I first heard about the “Movers & Shakas” program when several Facebook “friends” I hadn’t spoken to for years excitedly pinged me about coming to Hawaii to work remotely. I did not mirror their enthusiasm — my initial response was a stomach and jaw-clenching aversion as I imagined tech bros drenched in COVID, descending upon Hawaii to harass dolphins, drive up my rent and destroy the aloha spirit. These exchanges were strained and awkward as I tried to convey in the least Grinch-like way possible: “It’s not you, it’s me … actually, it is you — stay the hell away! (Hug emoji.) But I still really value our online friendship.”

I’ve been genuinely shocked by my visceral, anti-outsider xenophobia. I feel uncomfortable parallels between “Build a Wall” anti-immigration and Black Lives Matter movements — two issues I feel resoundingly more progressive and inclusive about. Granted, the issues aren’t identical as we’re talking about elective travel during a pandemic, but still, how can I be so firmly for exclusion and protectionism?

What does it even mean to be an “insider?” I was born and raised here in Hawaii and am sixth-generation on my father’s side and second-generation on my mother’s side as she immigrated to attend the University of Hawaii. Since graduating from Iolani School, I’ve lived off-island for the last 20 years, including working in Silicon Valley, so I guess that makes me a “tech sis.” I’ve also been traveling around the world for the last five years and am often the outsider in other communities.

In March, I moved back by default due to the pandemic. Despite all of that, I’ve maintained an almost birthright sense of being “local,” seeing myself as more of an insider than a transplant who has spent double the time in Hawaii.

I also realize that my zero-sum fears of remote workers negatively impacting COVID, prices, wildlife and cultural norms are not substantiated by data, and in fact, the number of visitors is far lower than pre-COVID times. I logically understand that more people are good for the economy, and they might even be my personal friends or potential dates (single queer womxn are always welcome). Other than indigenous people, we were all immigrants at one time (my ancestors from China worked on plantations), and I support fighting for more systemic equality — change can be awesome.

Indeed, my xenophobia defies logic and feels hypocritical to my core values, but that’s the power of the insider vs. outsider dynamic. This “us vs. them” tribal mentality is deeply rooted in our evolutionary survival and drives people to act against their own self-interest for group membership or to unify against a common enemy (we might have done much better battling COVID if it looked like the aliens on “Independence Day”).

So, what do we do about this? I’m not a lawmaker or economist so I can’t speak to policy, but as an individual, I can do the emotional and mental work by recognizing unfounded fears and sitting uncomfortably with my anti-outsider feelings without trying to justify them. As a frequent traveler to other communities, I can practice empathy for outsiders as well as xenophobes and attempt to bridge the gap.

I need to try to accept change since even my idyllic version of local culture was once a jarring catastrophe for some. I can stop stereotyping people with disparaging labels like outsider, mainlander, tourist or haole. We all have a right to be seen as individuals and judged on our actions, not just our immigration status, skin color or where we were born. I can adopt a mindset of abundance that Hawaii can provide for all if we collectively participate in its stewardship. It is my privilege (in all senses of the word) to welcome others, share knowledge, and spread the aloha spirit.

Nicole E. Lim, of Honolulu, has nomadically traveled the world, and is working to publish “The No Plan Plan,” a memoir based on her global adventures.