The Quiet Customers Who Need Us Most
A real story from Waikīkī highlighting how legal hemp products, small businesses, and community-based relief support vulnerable individuals in Hawaiʻi.
Yesterday, something happened that I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
A man came in to shop with us who, at first glance, looked homeless. You could tell immediately that life had taken its toll on him. He was trembling badly, almost non-verbal, and it took him a long time to respond—even while looking you directly in the eyes. His skin was bruised, his body worn down, dirty, and clearly unwell. It was obvious he’d suffered some form of brain damage, likely from years of drug abuse and living on the streets of Waikiki.
He was struggling. And he wasn’t trying to hide it.
During our interaction, he told us he waits two hours for us to open almost every morning. I see him outside nearly every day, but I never realized how long he was waiting. I went back and checked the camera footage afterward. He wasn’t exaggerating. He also told me—word for word—that he loves our kamaʻāina specials because of how good of a deal we offer on certain products.
Then he said something that stopped me.
He mentioned that his case manager drops him off.
That genuinely shocked me. I didn’t even realize that was something case managers did. Whether it’s technically allowed or not, I’m keeping his identity private out of respect. But if what he said is true, it told me a few things immediately. First, he’s using our products for real relief—whether that’s pain, withdrawals, anxiety, or something else entirely. Second, the fact that a case manager is willing to drive him forty minutes just to bring him here says everything about how important this place is to him.
That realization actually made me overjoyed.
It told me he’s someone who’s trying. Someone who hasn’t given up. Someone still fighting to stay on the right path.
We sold him his regular products, and I gave him a free gummy. I couldn’t not. The man waits hours for us, consistently. He nodded, smiled, thanked me, and quietly walked away. After he left, I felt my eyes well up. My employee and I looked at each other—both of us a little somber, but also relieved. We didn’t need to say anything. We both knew what we had just witnessed: someone doing their best to recover, and us being a small but meaningful part of that journey.
In that moment, it hit me again how much this place matters.
How much people rely on what we do here. How much we actually help. My absence wouldn’t just mean a business closing. It would genuinely hurt people. It would take away something they depend on for relief, stability, and—sometimes—the only bit of comfort they have in a day. That isn’t exaggeration. I’ve seen it too many times, for too many years, in this industry.
This situation has happened over and over again, and every time it reinforces the same truth.
What we’re doing here is good.
When I see our products help someone who’s clearly in need, I feel an overwhelming sense of purpose. Without places like this, real people would suffer. And that’s not something I can ignore or walk away from.
Moments like today give me absolute conviction: this fight matters, this work matters—and quitting is not an option.