Through love and heartbreak, ambition and motherhood, The Aloha Lawyer traces one woman’s journey to redefine success on her own terms. Guided her by mentor, haunted by what-ifs, and ultimately anchored by grace, Santana discovers that real power isn’t found in winning, but in how you rise, rebuild, and choose peace without losing your fire.
A lyrical, emotionally charged debut from Filipina American author Jeanilou Grace, The Aloha Lawyer is part memoir, part fiction. A story for every woman learning that you don’t have to choose between tenderness and strength, career and motherhood, or legacy and love.
Through love and heartbreak, ambition and motherhood, The Aloha Lawyer traces one woman’s journey to redefine success on her own terms. Guided her by mentor, haunted by what-ifs, and ultimately anchored by grace, Santana discovers that real power isn’t found in winning, but in how you rise, rebuild, and choose peace without losing your fire.
A lyrical, emotionally charged debut from Filipina American author Jeanilou Grace, The Aloha Lawyer is part memoir, part fiction. A story for every woman learning that you don’t have to choose between tenderness and strength, career and motherhood, or legacy and love.
Before I ever found Hawaiʻi, I lived in the space between worlds.
I wore dresses with ruffles and played in the dirt.
I swam faster than the boys, but was too shy to be one of the guys.
I sat in honors classes, then ditched them to feel a little more free.
I was too brown to blend in, too American for my own culture.
I was a walking contradiction. Ironically grounded, but always floating.
California was a place of sunshine, entertainment, and opportunity. It has always been, and always will be, home. But growing up there, it often felt like a place of quiet alienation. As diverse as Southern California is, I struggled to find my identity during those formative years. It often felt like a place that looked right on paper and wrong in my skin.
My immigrant parents wanted so badly for us to “assimilate”. To them, America was the dream, a land of opportunity, safety, and proving they had made it. A place where they could give their children everything they didn’t have growing up. Which sometimes meant prioritizing American culture over our Filipino culture. There weren’t any other Filipino kids in our neighborhood or at school. So, when teachers mispronounced my name, I didn’t correct them. I didn’t know the names of traditional dishes or take cultural dance classes. I understood Tagalog but couldn’t speak it. I knew of our culture, but I didn’t live in it.
Adding to that was the confusion I caused to people who had little exposure to “brown Asians”.
“What are you?” they’d ask, tilting their heads, squinting as if they were trying to place me.
Once, my friend’s grandmother wagged her finger in my face and said, “Shame on you!” when I didn’t respond to her question in Spanish.
She’d assumed I was Hispanic, and not knowing the language, to her, was a sign of disrespect to her generation. Like many Filipinos, I was lovingly folded into the Hispanic community, like a guest who had learned the steps but not the song. The shame I felt that day wasn’t even mine to carry, but somehow it clung to me anyway. It seeped into the spaces between who I was and who people thought I should be.
The Asian circle never fully accepted me either. In those spaces, especially in school, Filipinos were often seen as peripheral, not quite in the fold with the fair-skinned Chinese, Japanese, or Korean classmates who more neatly fit into the “model minority” box. I wasn’t good at math and never took a piano class. Our family gatherings weren’t just tables full of lumpia, pancit, and premium-grade karaoke. They were loud, full of laughter, and alive with music. We were athletic, sang loudly, and danced hard. But at the private schools I attended, Asian people didn’t act like that. They were supposed to be quiet, play by the rules, and excel at things like robotics and math. I felt like I was always floating between cultures, between friend groups, and between expectations. Never quite anchored in any single place or any single identity. Not American enough. Not Filipino enough. Just somewhere in the middle, learning how to exist in my own skin.
I was around eleven years old, playing in the pool at our local club with my younger brother, when a boy around our age swam over and started playing with us. We were splashing, laughing, and just being kids. Suddenly, the boy’s older sister stormed over, yanked him by the arm, and hissed,
“Don’t play with them. They’re black.”
Until then, I had only experienced the subtle looks, the under-breath whispers, the silent judgments. Never such blatant hatred or outward disdain. To her, our brown skin was a threat and enough to pull her brother away. I remember standing there, soaked, heart thudding, watching them run off. I glanced over at my brother’s face and saw part shock, part confusion, but all pain.
“It’s okay, baby,” I whispered. “They’re allergic to cool.”
He smiled and grabbed my hand. But the sting, I don’t think it ever left either one of us.
That was the day I understood that no matter how hard I worked, how politely I showed up, or how carefully I played by the rules, there would always be someone ready to remind me I was different. And not always in a way I could change.
