I grew up in Hawaii, but just now visited its 'Friendly Isle.' Here are 9 things that surprised me about my trip.

Parts of Molokai looked and felt similar to Maui.

Flying in, Molokai's rugged mountains reminded me of Pu'u Kukui on Maui, with deep ridges layered in countless shades of green.

Patches of iron-rich earth felt familiar, too. As a kid, I always called it "red Maui dirt," but traveling throughout Hawaii taught me it isn't exclusive to my home island.

At Molokai Airport and Pala'au State Park, towering ironwood trees instantly transported me back to Kapalua.

These similarities aren't a coincidence: Over a million years ago, Maui, Molokai, Lāna'i, and Kaho'olawe were once a single landmass known as Maui Nui.

Kindness wasn't surprising, but being remembered was.

Molokai's nickname, the Friendly Isle, quickly proved accurate. Everyone I met was warm and welcoming — even before they knew I was from a neighboring island.

A man who worked at the Molokai Museum and Cultural Center invited me to the town's monthly First Friday market. When I arrived, he greeted me by name, remembering it from the museum guestbook.

At Molokai Hot Bread, the woman behind the counter offered to store my bread in her personal fridge to keep it fresh until my flight home.

When I returned to pick it up, she greeted me by name, too.

Driving without traffic lights was relaxing, not chaotic.

I expected the absence of traffic lights to feel chaotic, especially in downtown Kaunakakai. Instead, driving here felt calm and intuitive.

There were still speed limits, stop signs, and road etiquette. Using your indicator felt even more important than usual.

One exception was the east side of Molokai, where oceanfront roads were largely empty, and some stretches didn't even have guardrails.

Though locals occasionally passed my rental car, I never encountered any traffic.

I kept running into familiar faces — people I already knew from Maui and new connections I made on Molokai.

Running into someone I knew on the flight there felt like a coincidence, but seeing another familiar face on the return trip reminded me just how interconnected Hawaii's island communities are and how easily they intersect.

As I met new people throughout my trip, I kept seeing them elsewhere on the island.

My favorite moment came after a guided hike through Halawa Valley, where the only other participant turned out to be a fellow Hotel Molokai guest.

When we parted ways, she said, "Have a nice life," but I reminded her there's no Hawaiian word for goodbye — only a "hui hou," meaning "until we meet again."

Sure enough, we saw each other again at sunset back at the hotel, and we both laughed when I said, "I knew I'd see you again!"

Learning from a cultural practitioner changed how I think about Hawaiian language and identity.

My guided hike through Halawa Valley included stories rooted in oral tradition, offering insight into Molokai's history and Hawaiian culture at large.

One surprising takeaway was that many Molokai residents don't use 'okina or kahakō in everyday language. According to my guide, this supports pronouncing the island as "Molo-kai" rather than "Molo-kuh-e" — a debate Iʻd heard many times growing up.

He also shared that, in his family's teachings, anyone born in the state is Hawaiian, while Native Hawaiian refers specifically to those with Hawaiian ancestry. That distinction stood out to me, especially since I've often corrected people who assumed I was Hawaiian simply because I was born and raised here.

Importantly, he emphasized that beliefs vary by family and region, and the best practice is always to ask and listen.

Finding litter and plastic debris on a remote beach brought a major global issue into perspective.

After my hike, I walked down to Halawa Beach and was struck by the dramatic beauty of the valley meeting the ocean.

Once on the sand, I noticed countless pieces of trash and plastic embedded throughout the shoreline. Instead of swimming or sunbathing, I spent about 30 minutes picking up the multicolored fragments, eventually filling my hands with a rainbow of debris.

It was a sobering reminder that even Hawaii's most remote places aren't untouched by global environmental issues.

Kalaupapa Lookout felt deeply grounding, both historically and spiritually.

Kalaupapa's history has stayed with me since childhood. This peninsula was once used as a forced quarantine for people with Hansen's disease before a cure was discovered.

Seeing it in person was heavy and humbling, especially knowing access remains limited, even today.

What surprised me most was the spiritual energy of the place. I initially explored other parts of the park, but strong winds seemed to guide me toward the lookout, and I arrived just in time to see a vivid rainbow stretch across the cliffs.

I knew hunting was a popular pastime, but I didn't expect to see so many wild game birds and bones.

I didn't expect to see wild turkeys roaming near the road, or so many bones scattered across the island.

My Halawa Valley guide explained that game birds like turkeys, pheasants, and quail were introduced for hunting. I also learned that while Maui has a large axis deer population, the species was first introduced to Molokai.

During various hikes, I spotted everything from small joints to full skulls, and even a naturally shed deer antler.

A slow pace was expected, but it felt surreal to experience so many empty spaces.

I expected Molokai to move slowly, but I didn't anticipate just how empty it would feel.

From beaches and roads to entire towns, I often had places entirely to myself. Visiting in early December may have played a role, but the quiet seemed intrinsic to the island.

That stillness is part of Molokai's allure — and a testament to it being Hawaii's least touristy island.

Seeing Maui from a distance gave me a new appreciation for home.

Not only did I get to see my home island from an angle I'd never experienced before, but returning from Molokai also made me appreciate how much there is to do on Maui.

Any hint of island fever I'd been feeling quietly faded, replaced by gratitude for the pace and variety of home.