Out here on the east side of Hawaiʻi island, where the rain comes in sideways and the jungle never quits, houses used to mean something.

Not just shelter, but memory. Stories. Whole generations raised under one tin roof. Kids barefoot on lava rock. Dogs buried in the yard. Papayas sprouting where someone tossed a seed 20 years ago.

Now, more and more of those houses stay empty. Or they fill up with strangers for a weekend, guests who roll their bags over gravel and post sunrise photos from a lānai no one lives on.

And while we feel that loss like a loose tooth, the conversations that shape our future happen somewhere else. On another island, in air-conditioned offices, led by consultants who’ve never driven the rutted roads past Kea‘au, let alone planted roots here. They tally up tourist spending and call it growth, while we quietly lose the neighbors who made this place whole.

This isn’t about blame. Tourism helps pay our bills too. We welcome visitors. We understand aloha. But aloha means care, not just access. And care means making sure there are homes left for the people who already live here.

On the east side — in places like Fern Acres, Hawaiian Beaches and Orchidland — families stretch paychecks to stay close to the land. We build our own roofs, patch our own waterlines and share what we have. But when long-term rentals vanish, replaced by short-term profits, that resilience starts to strain.

The houses still stand. But something gets hollowed out when no one’s home. The birthday parties, the borrowed tools, the casual wave when you pass someone you’ve known for 20 years — those vanish too. And in their place, a rotating cast of guests, well-meaning but fleeting, checking in and out of a neighborhood that once meant ʻohana.

Hawai‘i County is working on solutions: registration, enforcement, future limits. That matters. So does Maui’s push to return thousands of units to local housing. In 2023, Hawai‘i island had more than 4,400 active short-term rentals, many clustered in areas where locals can’t find a single long-term lease.

The counties’ efforts aren’t anti-tourist. They’re pro-community.

This isn’t about saying no to visitors. It’s about saying yes to each other. Yes to the families still holding on. Yes to the kids who deserve to grow up near grandparents. Yes to teachers, farmers, nurses and fishermen who need more than just an Airbnb between leases.

We’re not asking for special treatment, just a fair shot. A chance to raise our kids near where we were raised. To see porch lights on because someone’s home, not just passing through.

Come talk story with us.

Hear what it feels like when someone’s uncle gets priced out.

When kids ask why their best friend moved away.

When the house next door goes quiet, then fills with different cars every Friday — never the same ones twice.

This place is still alive, still worth protecting. But protection starts with listening. And listening, with staying.

Welcome, don’t just visit. Stay. Care. Belong.