But that incident didn’t keep me from going back to the club. I was young and resilient, and found release in playing sports, so one little girl wasn’t going to keep me from taking advantage of the state-of-the-art facilities. I didn’t know the rules, and I didn’t play in fancy club leagues. I just played hard until the whistle blew. I left everything, all the pain and frustration, on the field.
In fifth grade, to my parents’ surprise, I came home with an “Athlete of the Year” trophy. They had no idea I even played sports, let alone that I was good. They both worked full-time, and let’s face it, schools weren’t exactly designed for working parent participation back then. We were often the last kids picked up from school, so there was no way they could ever make it to a game, so I never bothered to ask.
But the trophies kept rolling in, at an almost comedic pace. Scholar-athlete, memorial, and MVP awards that continued through high school. Coaches and teammates assumed I was on track for a collegiate scholarship. But, early achievement isn’t always an indicator of future success, and it certainly doesn’t translate to belonging.
One year, a list made the rounds, “The Elite Eight.” Eight boys. Eight girls. The coolest of the cool. I wasn’t surprised I wasn’t on it. We all knew who would be. What gutted me was the subcategory beneath it:
Officially Uncool to Hang Out With
There was my name. Blazing, mocking me. Like waking up to someone slapping my face. I thought I was invisible in a safe way, that blended in. Seeing my name surprised and stung all the parts of me I didn’t know cared.
That night, as I lay in bed, my chest tightened in a way I didn’t have words for yet. My breath became shallow. My vision blurred. I thought I might be dying, but I stayed quiet. I just stared at the red light on the smoke detector and started praying until I fell asleep. Not until many years later did I learned to call it what it actually was: my first panic attack. I didn’t talk about those things then. All the pressure and the tough façade made it impossible to show weakness. I kept my emotions buried.
I would sit in my backyard crying, looking up at the stars. One night, I remember looking at the moon, and it took my breath away. It was so full and bright. Its depth pulled at all the pain and the confusion. I thought of the “man in the moon” and tried to find comfort in his face. He didn’t ask anything of me. He just held space and stayed with me. It anchored me to something steady, something older than the pain. Then, by morning, I had buried it all again.
No one ever saw the darkness. They just saw the girl who kept showing up. And in sports, that’s what mattered most. After every fall, injury, win, or loss, the ones who kept showing up were my people. It was there on the field, not in the classroom, where I found my peace.
On the field, I became a quiet, unassuming leader. One who led by example, performance, and grit. I didn’t announce my leadership; I rose to it. I didn’t need to shout at my teammates or dominate the huddle. I just played my heart out and raised the level of the team around me. Sports gave me something school and a social life didn’t. A place where results mattered more than surface. A place where you didn’t have to be the most popular or the most polished. You just had to keep going, keep pushing, keep getting up, and keep showing up, even after every loss. That was something I didn’t know how not to do.
But just as I was rising in sports, my home life was cracking wide open. The sound of my parents fighting wasn’t new. It had always been there, humming beneath our walls like a faulty wire. But now it was louder.
Explosive screaming matches constantly spilled into the hallways. Doors slammed, and dishes were shattered. Picture frames were thrown on the ground, like they were trying to discard the people and the memories they held. The arguments left scars along my faultlines that no one could see. I would sit in my room pretending to do homework, trying to breathe normally, while the walls shook around me. And somehow, in all of it, I was still expected to get good grades, to be perfect, and make them proud.
Home became a place of tension. I learned to read the room the moment I stepped through the door: Was it safe to speak? Who was angry? What mood was the house in today? I developed radar and tuned into every shift in tone, in energy. Every heavy sigh, every glance told me all I needed to know. That’s when perfection became my armor, and achievements became my peace offering.
Then, to no one’s surprise, my mom left.
For a long time, I coped by escaping into sports, friends, anywhere but home. On the outside, it looked like independence. I became the “capable one”, the one who didn’t need checking up on. But deep inside, I was angry, and it began to manifest. My temper grew short, and I was quick to lose it on the field, but smart enough not to draw a flag. I would never start the fight, but I was quick to jump in to defend others as a way to vent my steam. I wasn’t drawn to conflict because I wanted to fight. I was actually drawn to it because I wanted to diffuse it. To understand it and manipulate it. I wanted to find the seams where tension could be softened and peace could be restored because I couldn’t do it at home. Looking back now, I realize that childhood pull to make things feel safe, steady, and resolved would one day become the heart of how I practiced law.
