Aloha, my name is Angela Kapuanani Braine Medeiros.
I come from a long line of strong, independent Hawaiian women — lei makers, land protectors, storytellers. Growing up, I always felt a deep connection to my kūpuna, even though I didn’t always understand it. I just knew, deep in my bones, that being Hawaiian was something special — and that I had a kuleana to carry it forward.
I was raised in Waimānalo, and spent many of my weekends in Nānākuli, surrounded by ʻohana, ocean, and ʻāina. The beach became my safe place. Even when life felt heavy, I’d find myself drawn to the kai — Mākua, Hūnānāniho, Kaiona — not knowing then that the ocean was already healing me.
I went to Kamehameha Schools, and I knew my lineage — to Kamehameha and Keoua — but I didn’t fully grasp the depth of the trauma my ʻohana carried. That changed when I enrolled my youngest child in Pūnana Leo in Waiʻanae. It was the start of my real education — the journey back to myself.
Today, I teach lei making and ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi to keiki, mākua, kūpuna — anyone who wants to connect. These practices are for anyone who is open to learning and continuing the kuleana.
When I make lei, I feel my ancestors with me. Each flower is a prayer, a story, a memory. It connects me to my past and to my moʻopuna for all future generations. It reminds me who I am and why I’m here.
I served on our community board in Waimānalo, doing my part to protect our land, language, and people. Because I believe our future depends on how well we remember who we are.
This is my kuleana. This is my joy.
I come from a long line of strong, independent Hawaiian women — lei makers, land protectors, storytellers. Growing up, I always felt a deep connection to my kūpuna, even though I didn’t always understand it. I just knew, deep in my bones, that being Hawaiian was something special — and that I had a kuleana to carry it forward.
I was raised in Waimānalo, and spent many of my weekends in Nānākuli, surrounded by ʻohana, ocean, and ʻāina. The beach became my safe place. Even when life felt heavy, I’d find myself drawn to the kai — Mākua, Hūnānāniho, Kaiona — not knowing then that the ocean was already healing me.
I went to Kamehameha Schools, and I knew my lineage — to Kamehameha and Keoua — but I didn’t fully grasp the depth of the trauma my ʻohana carried. That changed when I enrolled my youngest child in Pūnana Leo in Waiʻanae. It was the start of my real education — the journey back to myself.
Today, I teach lei making and ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi to keiki, mākua, kūpuna — anyone who wants to connect. These practices are for anyone who is open to learning and continuing the kuleana.
When I make lei, I feel my ancestors with me. Each flower is a prayer, a story, a memory. It connects me to my past and to my moʻopuna for all future generations. It reminds me who I am and why I’m here.
I served on our community board in Waimānalo, doing my part to protect our land, language, and people. Because I believe our future depends on how well we remember who we are.
This is my kuleana. This is my joy.
