, and copper in wildfire ash collected in Lahaina. The department advised that the ash was toxic, and that children should not play near the burned areas. They would not be going back any time soon.
Haia missed her meetings with women in the She-Shed. Familiar faces began reaching out on social media or stopping by the hotel to share their stories. Haia coaxed a local mom she’d known long before the fires to see her. The woman, who was also staying at the hotel, said it was hard to even leave her room. “I’m losing my mind,” she said. Haia could relate. Looking around the lobby one afternoon, Haia admitted, “It just kind of feels like a luxurious jail.”
Adri Haia’s children in the hotel lobby where they took shelter with other survivors.
To cope with the uncertainty, she forced herself into new routines, like spending time with her cousin, who also lived at the hotel with her son and husband after their home burned down. They walked on the beach together, along with other moms at the hotel and their kids. Sometimes, they watched the sun sink into the ocean. Hues of lavender, baby blue, cotton-candy pink, and orange glimmering through shreds of silvery clouds. Everything was different now, but this—this never changed.
Even before the fires, housing inventory was scarce on Maui. Off-island real estate investors snatched up properties and turned them into vacation rentals. In west Maui, where Lahaina is, only 34 percent of all housing units are used for residents; the rest are second homes and vacation rentals.
Six months after the fires, tourists were already back to booking their Hawaiian vacations and honeymoons. But many locals like Haia still had nowhere to live. There were “two different realities” on the island, Haia said. By spring, the push to move families out of hotels grew more expeditious. Hundreds of fire evacuees were being relocated into new shelters and temporary housing every week.
In April, Haia and her family moved back to their three-bedroom home in Lahaina. Nine of Haia’s in-laws had been left homeless after the fires, and to her, there was no question about where they would end up. Her culture embraced multigenerational housing, keeping grandparents close to grandchildren.
Today, there are 19 family members living on the Haia property. Some stay in a newly-built backyard structure next to the She-Shed; others sleep in a storage unit in the front driveway. They also converted the garage into a living space. With everyone’s pets, they now have six dogs. The living situation is tight, but manageable.
Since Maui’s Department of Health eventually deemed the burned land safe to live on, residents are applying for permits to rebuild. Maui Mayor Richard Bison urged the state to pass legislation reverting rentals to long-term use, something residents have been pushing for. “We simply cannot continue to prioritize offshore investments over the needs of our people,” he said, calling housing for Hawaiins a “basic human need.”
An image of the burn zone in Lahaina.
The community has been rebuilding in other ways. Haia now works as a care coordinator for Maui Behavioral Health Resources’ Pūlama nā ‘Ohana team, which is part of a network of nonprofit agencies offering mental health, substance abuse, and trauma support to wildfire survivors and island residents. There’s still a lot of lingering trauma from what happened—“a constant wave of grief that we feel,” Haia explained. “We don’t know how to process it. We may not know how to even vocalize it.”
The University of Hawaii is conducting a study that aims to track at least 1,000 Lahaina wildfire survivors over the next decade. Alika Maunakea, a professor co-leading the study, said that, so far, more than half of the participants have reported feeling depressed and 30 percent are suffering from anxiety.
After the fires, the federal government contributed $17.3 million to support mental health services for survivors. But many locals are still consumed with day-to-day survival and do not always trust outsiders or the government, a wariness that can be traced back to Hawaii’s colonial history. “We’ve had things just taken from us, prior to the fire,” Haia said. “You have to learn how to build a relationship.”
Haia in her She-Shed after moving out of the hotel this spring.
Hai’s children shopping for groceries after the fires.
Back home, Haia got right to work. On a recent afternoon, she sat cross-legged on the floor of the She-Shed, surrounded by crystals, candles, and art gifted to her by women in the community. She welcomes them in at no charge. After the fires, safe places like this have taken on a new meaning. “This is my calling,” she says, remembering what her grandmas said in the dream, “my responsibility.”
Every week, she hosts meetings. “We get to sit, and we get to be present,” she says. “We get to listen to their stories.” Survivors are now scattered all over the island and beyond, so it’s not always easy to gather physically in one place. Yet the need is deeper than ever. People are still looking for housing and employment; they’re still in mourning. The weight of what happened hasn’t stopped taking its toll. Even if only a few women show up to the circles, Haia wants them to know she is here for them.
Photos of life in Lahaina before the fires regularly pop up on Haia’s phone—a reminder of the people she knew who left, or died; a reminder of the places she and her family once loved, places that are now gone. “There was a point where I grieved my old life, like I would give anything to go back,” she says.
Haia tells herself what she told her kids on the day they escaped the fire, and what she tells the women who come see her: “Some days are more uncomfortable than others, but I’m choosing to keep moving forward.”
Erika Hayasaki is a journalist based in Southern California, and a professor in the Literary Journalism Program at the University of California, Irvine.