This past weekend, I had the honour of guiding a Breathwork, Cacao, and Pasifika Movement workshop with the extraordinary women of Pitch Face Choir. Over one hundred women gathered — hearts open, bodies ready, voices alive. We came together to breathe, to move, to reconnect with the lands and waters that have carried us.

Leading up to this, my own heart was heavy. I had just received the news that my uncle — my mum’s brother, Joe Stanley or as we called him Uncle Sale — had passed away. He was a man full of music, stories, and wisdom. An economist who travelled the Pacific, helping island nations understand their economic positions. A man who, when I was six years old, welcomed us to his home in New Caledonia with a piano, laughter, and endless songs.

He would play Tom Jones, Elvis Presley, and Engelbert Humperdinck while I twirled around him — his music filling the room with joy. I can still see his eyes lighting up as he spoke with Mum about their childhood, their years on the cacao plantations. I used to record their conversations, wanting to hold onto every story — how he’d cleverly assign the hardest weeding jobs to his brothers and sisters, keeping the easier tasks for himself, laughing as he told it. He carried so much knowledge about how their father, my papa, ran the plantations — the rhythms of business, the seasons of harvest, the value of labour and land.

When he spoke about those days, his voice softened, and his eyes shone, tears would appear. Those memories were his music too.

So as I entered the workshop space, I carried him with me. His stories. His laughter. His songs.

We began with breathwork — breathing in our intentions, breathing out our blessings for the community we moved with. The cacao grounded us, connecting us to the earth, to memory, to the unseen. Then we dedicated our movements — each woman dancing for someone or something that had supported her through life’s storms: a loved one, a river, a tree, a mountain.

As we moved, I danced for my uncle — for the piano, for the plantations, for all the stories he carried that now live in me.

We breathed, we wept, we laughed. Together, we softened into grace.
Because that’s what movement does — it brings us home to ourselves, to each other, and to those we’ve loved who now move with the wind.

For my uncle —
whose hands once touched cacao, whose songs filled our hearts,
and whose laughter still dances in the breath between worlds.

When I dance, I am not performing. I am remembering.

Each step, each hand movement, each sway of the hips carries with it generations of knowledge. Polynesian dance is not entertainment—it is archive. It is ceremony. It is how we record, embody, and pass on what matters: the stories of land, people, our values.

And just as my body remembers through dance, my hands remember through cacao. The smell of the roasted beans, the feel of the granite grinder, the slow tempering of chocolate—these are not tasks. They are rituals. And every ritual is a reminder: I am the bridge between my ancestors and the world we are shaping today.

Dance as Cultural Intelligence

In Western systems, intelligence is often measured by what you can extract, produce, or control. But in our systems, intelligence is shown by how you carry—how you carry stories, responsibilities, and relationships.

Polynesian dance teaches this from the first lesson. It is not just about movement—it is about presence. You learn timing, restraint, generosity, coordination with others. You learn to listen with more than your ears.

In the workplace, these same skills show up. In leading teams, reading the room, creating experiences with rhythm and grace. In holding space for complexity without rushing to conquer it.

Dance taught me to lead with my whole self—not just my brain, but my breath, my gut, my lineage.

Cacao as Ceremony, Not Commodity

We come from a lineage that has worked with cacao for over 200 years (documented). My family grew up around plantations in Samoa, where cacao was part of the landscape and the language.

Today, at Living Koko, we don’t just make chocolate. We practice relationship. Every bean we source is part of a bigger story—of land regeneration, women’s economic empowerment, intergenerational healing.

When I make cacao, I’m not manufacturing a product—I’m remembering the sacredness of what it means to nourish. To create with integrity. To offer something that carries MANA.

This is how I know that Indigenous systems belong here. Because when we root our processes in care, rhythm, and accountability, we don’t just make better products—we make a better world.

Bringing Cultural Systems into Business

Many businesses talk about innovation. But too often, they miss the wisdom that has already been innovated over millennia by Indigenous communities.

At Living Koko, we embed our values in every layer:

• We honour slow growth, not rushed expansion.

• We work with zero waste and circular systems.

• We centre community wealth, not just profit margins.

• We honour rituals, meetings with intention, and product launches as ceremony.

We don’t separate culture from business. Culture is the business model.

When we treat the market as a place for cultural exchange—not just economic transaction—we change everything. We trade in trust. We build legacy. We remember that we are not owners of the land but part of it.

Lolopō Fipe Preuss x