* * *
But safety doesn’t come without scars. The world still had plans to toughen me, to test what softness I had left. At the beginning of my senior year, a moment changed me forever. A rare moment when I felt maybe, just maybe, I was part of the inner circle. I had been invited to a party by the “nice girls,” the ones who were part of the beautiful people, but could see me and would actually try to be inclusive. But always being in constant survival mode, I had put up walls that were tough to break down. And no matter how hard they tried, I would never feel worthy enough.
I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting or why I pushed myself outside of my comfort zone to actually show up that night. I think it was just blind hope. Not the kind that pushes you to greatness, but the kind that leaves you feeling half-naked in the cold. The kind where you should have known better.
Everything seemed fine. I mingled, nodded, and felt like I almost belonged. But, halfway through the night, I overheard two girls whispering in the bathroom.
“Why did she even come? She’s not really one of us.”
“Yeah, but she’s good for the team. We need her to win.”
Their words hit like ice water. I wasn’t a friend. I was a utility.
I couldn’t leave the party fast enough. I kept looking behind, half expecting the crowd to be pointing and laughing behind me. Once again, hope had left me vulnerable, feeling stupid. Hope had led to pain and disappointment. As I walked to my car, the moon guided my way through the tears. Full and bright it beamed down on me. Almost taunting me to do something irrational, something impulsive and stupid. So, I did what many people do when they’re young, hot-tempered, and fueled with confusion, when the moonlight stirs your emotions and blinds your senses.
I called my coach and quit the team.
Everything I held slipped loose, and I never set foot on another field. The one place where I had always shone. The one space where I had always belonged. I killed my future and any hope from ever hurting or disappointing me again. Or so I thought.
Like many times before, I looked to the moon for answers. But that night, the moon pulled me somewhere else. It guided me to the place that had always made my problems disappear. Where I could catch my breath and cleanse my soul.
When we were little, my mom would always drive us to the beach when we were sick.
“Breathe,” she would instruct. “Take deep breaths.”
The L.A. smog was killer, but the saltwater air would always do the trick. So, the beach became a place of clarity, safety, and comfort.
I grabbed my surfboard from the back of my Pathfinder and paddled out into the fully illuminated ocean. I duck-dived waves like a punching bag, while tears streamed down my face. When they met the water, it was like some ceremonial reunion. I caught wave after wave, letting the ocean carry away the pain, and the light of the moon soothe my soul.
I drove home with a new truth settling in my chest. I realized that you can’t control how people see you, but you can control how it affects you.
After that night, I hid the shame of quitting in the ocean and started surfing more. Not competitively. Not as a new ladder to climb or an arena to conquer. Just as an escape, a rebellion. Something that was mine. Where no one could whisper in the bathroom about needing me to win. When I paddled out into the waves, the saltwater burned away the old stories and the old expectations. I didn’t know it then, but in that surrender, I was beginning to find a different kind of strength. The strength to walk away, to start over, and follow a current only I could feel.
* * *
I didn’t tell anyone what I had done right away. I figured word would spread pretty quickly. But my friend and neighbor Teresa knew. She always did. We were from different worlds and ran on opposite sides of the school. But when I started dating her boyfriend’s brother, we were pretty much family, and she’d been my ride-or-die ever since.
I found her on the front porch, barefoot, coffee in one hand, tortilla chip in the other, feeding a stray cat like it was her child.
“You look like the ocean spat you out,” she said without looking up.
I sat on the steps and said nothing. That was the thing about Teresa. I didn’t have to.
“Heard you quit?”
I nodded.
She didn’t tell me I would regret it or give me the talk everyone else eventually would. She just reached into a brown paper bag and handed me a chip.
“You’ll find another field,” she said. “But I get it. Sometimes, you gotta burn something to light the way.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding.
“I don’t even know who I am without sports.”
“Good,” she said. “Now you get to find out.”
She looked out longingly at her cul-de-sac, perfectly trimmed houses in a neighborhood filled with families that looked like they were staged for a magazine.
Then her face softened and she half-whispered,
“You know what else I found out?”
I looked at her. She was smiling, one hand over her belly.
“I’m pregnant.”
My mouth fell open. “Teresa!”
She laughed that huge, scrappy, throat-deep laugh of hers.
“Yup. Didn’t plan it. Don’t know what I’m doing. But I’ve got room in this heart, so that’s all I need.”
I leaned my head on her shoulder.
“You’re gonna be amazing,” I whispered.
She nudged me playfully. “And you’re gonna be her godmother. Or his.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just smiled into her warmth and breathed in the scent of tortillas, chile, and home.
That night, we watched the stars come out from plastic lawn chairs, a dog at my feet, and a plate of tacos between us. It was everything I needed in that moment. Teresa didn’t fix my pain. But she held it. And that was always enough.
From then on, the rest of high school was downhill. I had been a straight-A student most of my life. Structured, focused, “Little Miss Type A” with hand-me-down cleats on. But when the cleats were gone, so was all the drive and discipline.
One of the first times I ditched class, I hid some friends in the trunk of my car to sneak them past security. I told the office I had a doctor’s appointment, but instead we went to the mall, laughing like we’d pulled off some master heist. On the outside, it looked like freedom. Inside, it felt like drifting.
My school counselor made me attend group therapy, where we sat in a circle of plastic chairs beneath fluorescent lights that hummed like the soundtrack to our collective awkwardness. We were kids with reputations for being a little bit naughty but not entirely bad. They talked about parents who didn’t understand, fights at home, and feeling stuck. I listened and nodded when I had to, and went through the motions. But I didn’t let anyone in. I was just passing the time.
Then came the occupational classes for students “not going to college.” The label stung, but the classes themselves turned out to be a gift. I learned Excel, résumé writing, interview skills, and even how to format and fold a letter properly. At the time, it felt like being written off. In reality, it gave me foundational skills I still use in my career today.
The rest of my time I spent with people who didn’t expect much from me. Thursdays meant pickup basketball, with the boys sweating it out under streetlights while the girls gossiped on the sidelines. On Tuesdays, you could find us at Danielle’s house, where surfing or skate videos were the backdrop to the poker games and insecurities that played out on the living room floor. Fridays, we were always at the pier where the thick salt air whipped our hair wild, and we pretended the endless water meant something more than another place to disappear for a while.
At first, it felt like freedom. No expectations, no pressure. But after a while, I realized it was just a loop of the same people, spots, and stories. Nothing was changing.
One night, I looked around and thought to myself: If I don’t leave, this is it. This is my whole life.
My chest tightened with panic at that thought. I wanted more, even if I didn’t know what “more” meant yet. I needed a place to start fresh. Where the heaviness of childhood could lift, and the shadows of betrayal and disappointment couldn’t follow me. California had raised me, but it also caged me.
This memoir-like book is an introspective exploration of identity, relationships, career path, motherhood, and personal growth. Main character Santana reflects on pivotal moments in her life from young adulthood to middle age, examining her thoughts and feelings to understand herself, her choices, and her place in the world. She views her life through a lens that doesn't always define facts and details but is based more on the thoughts and feelings she has for different parts of her life.
For anyone questioning their identity, be they biracial or bicultural, or anyone wanting to empathize and understand, this is a thoughtfully written book. It contains a sense and a breakdown of identity at all life stages and life definitions: adulthood, motherhood, relationships, lawyer, ethnicity, and even feelings of otherness.
The law themes are powerful: law as protection, law as a canoe, law as healing. The author breaks down lawyer stereotypes within the aloha spirit, humanizing the lawyer experience. “They think that aloha means soft. But it also means strength, and we’re going to make sure they don’t ever forget it.”
The book imparts wisdom in small bites and pieces as mantras and lessons that Santana thinks about and learns over time. For example: Tiis lang means to endure with grace. Legacy isn't what you build, but who you become while creating a legacy.
Santana’s relationship arc hits hardest, showing the lessons that life teaches the hard way. She discovers that a healthy, loving partner is someone who listens and shows up without being asked, an active presence, not passive. The book explores what love really looks like and how to recognize it without running away. It felt like a philosophical study of what love is and how to embody it in a relationship with both positive and negative examples in Santana's life. Her partner is kind, but he feels like a lowercase presence in her capital-letter life, believing that simply being near her is the same as showing up. He takes the last piece of sushi and never looks back. Some of these described partner crimes are so visual and gut-punching that they are like a bullet point list of what not to do in a loving relationship.
The book overall resonates as a guide for every partner to understand that showing up means more than presence. It’s about solidarity, sacrifice, and consistently thinking of the other person, not only when it’s convenient.
While the pacing slows a bit in the middle, that doesn't detract from the book's wisdom and impact. This book is more fun to read than a typical couples therapy or self-help book, blending heartfelt, meaningful lessons with a compelling and intimate story.